Keith Ablow - Compulsion

" I did," Julia said. "I think he did." She laughed.

"We did," I said.

"How's Tess?" Julia asked.

"Asleep," Candace said. "She was no trouble."

"Are the boys at home?" Julia asked.

"Garret is," Candace said. "Billy's at a movie with that boy he met on the beach last week. Jason…"

"Sanderson," I said. "Seems like a good kid."

"He could be Billy's first real friend," Julia said. She gave me a smile full of warmth. "Billy's turning a corner. We must have the right doctor in the house."

"I hope so," I said.

"I'm going to go check on Tess and head to bed," Julia said. She kissed my cheek, turned to her mother. "Why don't you two talk a little while? You never do."

Candace looked at me. "I didn't know she was watching us, Frank."

I winked.

"Maybe we will," Candace said to Julia.

I watched Julia walk upstairs, then I sat down in a luxuriously worn leather armchair, catty-corner to the end of the couch.

"She's come a long way," I said.

"She's tough underneath all that pretty," Candace said, her voice elegant, yet kind. Her thinning hands were folded on the magazine now. Her paper-thin skin showed the blue veins running beneath it. "She didn't have it easy growing up, you know."

"She told me a little about your husband," I said.

"That was terrible," Candace said. "Truly."

Julia had told me she had had to compete with her brothers for her lawyer-father's attention, that she hadn't been very successful winning him over. But that didn't sound catastrophic. "What was the worst of it, do you think?" I asked, fishing.

"His ignoring her," Candace said.

I nodded and stayed silent, in hopes she would say more.

She didn't need any encouragement. Maybe she had been anxious to have this discussion. "If Julia did the slightest thing that displeased him, he would stop talking to her, stop looking at her, like she didn't exist." She shook her head. "He wasn't that way with the boys. Not ever."

I glanced at the curio cabinet. A tin carousel with flying, hand-painted horses caught my eye. Next to it sat a little porcelain doll, with lifelike, blue crystal eyes. Such pretty toys. No one showcases the ugly memories. "How long would he ignore her?" I asked.

"It could go on for weeks." She started wringing her hands. "A few times, he kept it up for over a month."

No wonder winning the attention of men was so important to Julia. "You think that's the reason she chose modeling as a career?" I asked. "No one ignores the woman on the runway."

"I would think so," Candace said. "I think it's the reason she made a great many choices in her life."

"Such as?" I said.

"Her marriage, for one-staying as long as she did. I don't think someone else would have taken the abuse for so long."

Candace was right, of course. Julia had learned to tolerate marathons of abuse as a girl, when she was powerless to do anything about it.

"So, why didn't you leave?" I asked, surprised at the edge in my voice. It was a question I could have asked my own mother, which explained the anger I was feeling.

Candace looked down at her hands, shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I was wrong. I should have."

That confession was all it took to swing me back toward empathy. No doubt Candace had her own traumatic life history that explained why she would let her sadistic husband stay in the house. "Julia got out, eventually," I said. "She filed that restraining order and enforced it. That took a lot of bravery."

"I think she's on the right track now," Candace said. She nodded at me. "She found you, after all."

Candace went up to bed, and I started walking back to the guest cottage. The night was cool, about sixty degrees, with a salty breeze off the ocean. The full moon glowed so round and white that it looked like a fake-some idealized version of reality from a kid's drawing.

Halfway to the cottage, I noticed the light still on in Julia's bedroom. Her shutters were open, and I could see Julia pulling her T-shirt out of her shorts. I stopped and stared as she arched her back and pulled the shirt over her head, exposing her perfect breasts. She unbuttoned the top button of her shorts and began to unzip them, the cloth on either side of the zipper falling away from the graceful angles of her pelvis. Even after touching and tasting her again and again, I still hungered to watch her step out of those shorts and the thong she wore underneath.

Just as Julia bent her arms, moved her hands to her waistband, and arched her back, I heard footsteps behind me. I wheeled around and saw Billy standing about fifteen feet from me, half in shadows. I felt like a peeping Tom, caught red-handed. But another part of me felt like I had caught Billy peeping. Had he been lurking outside Julia's window, waiting for her to undress?

"You okay?" I said, not certain what else to say.

He didn't answer.

"Billy?"

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

He sounded so embarrassed and frightened that my worry about his voyeurism was overtaken with worry for him. "We can talk this through," I said, walking toward him. I stopped short after just a few steps. What I saw made me lightheaded. "What the hell happened?" I said.

Billy looked down and ran a trembling hand over his blue and white pinstriped shirt, the front of which was covered with blood. His fingers and palm glistened ruby red in the night.

I broke into a sweat colder than the night air. "Are you all right?" I said instinctively. I stepped closer.

"I think… I might have killed somebody," he said. He started to cry.

I stopped moving. "Killed… Who?" I said. My eyes frantically searched Billy's other hand for a weapon. I didn't spot one. "Tell me what happened."

He looked at his own bloodied hand.

"What happened?" I shouted.

"I can't remember," he said.

I had to pull Billy toward the cottage. He stared ahead with vacant eyes, occasionally stumbling, nearly collapsing at the threshold. I caught him and helped him to the couch, then unbuttoned his blood-soaked shirt and peeled it off him. He was shaking badly. I was still shocked to see the scars Darwin Bishop's belt had left across his back. I wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. "Tell me what you do remember," I said.

He hung his head. "I messed up."

"Messed up, how? C'mon, Billy. Tell me."

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

I picked up the phone. "Tell me every single thing you remember, or I'll call the police, and you can tell them," I said.

He took a deep breath, let it out. He opened his eyes, but kept looking at the floor. "I was with my friend Jason," he said. "We went to the movies. When we got out, three guys from his school were waiting for him. They started bugging him, calling him names. Faggot, pussy, wimp, stupid shit like that. I should have just walked away."

"But you didn't," I said.

"I warned them." He shook his head, gritted his teeth. "I told them, 'Get the fuck away from us. Or I'll…" "

"Or you'd-what?"

His upper lip started to tremble. "Kill them." He looked straight at me.

"Then what happened?"

"One of them came right up to me." A tear escaped his eye, ran down his cheek. "He spit in my face."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I hit him. Then, I'm not sure. Everything just… went black."

I wish I had a thousand dollars for every assailant who claims amnesia for the attack. "How did you make it back home?" I asked.

"I guess I was, like, on autopilot. I don't remember much of anything, until I saw you."

I didn't want to call the police unless I absolutely had to. I needed to know what had actually happened. "Can you tell me Jason's phone number?" I asked Billy.

"508-931-1107."

That was quick recall, for somebody struggling with his memory. I picked up the phone and dialed.