Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 6

She's thinking of blood.

She's thinking of cutting off skin.

Don't go in. You shouldn't go in.

Her mother's a ghost. Her mother sits beside her in the little car. She's waiting in the lot for 7:30, to go in and see with her own eyes, the Great Woman, when her mother says, Don't go in. Don't go in.

"But why?"

They could catch you.

Her eyes want to explode.

Sometimes she just doesn't think.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

That's all right, honey.

Her mother dissolves.

For a moment she wants to cry. The sun is an orange, bright ball creeping past the edge of the city. She presses a fingernail into her palm until blood comes out.

Then she feels better.

No, she mustn't go in. She's about to back out of the parking lot, which is full of cars all coming to see the Great Woman. It's 8:15 now.

A big car whips into the lot.

A big black Ford Thunderbird.

The Great Woman is late.

She watches the Great Woman get out in a fluffy lavender dress and rush toward the pillared building.

She writes down the tag number and leaves.

Bright lights buzz over her head. Tiles s.h.i.+ne.

She hears screaming.

A man screaming.

It's a sweet sound. It makes her want to go to the custodial closet and touch herself.

On her way to work, she drove past The Cross.

She sees The Cross now, in her head.

The screaming lets her see The Cross.

The body on the crash table convulses under the bright lights. A black man. Multiple knife wounds to the throat.

"Cut down!" one doctor yells. "Stat!"

"Clamp it!" yells another.

People yell in the ER a lot.

The black man's feet kick.

Blood flies across one doctor's face as if shot from a squirt gun.

Another squirt hits him right in the eye, like Daddy.

Her head lightens. The image: licking the blood off and sliding an Arista #24 scalpel up his crotch at the same time. Several times a month she sneaks into the prep station at night to watch the charge nurse f.u.c.king one of the interns. The nurse is on her belly, her white skirt pulled up and her white pantyhose off, on a transport gurney with the rails down gritting her big white teeth in a mindless grin. The intern always slaps her big flabby b.u.t.tocks as his hips thrust. She always fantasizes sneaking up behind them and snipping off the intern's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es while he f.u.c.ks the fat nurse, with something nice, like Westcott umbilical scissors, or the s.h.i.+ny Bruns serrated plaster shears.

But it's only a fantasy.

Instead she sneaks away because this is the best time to steal, while the charge nurse is busy f.u.c.king the intern. The other nurses are on their bed checks so she can go into the supply room and take what she needs. She can also go into the med station for pharmaceuticals of lower control cla.s.sifications. The barbiturates like diazepam and Amytal, and the amphetamines like Desoxyn and methamphetamine HCL are strictly controlled and inventoried, so she can't steal those. She gets those instead during the postops in the ER where things are always very hectic and everybody's going in different directions.

She takes what she steals out in a gym bag since all custodial personnel are required to bring a complete change of clothes every s.h.i.+ft in case someone throws up on them or bleeds on them. She steals all kinds of neat things. Tissue forceps, hemostats, brain spatulas, ribcutters, disposable S,K,&F packaged tourniquets.

The ER doctors disperse, snapping off their gloves, when the black man dies.

She leans over to wring a clean mop.

Pinesmelling water spurtles through plastic holes.

Her v.a.g.i.n.a hurts.

She smiles at the truth of the pain.

She sees The Cross.

When they've all left the ER cove, she starts to mop up all the beautiful blood.

Chapter 6.

(I).

Was Spence smiling? His blatant, arrogant blank face seemed to mock Kathleen throughout her speech. It provided a distraction she didn't need. Maintaining eye contact with the audience was important during a lecture, yet as she spoke, and wherever she looked, she could feel the cold policeface gaze on her.

She was so mad she wanted to shriek.

Her speech seemed to go well, however. She began with a short biography of her life and credentials-leaving out, of course, Uncle Sammy-and then she spent the rest of her time proposing insights and speculations about the woman's market in general and the new feminist philosophies in particular. Psychosocial dynamics, countersubjugation, interpersonal domestic designs of the '90s, etc. When she was done, the auditorium tremored with applause. Several women actually asked her for an autograph.

