David Wiltse - Bone Deep

Kom's comment had changed all of that in an instant, and yet he continued so innocently, so seemingly unaware of the effect of his words, that Karen had some doubts about whether she was not overreacting, indeed if she had even heard him right in the first place.

They spoke for some time about the idea of honoring Becker, but Karen took it in as an aside, a distracting noise in the background. The main conversation, she thought, was not between the masks of civility they wore but between the true faces that lay beneath, and the means of their discourse were no longer the words but the exchange of glances, dancing and testing each other, curious, probative, supplicating and denying by turns.

With a glance at his watch, it was over. Kom rose to his feet.

"This was so nice," he said. "I really enjoyed talking to you. We don't have to make any decisions yet, just consider the idea… but don't mention it to John. I have the feeling he'd scotch the whole thing before it got started if he knew about it."

"He probably would," Karen said, wondering if Kom had intended a double entendre or if she was reading as much into his words as she was into his eyes.

"You'll keep it quiet then?" His eyes were wide, expectant. They appeared so innocent but Karen sensed something elusive in the depths, a deeper, more primitive awareness of what he was really saying. She did not mind.

"I won't lie to him," she said.

"Of course not. Just don't volunteer the information that we've been talking."

Karen hesitated, feeling that her answer would be important in a way that had not yet been defined. Finally she nodded, not willing to actually voice assent.

"Great," he said, beaming. "Terrific. This will be fun, you'll see.

Thanks, Karen. You're wonderful." He held his arms out for a hug and she found herself stepping into his embrace.

This time she was very aware of his body pressing against hers, of the change in his breathing, of the effect his arms had upon her. He held her for a long time and Karen said to herself that she should break it off, that she should be the one to terminate it, but she did not.

When he finally stood away from her the expression on his face was so sweet, so shy and warm and affectionate that she was confused by her reactions.

He gripped her hand, squeezed it, touched her cheek with his fingertips, then left. Karen looked at herself in the mirror, trying to find whatever special radiance he had seen there. Was she so starved for compliments? she wondered. Was her self-esteem so low that a little praise could make her feel as flushed and happily foolish as she felt?

There was no shortage of come-ons at the Bureau, sexual policies notwithstanding. She was attractive, and she knew it. It was confirmed to her daily, although seldom in such a way. The approach was usually direct and unmistakable. Perhaps it was Stanley's circumspection, she thought, his humility. The quality of admiration in his tone, the vulnerability in his eyes. Whatever the source, it was compelling. Not that she would consider acting upon it. Never.

She was still looking in the mirror when Becker came in. She waited through the evening for him to ask her directly about Stanley, but the closest he came was to inquire about her day. She told him the truth, as far as it went, editing out the mundane, the irrelevant, the uninteresting. She always edited, she told herself. Everyone did. It was not the same as hiding.

As she readied herself for bed she asked Becker if he ever gave a spontaneous compliment to someone.

"I compliment you all the time," he said.

"I don't mean me. Would you say something nice to another woman if you were just talking? Women do that all the time, maybe it's just a woman thing."

"I don't know. I would have to know the context," he said. "Probably not, no. I might think she was looking good, I probably wouldn't normally say it out loud."

"That's what I thought."

"Unless I was courting," Becker said.

Karen let the subject drop. From time to time she caught Becker looking at her oddly and told herself that it was her conscience.

Just before turning out the light he said, "I ran into Tovah Kom at the center on my way home."

"Oh?"

"I did- not offer her any spontaneous compliments."

"Were you tempted to say something nice?"

Becker waited for a long time before answering. "No," he said finally.

He snapped off the light.

Becker slept late, acknowledging Karen's departure for work only by rolling over and burrowing deeper under the pillow. Karen had to drive to Manhattan but Becker's workplace until Johnny was caught was Clamden, and the hours he worked were his own to set. Even though his superior and nominal supervisor, Karen did not question his hours or his methods.

Becker's success rate, his past history of unorthodox behavior, his bizarre and inexplicable affinity for a certain kind of case and a particular type of killer had earned him both a wary respect and a unique degree of latitude in his procedures. Karen, who loved him, afforded him even more freedom. To many in the Bureau, Karen's relationship with Becker was one of lion tamer to the lion. To the more envious of her subordinates, Karen owed her quick rise in the organization to the fact that she tamed the lion by sleeping with it, but this ignored the fact that she had been named the head of Serial before Becker had ended his long medical leave-a period in which he had waged a courageous battle both with and against the accepted wisdom of the psychiatric profession, his own self-knowledge, and the compelling urgings of his spirit. In Becker's mind he had lost the battle, he had given in to that which he feared most and had returned to the one organization that would reward him for indulging it.

Karen knew all of this both explicitly and empathically and loved him for his struggle, regardless of the outcome, just as she loved him for his strength, his sense of humor, the tenderness of his touch, his deep and undisguised need for her. If she ever resorted to metaphor to explain to herself her relationship with Becker, it was not the lion and its tamer. She knew full well that only Becker could tame himself, no one else had the strength of will. Her metaphor would be that of the woman married to a werewolf, a creature in most respects normal and respectable, in most times a good man, a good husband, a good father, but a man upon whom there fell from time to time a monstrous affliction.

In the legend of the werewolf, the affliction came from an ancient curse; in Becker's case it sprang from a childhood so tortured and bent that Becker himself could not look upon it directly. During those periods of affliction he was no more responsible for his actions than he was responsible for the actions of the beasts of the wild. But the metaphor could be stretched no farther. Becker did not fall upon wayward strangers, he did not terrorize the innocent, and he was never pursued by a mob of villagers thirsty for revenge. On the contrary, he was applauded by all. His victims were only the criminally sadistic and deranged, and they were the only witnesses to his transformations, the only ones who saw him, however briefly, in his monster form. Karen understood that the public's acclaim of his killings-all of them ascribable to self-defense, all of them officially examined and reviewed and piviiuunced unavoidable, but all of them inexcusable by Becker himself-only made it harder for Becker to forgive himself. He sought punishment for his deeds and instead was given medals and proclamations and protestations of awe-and so at times he chose to punish himself.

Karen had seen the storms of self-chastisement and selfloathing come upon him before and she saw one brewing now, but she knew that it would blow over like the others. In time he would accept himself for what he was, a compromise between his will and his tortured heritage, and if he would not exactly make peace with himself, he would at least subside once more into a wary truce that would allow him to function in Karen's world again.