Richard Laymon: Flesh

From her closet, he selected a sleeveless sundress, two blouses, and a pair of faded blue jeans. Then he went to the pile of clothing on the floor. He wanted to see her in the white shorts. He picked them up and shook them until the panties dropped through a leg hole. He watched the panties flutter to the floor. He was proud of himself for not touching them. With the shorts in one hand, he gathered up her shoes and returned to the suitcase.

Anything else she might need? he wondered, and scanned the room.

He saw the bulletin board on the wall beyond her desk Snapshots were tacked to it.

She won’t need those, Jake told himself. Get going.

But he wanted to look at them, wanted to look at Alison.

He walked over to the desk. Most of the photos showed Alison, but she was with a guy. The same guy. In one, he was pushing her on a swing. In another, they were sitting on a blanket in the shade of a tree. Another showed them kissing.

Jake’s stomach hurt.

The guy was handsome, in spite of his glasses, and he looked in good shape.

This is what I get for snooping, Jake thought.

He felt better, however, when he remembered Alison saying she had broken up with her boyfriend last night.

This guy had been dumped.

Good riddance.

Jake hefted the suitcase, picked up Alison’s purse and yearbooks, and rushed downstairs.

After soaking in the bath for nearly an hour, Alison felt a little better. The hot water had soothed her tight muscles. It had done nothing, however, to take away the deeper tightness, the cold sick feeling that seemed to grip her insides.

If there was only a way to turn off her mind.

Or change channels. Get rid of the bad shows starring Roland and Helen and Celia and the dead policeman and Evan. Turn to the Jake channel. The Jake show was comforting, sometimes exciting. All the others hurt.

Alison stepped out of the tub, dripping, and began to dry herself with a soft towel.

Everything would be much better if she could just avoid seeing Evan.

You have to go. You have to finish it.

I don’t have any clothes.

Alison wanted that for an excuse, but she’d had plenty of time to consider the problem and find a solution.

She hung the moist towel over a bar, and left the bathroom. The air in the hallway felt cool. In Jake’s room, the windows were open. A nice breeze came in.

She went to the closet, took out a plaid shirt and put it on. Buttoned, it resembled a dress. A short, loose dress to be sure, but it would have to suffice. She rolled the sleeves up her forearms. Then, she found a belt and fastened it around her waist.

On the inside of Jake’s closet door was a full-length mirror.

The shirt didn’t look that much like a dress. It looked like a man’s shirt. She pulled at it, rearranging the tucks to make it hang more smoothly.

Returning to the bathroom, she brushed her teeth using a finger smeared with Jake’s toothpaste.

Finally, she went into the kitchen. On the wall beside the telephone was a notepad and pen. She tore off a sheet and took it to the table.

“That’s him,” Sam said.

Jake’s heart slammed in his chest. “Are you positive?”

“I got a good look at them both. There’s no doubt about it. He’s the one who was helping Roland into the car.” She slid a finger across the page of photographs and stopped it beneath the name. “Evan Forbes.”

Alison’s dumped boyfriend. The man in those snapshots on her bulletin board.

No need to worry, Jake told himself. They’d split up.

But she’d said she should call him, let him know she’s okay.

What if she tells him where she’s staying?

“I need to use your phone.”

“Help yourself.”

Jake dialed his home. He listened to the ringing.

Come on, pick it up. Come on, Alison. Answer the damn phone!

It rang fifteen times before he hung up.

“Do you have a directory?”

Sam rushed from the room. She ran back, clutching a telephone book, and thrust it at Jake.

He flipped through the pages. Forbes was listed. Jake recognized the address: the apartment building in front of which he’d found Roland’s car parked last night. He’d already been there, knocking on doors.

“Thanks, Sam.”

He ran.

He kicked the door. With a splintering crash, it flew open.

The carpet at his feet was crusted with dried blood.

Alison walked the L-shaped parking lot of Wally’s, looking for Evan’s car. It wasn’t there. Nor was it parked along the street.

She had left the house at one o’clock, giving herself half an hour to reach the bar. Though she didn’t have a wristwatch, she guessed that the walk must have taken no more than fifteen or twenty minutes and that she was early.

To make herself as inconspicuous as possible, she wandered out of the parking lot and headed for one of the elms that lined the street. The grass felt soft and cool under her bare feet. The shade felt good. Leaning back against the tree trunk, she took a deep, shaky breath. She was trembling badly.

She could see her legs trembling. They were out in front of her, knees locked to brace her against the tree, thighs pressed together. From the bottom of the shirt to her kneecaps, her skin shimmied over the fluttering muscles. As she watched the shaking, a corner of her shirttail was lifted by a puff of breeze. She swept it down and held the shirt front flat against her thighs. Her open hands felt tremors through the fabric.

Just calm down, she told herself. There’s no reason to be so jumpy. I’m just going to have a talk with Evan. It’s not like I’m about to get my teeth pulled without benefit of anesthetic.

Maybe Evan’s already inside. He might have walked over. I could stay here fretting for an hour while he’s inside drinking and thinking I stood him up.

Well, I’m not going in. Bad enough I had to walk over here dressed this way—undressed this way. At least I didn’t run into anyone I know.

But even at this hour, Wally’s was bound to be loaded with students and Alison was bound to know many of them.

As if to prove her theory, a station wagon slowed in front of the parking lot entrance and started to turn. She spotted Terri Weathers through the passenger window. Luckily, Terri was looking the other way. Alison quickly sidestepped, circling to the other side of the tree.

I should have stayed home is what I should have done.

She heard the car crunch over gravel and stop. The doors bumped shut. She heard footsteps heading away, then the windy sound of another approaching car. Her head snapped to the left. Coming up the street was Evan’s blue Granada.

It swung to the curb in front of her, and stopped. Leaning across the seat, Evan opened the passenger door. “You’re early,” he said.

Both hands holding the shirttails down, she climbed into the car. The seat upholstery was hot against her bare rump. Raising herself, she swept the shirt down beneath her. She kept her eyes away from Evan.

“What are you wearing?”

“All I could find.”

“What is that, a guy’s shirt?”

She faced Evan. His hair was neatly combed and he was dressed for the heat in a glossy Hawaiian shirt, white shorts, and sandals. He looked good except for his sallow skin and bloodshot eyes. The eyes had a feverish glaze. Alison didn’t like the way they stared down through his glasses, studying her.

“Take a picture, why don’t you.”

“I could use a drink,” he muttered.

“Let’s stay here. I really don’t feel like going inside. It’ll be noisy, and—”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“People will ask questions. About last night. You said it was on the radio.”