The older woman, who turned out to be the treasurer of the writer's group, gushed grat.i.tude, as did many of the group's other officers. Then things began to thin out.

"I thought you gave an excellent talk," a male voice came up along her side. It was Maxwell Platt, the poet. He had dressed neatly in jeans, a midnightpurple s.h.i.+rt, and a black tie.

"Thank you," Kathleen said. "So did you."

"I read your magazine regularly. It's much more diverse than a lot of the others, and much less s.e.xist."

Kathleen wasn't sure what he meant by that last clause. She lit her hourly cigarette, which by now she was dying for. "That's a little unusual, isn't it? I mean, a man reading a women's magazine?"

"Why?" Platt said. "What better channel can men have to the feminine mystique?"

Kathleen could've laughed. She hadn't heard that term in years. She was about to ask him about his poetry when another, less welcome voice rose at her other side.

"You are an absolute hallmark of civil irresponsibility."

She knew it was Spence before she even saw that blank, arrogant face of his. She could feel his bulk shadow.

"I'm not surprised," she said, "that I have no idea what you're talking about."

Spence smirked stolidly. "I can't believe your incognizance. A public speaking engagement. An advertised advertised public speaking engagement. And you didn't even tell us." public speaking engagement. And you didn't even tell us."

"Why on earth would I tell you?" Kathleen sucked her cigarette, hoping the kick of nicotine might quell her rage. "Am I supposed to notify you every time I go somewhere? To the library? The mall? The toilet?"

"Fortunately I caught the announcement in BookWorld BookWorld-"

"Oh, you read?" Kathleen interrupted.

"-and was able to get some men down here."

"Why?" Kathleen asked. "What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is-" Spence lowered his voice, honed his glare "-there's a certain person who's taken quite an interest in you. And that person could very easily have seen one of the advertis.e.m.e.nts for this little talk of yours. In other words, that person could be here right now."

Kathleen opened her mouth, then closed it. She hadn't thought of that at all. Had the killer attended the lecture? But then she dismissed it, if only to save face. "That's ridiculous, like everything else I've heard you say..." And then her reb.u.t.tal trailed off. Past Spence's shoulder she saw some of the men in suits at the back of the auditorium questioning five or six women with red hair. "You've got to be kidding me. You're hara.s.sing women just because of their hair color?"

"We're following a normal investigative protocol," Spence said. "And the next time you decide to give a lecture open to public, you will notify me first. At least then we'll be able to give you some protection."

Protection, she thought. Is that what she needed? Did they actually think that this woman might try to kill her? she thought. Is that what she needed? Did they actually think that this woman might try to kill her?

Spence adjusted his tie for no apparent reason. At least he dressed well. "Have you had any further contact with our friend?" he asked.

"No. I only get a carrier from my editor once a week."

"What about the normal mail channels?"

"I'm unlisted. So don't worry."

"Oh, but I am worrying. Your obliviousness amazes me, as does your outright refusal to acknowledge the gravity of this matter. And, by the way, I thought your lecture was heinously biased, unrealistic, selfserving, and ideologically useless." Spence let his stare soak a moment. Then he added, "I'll be in touch."

Eat s.h.i.+t, Kathleen thought. She winced at him as if shooting a gun. She would have liked to kick him in the pants as he strode toward the back of the auditorium to further his hara.s.sment of the redhaired women. Kathleen thought. She winced at him as if shooting a gun. She would have liked to kick him in the pants as he strode toward the back of the auditorium to further his hara.s.sment of the redhaired women. What nerve, What nerve, she thought. she thought.

"Wow," Platt remarked. "What was that all about?"

