Richard Laymon - Flesh

“The height of vomitus.”

“Maybe Roland joined in. A big juke sandwich with them as bread and Celia as the meat.”

“You’re a very disturbed person, Helen.”

“Think about it.”

“I’m sure they didn’t go to Jason’s room. Not if that disgusting yuck was going to be there. They probably shacked up in a motel, or maybe they just parked someplace.” Or rolled out a sleeping bag in a field, she thought, like Robert Jordan and Maria. The warm night would’ve been fine for that.

“When she gets back,” Helen said, “I’m sure she’ll tell us all about it.” With that, she stuffed the remaining chunk of doughnut into her mouth and picked up the comic section.

“See you later,” Alison said.

Helen nodded.

Alison stepped to the front door and pulled it open. On the wooden landing stood a glass vase filled with yellow daffodils. An envelope was propped against the vase. She stared at the bright flowers, at the envelope. Frowning, she stroked her lips.

They’re probably not for me, she thought.

But her heart was beating fast.

Crouching, she lifted the envelope. Her name was written on it. Hands trembling, she tore open the envelope and pulled out the papers inside. They fluttered as she unfolded them.

Three typed pages. Signed at the end of the last page by Evan.

Dearest Alison,

I am loathsome scum, a worm, a maggot. You would be perfectly justified in spitting on this missive and flushing the flowers down the nearest toilet. If you are still reading, however, let me tell you that you certainly could not detest me more than I detest myself.

There is no excuse for my behavior of Friday night. It was childish and vile to show up at Gabby’s with Tracy. What can I say? I was blinded by the pain of your rejection, and I desired to punish you. It was a foolish, contemptible gesture. Let me assure you, however, that the maneuver backfired. As much torment as I may have caused you, I caused myself more.

Let me also make it clear that I have no interest in Tracy. The sole reason I invited her out was to rub her in your face and, hopefully, to make you jealous. I do not care for her at all. Though you may find this difficult to believe (due to her well-deserved reputation and your opinion that I have nothing on my mind except sex), we did not indulge in any intimacies whatsoever. I even avoided a good-night kiss when we parted.

I spent last night alone in my apartment, miserable, wanting to be with you but too ashamed to telephone or come over and see you. I thought about you constantly, remembering how you look and the sound of your voice and the way you laugh. I thought about the many good times we shared, and no, not just the sex (though I couldn’t help thinking about that, also—especially how it feels when we are so sweetly joined, as if we are one). I even spent some time gazing at your photographs in the school yearbooks, but it was unbearable to look at frozen images of your face and know that I had possibly lost you forever.

When I slept, I dreamed of you. I dreamed that you came into my room and sat down on the edge of my bed and took hold of my hand. In my dream, I began to weep and tell you that I was sorry. I said that I never meant to hurt you, that I loved you and would do anything for your forgiveness. You said nothing, but you bent down and kissed me. I woke up, then, and I was never so sorry to wake up from any dream. My pillow was wet with tears. (I realize that all this must sound maudlin, but I want you to know everything, no matter how embarrassing it may seem in the light of day.)

Right now, it is three in the morning. I got up, after that dream, and sat down at my typewriter to let you know how I feel. I am sure it is too much to hope for easy forgiveness. The dream was a fantasy, the wishful thinking of a tormented mind. I realize that my treatment of you was rash and abominable, and that you probably prefer never to see me again. I wouldn’t blame you at all.

If you wish to have nothing to do with me, I suppose I will learn to live with it. I suppose I will have no choice, short of shuffling off these mortal coils with a bare bodkin. (Forget I said that; I don’t believe I am that desperate, though morbid thoughts along those lines have crossed my mind.)

Perhaps I won’t deliver this to you. Perhaps I’ll burn it, I don’t know.

I miss you, Alison. I wish that I could make everything right again, that I could turn time backward to Thursday afternoon when I started all this stupid, disgusting behavior. But life doesn’t work that way. You can’t just make the bad things go away, no matter how much you may want to. (There, I’m so distraught that I’ve ended my sentence with a preposition—now I know I’ll burn this.)

I love you.

I hope that you don’t hate me.

I am miserable without you, but it’s all my own fault and I know that I deserve the misery.

If this is the end, it is the end.

Have a good life, Alison.

Alison’s mind felt numb. She folded the letter, slipped it inside the envelope, and picked up the vase of daffodils. She carried it into the house, nudging the door shut with her rump.

“What’s the deal?” Helen called.

Alison shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to speak; her voice would shake and she might cry.

“Well, all right, flowers. Told you he’d see the light.”

She climbed the stairs to her room, placed the vase on her dresser, and sat on her bed. She pulled the pages out of the envelope and read them again.

He wrote about a dream. This was like a dream. She almost couldn’t believe that he had written such a letter. The anguish in it, the desperation. Even a threat, in the Hamlet allusion, of suicide—which he was quick to retract but which remained, nonetheless.

Alison told herself that she ought to be delighted. Isn’t this what she had wanted; to have him repent and plead for her to take him back? But she wasn’t delighted. The letter was almost disturbing. Could she mean that much to him?

Did she want to mean that much to him.

He sounded almost obsessed.

Alison lay down on her bed, the letter pressed to her belly, and stared at the ceiling. She kicked off a sandal, heard it thump the floor, then kicked off the other. She felt exhausted, as if she had just come back from a long walk. She took a deep breath. Her lungs seemed to tremble as she exhaled.

You wanted him back, didn’t you? Well, he’s yours. If you want him.

You’ll have to do something.

Something.

Evan’s probably sitting in his apartment, staring at the telephone, waiting, wondering if you sneered when you read his message, or if you wept. And very possibly thinking he had been a fool to open himself up that way.

It’s cruel to make him wait.

I should go downstairs, right now, and call him. Or walk over to his apartment. Make it like his dream. Don’t say anything when he opens the door, just kiss him.

Don’t make it that easy on him.

Maybe I don’t want to go back to him at all.

What should I do? Maybe pretend I didn’t get the flowers and note, go along as if nothing happened.

Alison lay there, wondering. She felt stunned, confused, hopeful but a little bit frightened.

She pulled the pillow down over her face. The dark was nice. The soft pillow felt good.

Later, she thought. I’ll do something about it later.

Roland couldn’t understand. He had taken off the cuffs before pushing her down the cellar stairs, and he hadn’t put them back on because she was beyond struggling and he needed both hands free. So how come, now that he was done, he was suddenly cuffed to her again? It didn’t make sense.