P. Parrish - The Little Death

“What do you mean?” Louis prodded.

“A couple years after they got married, Hap had a stroke. A really bad one.”

A stroke?

“I haven’t seen him in public since,” Swann said, “but I heard he’s pretty much… what do you call it when they can’t move their arms or legs but their brain’s still working?”

“I don’t know,” Louis said softly.

“Anyway, from what I hear, he’s got his own medical clinic up there on the second floor of that old house,” Swann said. “The best doctors, a steady supply of drugs, twenty-four-hour nurses to wipe his drool and change his diapers.”

Louis was quiet.

“And a pretty wife just sitting around and waiting for him to die,” Swann said. “Kind of sad, isn’t it?”

The tide was coming in, and Louis watched the ebb and flow of the water.

“Sad isn’t the word for it,” Louis said.

It was almost time.

Would she be ready? Her heart was beating fast, too fast. Could she stand it much longer? Of course she could. The moments just before were part of the experience. The tickle of palpitations in her breast, the shivers between her legs, the burn of her own skin when she touched herself. A lonely yet amazing kind of foreplay.

She moved across the room with a deliberate flourish, her steps soundless in the satin slippers, the brush of her white chiffon skirt like feathers against her thighs.

It was silly, she knew. The ruffles, the satin sashes, and the hours spent coiling her hair into sausage curls.

Oh, how long she had waited for this night. And this boy.

Bianca had promised he would be different from the last one. Bianca had promised he had learned the social graces, the art of a caress, and most important of all-and maybe as silly as the miniature bows but still important to her because it had never been important to Dickie-his breath would be sweet and clean.

Dickie… she wouldn’t have to worry about him tonight. She had been so happy when he told her he had been invited to some big real-estate party at Mar-a-Lago. He didn’t even care when she had begged off with a headache. She had sat at the window and watched him pull away in his ugly big Rolls, watched the parade of cars along the beach road going into Mar-a-Lago. And then, finally, she had gone to get her special room ready.

Tink turned on the small bedside lamp and admired her boudoir. The Hills of Provence vanity with its padded silk bench. The white antique iron canopy bed, draped in pink netting and covered by a satin comforter. And to complete the fantasy-and, of course, she understood that it was one-were her two beloved stuffed bears, Boo and Berri.

This was not the bedroom she shared with Dickie. That place-that awful place-had a dark four-poster bed, wider than even the biggest king and set on columns the size of redwoods. In the corner was a heavy dark armoire built to house three televisions and other pieces of electronic equipment. And as if the room needed topping off, Dickie had hung that trashy LeRoy Neiman painting of a bullfighter.

Tink closed her eyes.

Big ugly things for a big ugly man.

“Miss Tinkie?”

His voice came as tender as the hum of a fading violin. Was he early? Or was she late? No matter. He was here.

She started toward the bedroom door, then paused, hand poised over a wooden music box on the chest of drawers. It was a Nicole Frères, hand-made in 1814, an exquisite piece of lustrous black ebony with intricate ivory scrollwork.

Tink ran her finger across the lid. It had been sent to her from London on her tenth birthday, a gift from her beloved grandfather. It had been the last gift Poppy had sent her, and it was the only thing she had taken with her when she left her childhood home in Philadelphia.

Her hand went out to lift the lid, but she froze. She so wanted to play the music now as he entered, but she didn’t dare. He might think her rude for not waiting, and there was no excuse for being rude, not even in sin.

“Miss Tinkie?”

He was standing at the door.

Slender and tall, with the soft white shirt lying against the hard muscles of his chest. His face was smooth and boyish in the glow of the lamp, his eyes as dark as her music box. He bowed his head and looked up at her from under a hank of silken black hair.

Tink smiled. He was shy. Could he be more perfect?

She lifted the lid on the music box and held out a hand to him. The melody of “Un bel di” filled the silence. His eyes slipped to the music box before they settled back on her. He seemed bewildered.

“It’s from Madama Butterfly, ” Tink whispered. “You recognize it, don’t you?”

He set the orchid on the dresser, next to the music box, and turned again to look around the room. It was as if he just couldn’t resist looking. Of course he couldn’t, she knew. None of them could. Wasn’t it every man’s dream to have a virgin?

She moved to him and touched his face to bring his gaze back to her. Her other hand rested on his chest, her fingers inside his collar.

“Are you nervous, Byrne?” she whispered.

He lowered his head. She thought he would lean in and kiss her, but instead, he took her hand and held it firmly against his body. She pressed her lips to his cheek, wanting to feel the heat of his skin and breathe in his smell-his wonderful soapy smell-but he was steeled against her touch.

Something was wrong.

She drew back. He was looking at the bed again, a small twitch rippling his cheek, his eyes filmed with a dullness she had seen before.

He was repulsed.

She was the freak.

And if she didn’t do something, he would leave.

“Please,” she whispered. “Just close your eyes and pretend. We’re sixteen. It’s midnight, and we’ve just left the cotillion, and for the first time in days, we are alone.”

He managed a small nod and closed his eyes, willing, she supposed, to put his mouth on her as long as he didn’t have to see her. His lips were dry, his kisses without passion. He wouldn’t carry her to the bed, as she asked, but walked her with no ear for the beautiful melody.

But she had asked him to be sixteen. Could she fault him for being so good at that?

He gently touched her breasts through the ruffled bodice of the dress.

“No,” she whispered. “Like a boy, like a boy.”

He hesitated. “I don’t understand what you want,” he said.

She wanted to cry in frustration. “I want you to be sixteen. Can you do that, please?”

“I don’t know-”

“Like the first time you did it,” she whispered. “Can you remember what that was like? That is what I want. Like we are sixteen, please!”

When he started again, it was different. This time, it was right. He pawed at her; he panted. He rubbed her, groped her, and finally, he hurt her.

And then, as she asked, he left her on her back, her lips raw from his hard kisses and her gown crumpled around her hips.

She lay there, listening to the rustle of his clothes as he dressed. When he was finished, she heard his footfalls as he crossed the room, then the soft click of the door as it closed behind him.

As the quiet returned, she realized that the melody in the music box was dying. Just ping s that became slower and slower as the cylinder made its last turns.

She was drifting, almost asleep, when a voice boomed from the hall, rocketing her to a sitting position.

“Who the hell are you?”

Dickie. My God, Dickie’s home!

Tink jumped off the bed, ran to the door, and flung it open. Dickie stood on the landing, a giant blur of black-and-white tuxedo. He had Byrne crushed against the wall with a hand to his throat.