"Long story," she excused. What could she say? Well, you see, the other day a female killer mailed me a severed p.e.n.i.s, and that guy is the cop investigating the case. And he doesn't like me because I happen to be a woman. Well, you see, the other day a female killer mailed me a severed p.e.n.i.s, and that guy is the cop investigating the case. And he doesn't like me because I happen to be a woman. She felt like a dissident in some totalitarian regime, shadowed by policemen. Spence's audacity was outrageous, unconscionable. She felt like a dissident in some totalitarian regime, shadowed by policemen. Spence's audacity was outrageous, unconscionable.

"You want to go somewhere and have a drink?" Platt said.

Kathleen wasn't sure if he wanted to have a drink with her or just wanted a ride home; Platt didn't have a car. She didn't care, though. The innocuous talk helped get her mind off Spence, and she found something comfortable about chatting idly with another writer, despite how little they had in common creatively. She drove downtown in somewhat of a daze; then they were sitting in a bar. But only after her first drink did she realize exactly what bar it was. Jonah and the Whale, the same bar where Stephen W. Calabrice had made the last pickup of his life.

"I kind of lied," she admitted. "I didn't really hear much of your talk; I was really late. But I liked your poem."

"I've written better," Platt said, "and I've written worse, a lot worse. Poetry's weird; it never succeeds unless the poet realizes its utter failure."

"That sounds like something a poet would say." She sipped her Cardinal. Platt on the other hand ordered the cheapest beer they had on tap, which seemed appropriate for a poet. "I guess none of us succeed as real people," she theorized, "unless we realize all our own failures."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, like your poem, 'Exit.' It was about failure. It was an acknowledgment of your failure with a woman."

Platt nearly spat out his beer. "How did you- I mean, what makes you think that?"

Did I touch a nerve? Kathleen hadn't meant to. "I only a.s.sumed... That's not what the poem was about?" Kathleen hadn't meant to. "I only a.s.sumed... That's not what the poem was about?"

"That's another thing about poetry. It's about whatever the reader perceives it as being about."

Yeah, I touched a nerve, she thought. The first drink went frightfully fast. Platt was nursing his; he mustn't have much money. The bar seemed fairly full for a week night: legs flas.h.i.+ng beneath sleek dresses, guys in expensive suits checking the time to deliberately show off their Rolexes. she thought. The first drink went frightfully fast. Platt was nursing his; he mustn't have much money. The bar seemed fairly full for a week night: legs flas.h.i.+ng beneath sleek dresses, guys in expensive suits checking the time to deliberately show off their Rolexes. Mecca of Yuppies. Mecca of Yuppies. Her thoughts felt split like logs. She ordered another drink, chatting and thinking. Then she ordered another drink. Music droned: some dismal song by Her thoughts felt split like logs. She ordered another drink, chatting and thinking. Then she ordered another drink. Music droned: some dismal song by The Cure. The Cure.

"Do you make a living writing poetry?" she asked.

Platt threw his head back and laughed, a bit too loudly. "I teach a couple cla.s.ses at GW. There's no money in poetry but that's how it's supposed to be. It wouldn't be real if you got paid for it. Whenever I get offered money for a poem, I send the check back. If it was an article, or an expository piece, that would be different; I'd take money for that." Platt sipped his beer. "This may sound corny, but poetry comes from my heart. And my heart is not for sale."

It didn't sound corny only because of the indifference with which he'd made the statement. At least he has convictions, At least he has convictions, Kathleen thought. She wondered what her own convictions were and couldn't think of any. Kathleen thought. She wondered what her own convictions were and couldn't think of any. My hormones are skewed tonight. My hormones are skewed tonight. Images and thoughts sideswiped her; she listened to Platt but often didn't hear him over her own ponderings. The music and the voices and bodies around them coalesced to gentle chaos. The macabre question t.i.tillated her: Exactly what had the killer done to Stephen W. Calabrice? Spence said he'd been tortured. Images and thoughts sideswiped her; she listened to Platt but often didn't hear him over her own ponderings. The music and the voices and bodies around them coalesced to gentle chaos. The macabre question t.i.tillated her: Exactly what had the killer done to Stephen W. Calabrice? Spence said he'd been tortured.

"What?" she said.

"I said you should order some food."