David Wiltse - Bone Deep

Oh, we'll meet, he thought, but on my terms, in a place of my choosing.

He remembered attacking Kiwasee with the shovel, felt again the thrilling shock of the blows running through his forearms. He was not afraid of anyoneif conditions were right. He would wait until they were.

He could not proceed to the pay phone now, he could not call a cab.

There was no point in giving anything away. The bitch Rachel would have to wait for her comeuppance.

He turned around casually, as if he had only been out for a stroll, and headed back to the hospital. The man fled before him, gripping the baseball cap even lower, hurrying away from Kom, back the way he had come. Kom grinned savagely. My enemies run before me, he thought gleefully.

It was only later, as he drove home from the hospital to his wife, that Kom realized that his victory over Becker had been a defeat. Once more he was left with no woman to visit, no victim to please.

A day later Kom returned home late in the afternoon to see Becker's car pulling out of the driveway. Kom waved but Becker acted as if he did not see him. When Kom asked Tovah she said that he had just missed a social call. Becker had stopped by to say hello to Stanley, had stayed long enough to drink a beer, then had excused himself, saying he could wait no longer, just before Kom arrived home.

Kom studied her throughout this recital, looking for signs of deceit or unease, but she seemed as bored and phlegmatic as ever. It occurred to him to wonder if his wife was having an affair, but the subject did not interest him. He did not care, he realized, as long as she did not embarrass him publicly. He was only concerned with Becker's activities, not Tovah's. Whatever he had come for, it had not been for a social call.

It was another fitful night for Kom. First came the phone call, the same voice, Becker's voice, flat and menacing. "You home, stud?" Then gone before Kom could answer, leaving him again frustrated, filled with angry replies.

He paced the house in the darkness once more, fulminating, furious at the injustice of Becker's campaign. Kom had beaten Becker fairly, he had left him without a scrap of evidence, without so much as a clue-and yet Becker hounded him now out of spite. Yapped at him with the pathetically malicious determination of a chained dog. There was no way Becker could really harm him with all of this nonsense, he would tire of it eventually and Kom would resume his proper role in life. But in the meantime…

The phone rang again and Kom snatched it off the hook. This time he heard only the charged silence of someone listening on the other end.

"What do you think you're accomplishing?" Kom asked. There was no reply. "It's silly for friends to treat each other this way. I don't hold your behavior against you, I really don't. You were jealous, you lost control of yourself-I understand. I'm not a vengeful man, I forgive you. Can't we talk and patch this up? I still value your friendship…"

Kom realized that somewhere in the midst of his speech the line had gone dead, and he wondered for a moment if it had been Becker on the line at all, or some wrong number or late-night crank getting a strange earful.

His agitation growing, Kom went to his den and took out his journal, seeking consolation in remembering his past triumphs. The journal was kept in a plain notebook hidden inside the false cover of a miniature Latin-English/EnglishLatin dictionary small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, the last place Tovah would look-if she were inclined to search in the first place.

He opened the book at random to test his memory. It was much easier to recall the names or faces if he proceeded in chronological order, he could gauge his adventures by the seasons, by other major events. Whom had he had for a birthday treat? Who had rolled with him in the outdoors of summer, who had warmed him in the winter? There were 129 names in his journal now and Kom could remember something about all of them, some peculiarity, a way they had of moving, a favorite expression when in the throes, an endearing-or repulsive-physical characteristic, like Denise's strawberry mark. A special way in which he had fooled them, tricked them, lied to them, overcome them. He took all conquests as they came, but he preferred the hard ones, the contested struggles.

It was always better to have a worthy opponent, it made the victory sweeter.

One hundred and twenty-nine was not such a huge number for a man under different circumstances. There were probably men in the big cities who haunted singles bars who could top that total easily, but Kom had done it all in secret and much of it while married. He had kept his reputation intact, his marriage unsullied-Tovah's suspicions were only that, she could prove nothing-and no one knew about any of his affairs except himself and his victim. It was an extraordinary accomplishment, he was immense proud of it.

He had starred the entries that had become special because the victim died, but it was an unnecessary embellishment. He would never forget those moments; they had become the times for which he lived.

This night he struggled at first, trying to identify a few names-he was distracted and upset by his enforced inactivity and by the recent phone calls. He had opened the journal to someone called Becky and the name was meaningless to him, try as he might he could summon up neither sight nor scent nor taste. The next victim was also faceless and so he cheated, looking at the year and month, trying to force a recollection of an event that lasted a few weeks at best and had happened seven years earlier.

Impatient with the game, he put the book back on the shelf with his French, German, and Spanish dictionaries and reached for the phone. He would call Becker, give him tit for tat. Strike back, take the initiative away from his tormentor. He had not yet decided whether to speak or not when Karen answered the phone.

"Hello," she said, her voice fuzzy with sleep.

With a startling clarity, Kom's strategy snapped into place. He could see it all so clearly he nearly gasped aloud.

"Hello?" she said again.

"Karen, it's Stanley," he said, dropping his voice to the near whisper of her own, as if they were alone together in a darkened room. "I'm sorry to call so late, but I just can't sleep."

"What is it?" she said.

Was Becker in bed, next to her? he wondered. Listening, wondering who was talking to his wife at this hour? Or was he, too, pacing through his house, seething with frustration'?

"Please don't take this wrong," he said.

"What is it?"

"I know I shouldn't do this. I have no right to do this…" He trailed off, giving her room to chase after him.

"What?"

"Please don't hold it against me. I can't afford to lose your friendship, it means too much to me…

"Tell me what it is, Stanley."

She had used his name. Kom grinned triumphantly. If Becker was there, he knew who was calling. "I keep thinking about you," he said. He heard the check in her breathing, knew that she teetered on the delicate edge between caution and desire to hear more. He eased her over onto his side. "I don't mean anything more by that, — I know nothing can be done and I shouldn't even be saying it, but I just had to tell you. I'm not asking anything from you, Karen, I don't expect you to do anything, I know you don't want me to do anything-but please, just accept how I feel. It's all I can offer. I know it's very little, coming from me-but I had to share it with you, I had to let you know, it's been driving me crazy." She was silent for a long while and he listened to her breathing, trying to gauge her reaction-but in his heart Kom already knew her reaction. Any woman's reaction. The mastery lay as much in his delivery as in his lines. They loved his shyness, his unassuming candor, the implied morality of his stance. He groped for his words, tripped over them, stuttered forth his sincerity. His was an open heart, exposed and vulnerable, asking for nothing in return but the chance to adore her.