John Lutz - The Ex

“That’s just because she’s too suspicious. She’s paranormal.”

He felt to make sure his underwear had soaked up his sperm and her wetness, and the front of his pants was free of telltale spots that would have to dry before he could leave the basement. “You mean paranoid. And why wouldn’t she be? She’s got a lot of stress in her life lately.”

“We can’t help that.”

“Can’t we?”

“You’re not down here with me against your will, are you, David?”

He spread his fingers and raked them through his hair, scraping his scalp with his nails. “I’m not sure I’ve got any will left.”

She laughed loudly, causing his heart to skip as he glanced around nervously. Hardly anyone came down to the dusty, gloomy basement, but if someone they knew did happen to discover them here, it would add another layer to his guilt and fear and might be devastating. Deirdre’s roulette wheel in the sky, jolting his future again.

“It sure seemed like free will a few minutes ago,” Deirdre said. “That’s the part you don’t understand. The choice is yours but you can’t help yourself, David. You can’t help loving me.”

“I can’t help fucking you.”

“That’s close enough for now.”

She moved directly in front of him then reached out and laced her fingers behind his neck, leaning back slightly so he was supporting her. She stared into his eyes with a gloating but desperate gleam that seemed too bright to be the reflection of the nearby low-wattage bulb. He gazed back at her with more hopelessness than passion.

“Molly didn’t like you baby-sitting Michael,” he said again.

She seemed incredulous. Injured. “Why not? Did she think I was going to harm him?”

“I don’t-”

“Whatever the reason, Molly must be going off her rocker chair. She oughta see a doctor, David, really.”

His irritation made him want to slap her, hurt and shock her. His voice was tight but level. “Stop saying she’s insane.”

“Why should I? She’s saying things about me. What’s good for the goose is good for the rest of the flock.”

“Oh, Jesus!”

“I’m serious, David. You don’t want to admit it, but the way she’s been acting lately, she really does need professional help.”

He thought for a second he actually would strike her. Then he knew where it might lead, that it wasn’t a solution or even an option.

Without speaking, he reached back and unfastened her hands from behind his neck.

Then he turned away from her abruptly, picked up his duffle bag, and walked into the darkness.

The worst part was, he suspected she might be right about Molly needing help. And it was his fault as well as Deirdre’s. He was caught in a terrible, destructive dance with her, and no matter how much he hated himself, he couldn’t stop dancing.

At the gym he worked the Nautilus equipment, then the free weights, with a determination and a fierceness that pushed him to surpass his previous limits.

“Aren’t we full of piss and vinegar today?” Herb Mindle remarked. “What the hell did you have for breakfast?”

David wiped perspiration from his forehead with a towel and smiled grimly. “You don’t want to know.”

“Sure, I do,” Mindle said. “It’s my business.”

David paused and nodded. “That’s right, I’d forgotten.” He chalked his hands, stretched out on his back on the padded bench, and gripped the barbell at the proper width for maximum-weight presses.

He still felt strong, but lying as he was, staring up at the lights on the ceiling, he felt a curious dizziness come over him and erode his confidence. Everyone was human; everyone was weak and broke more easily than they imagined.

“Better spot me on this,” he said. “It’s ten pounds above my previous high. If I don’t make it, the bar might come down and break my neck.”

“Then why not try only five extra pounds first?” Mindle asked.

“Because I decided to go for ten,” David snapped, tired of Mindle’s probing. There was no excuse for it, even considering his profession. He had no right to keep prying, eliciting information, analyzing.

Mindle moved around to be in position to grab the bar in case David lost control. He looked pensive, as if musing over David’s answer to his last question.

“Pertinent,” he said with a grin. “Pertinent.”

While David was doing bench presses, Molly was at her desk working on the architectural manuscript, coping with split infinitives and flying buttresses, wondering at the deterioration in the use of language among academics.

A shrill cry of pain made her drop her pencil.

It had come from Michael’s room, where he was down for his nap.

She jumped up and ran.

Michael was out of bed, jabbing at a cornered Muffin with a toy rifle equipped with a bayonet. The rifle and bayonet were obviously plastic, but the bayonet was still sharp enough to evoke screeches of pain and rage from the cat, who was trapped in the angle where the bureau met the wall.

Molly was sickened that Michael would do something so blatantly mean and aggressive. She was more sickened by the expression on his face. He was staring intently at the cat, his eyes brightening with each lunge with the bayonet. It was a look she recognized; she’s seen it often enough on grown men. At that moment, Michael might have been thirty instead of three.

“Michael! Stop that!”

Immediately he dropped the rifle and looked guiltily at her, three years old and innocent again. Muffin gave a final Yowl! and bolted for the propped-open window. Molly watched as he made his getaway via the fire escape, wondering briefly if he’d return after the cruelty he’d suffered.

She was trembling, fighting to control her temper. Temper mingled with fear. Michael’s transformation had been so sudden and unexpected; she’d had no idea he could harbor and display such sadism.

“Why were you doing such a thing?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. “Where did you get that toy gun?”

His lower lip quivered and he began to cry. Molly’s anger rushed from her and she went to him and held him close, telling him she loved him, trying to soothe him into silence.

“It’s okay…Okay, Michael. Mommy isn’t mad at you, really…”

But she couldn’t console him.

“Who gave you the gun?” she asked gently.

“Aunt Deedray,” he managed to say between sobs.

Molly stood quietly, bent over slightly and hugging him to her hip and thigh, her anger building hotly deep within her as she felt his warm tears penetrate the thin material of her slacks.

After a few minutes, she picked him up and stalked from the bedroom.

Aunt Deirdre! Jesus Did the woman think she was a fool?

By the time she’d taken the elevator up to Deirdre’s floor and was knocking on her apartment door, Michael had calmed down and was quiet. He lay against her limp and watchful, his head tucked in the curve of her neck and shoulder. He was getting heavy, but she barely noticed.

Deirdre opened the door and smiled out at them. She’d been busy trying to get her new apartment in order and was glamorous even in work clothes. She was wearing tight jeans with a button fly, and a black T-shirt. Though she had a paisley bandanna wrapped around her head, her makeup was flawless and the protruding lock of red hair had to have been calculated. There was a smudge of dirt strategically placed on her nose and she was holding a dust cloth. Molly wondered whom she might have been expecting.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “Sorry it took me a while to come to the door. I’m trying to get things organized in here.” She reached out and touched the tip of Michael’s nose with her forefinger. “Hello, Michael, darling.”