A. Rich - The Hand That Feeds You

• • •

Libertine wrote first, establishing a pattern of dominance. She challenged him to shed his secrets; she had no interest in conventional courtship and shot down his early efforts in that direction. She eschewed dailiness — there would be no meeting for lunch, or dinner and a movie; she did not want to hear about his day; she wanted the heightened experience, the mysterious, the transcendent. She wanted to be entertained. For his part, he got a quality of attention he had not previously known, and from a beautiful woman who constantly surprised him. He got a willing and able sexual partner who surprised him in bed as well.

She was insistent on loyalty, though of a form foreign to Bennett at the time. Maybe most pointedly, she convinced him that his first allegiance must be to her. This became relevant when, six months in, she encouraged him to sleep with other women to show him that far from being jealous, she could use these occasions to further the intimacy they shared. He interpreted her encouragement as trust, which allowed her to escalate her manipulation.

She applauded him when he seduced the earnest, the altruistic, the virtuous. She laughed at the women’s tentative declarations of love as he re-created them for her. She urged him not to hold back — and he didn’t.

One year in, they had their first fight. She wanted him to drop Samantha Couper; she found the man Bennett became with her boring. When Bennett let slip that he admired Samantha’s work on the suicide hotline, Libertine wrote, She should tell those losers to buck up. After four weeks of silence, Bennett invited Libertine to see a movie with him — and Samantha. He proposed that Libertine sit behind them. When the film ended, and he asked Samantha what she thought of it, her vapid answer was his gift to Libertine.

Two years in, he brought her Susan Rorke. Their second fight. He found her work laudable, too — not only at the precinct, but the counseling she volunteered at the homeless shelter. The deal he brokered toward a rapprochement delighted Libertine. He arranged for the three of them to meet at a gun range where Susan would teach Libertine — introduced by Bennett as a family friend — how to protect herself with a handgun. I read Libertine’s praise for Bennett after the lesson; the feel of Susan Rorke’s hands guiding hers on the gun had been a bonus.

The closer I came to the time I met Bennett, the more apprehensive I became.

New and interesting, or just new? Libertine wrote. And a few hours later: Well?

Bennett replied to this second one. You’re more excited about her than I am.

They were talking about me. Astonishing how much pain a dead man could inflict.

He made fun of my research.

What song made her cry but she was ashamed to admit it. Ha! Libertine wrote.

I was ready to put in an emergency call to Cilla.

Libertine: Did you get anything off her?

Bennett: What are you, a ten-year-old boy?

I left the computer and looked out the living-room window. A light snow was falling, but not yet sticking to the sidewalk. I was not faint, nor was I sick to my stomach. I was not enraged, not throwing a glass to break against the wall. I felt something quieter, but no less consuming. Shame. Humiliation is what you feel in front of others; shame is what you feel alone. Shame is harder to shake.

A snowflake landed on my window in its pristine geometry, and when the heat from the room met the glass, I watched geometry melt. It took less than a second. What could happen in a second?

I was glad I had refilled my prescription; I took a whole Xanax. I knew I wouldn’t wait for it to kick in before taking another. I could not read any more, so I changed into a larger pair of sweatpants and continued reading more.

I was looking for clues as to who Libertine was. She never sent Bennett a photo of herself. But I found photos of myself that Bennett had sent to this person. Nothing compromising — just invasive: me making him an omelet, me with a towel wrapped around just-washed hair, even a photo of me feeding Cloud and George and Chester. She knew where to find me; I could not say the same for her. I went into the bedroom and locked the fire-escape gate, a feeble gesture in light of the violation. I could not face more of their banter.

I’d felt this kind of annihilation once before, as an intimate couple took me apart with their trivialized torture. Her taking my $300 to pay for their beer, her not untying me when she had the chance. Candice. Doug. I read these e-mails as both of these women — myself now, myself then. It was like watching a horror movie with the sound on and closed captioning — the horror coming at me twice. He could not have hurt me more if I read that he told her I was bad in bed.

Libertine: Is she still pursuing her research — the victim studying victimology?

Bennett: I’ll give her one thing — she’s avid. She’s a learner.

Libertine: Stop sounding so smug. Does she play the victim in bed?

Bennett: A gentleman never tells.

As fucking if, I thought. I tried to take a deep breath and feared I might hyperventilate. I put my head down between my knees, closed my eyes, and tried to breathe normally. I jumped when I felt Olive’s cold nose on my forehead. She had come to comfort me. She whined once, and I lifted her onto my lap. Stroking her brought my pulse under control, and I could breathe again. “Paging Dr. Olive,” I said to the little white dog. She would not stop licking my hands, to the point that the drama of my emotions turned to melodrama in the face of her fervid attempts to soothe me, to bring me back from where I had gone.

• • •

I climbed into bed too drained to read or watch TV. I tried to reenact the meditation practice I had done in the bath not long before, relaxing one body part at a time. My knees were locked. I tried to relax first one, then the other. I would come back to them. Arms: not a problem. Shoulders and trapezius muscles fine. I came back to the knees for a second try. There was no yielding. I remembered that the Greeks believed that life resided in the knees, which was why we fell to our knees to beg for our lives. Should I be on my knees begging for my life?

I thought of all the people who had had worse things happen to them. People endured unspeakable cruelty. What they did was bear it. Some of them even found grace. In themselves. I suspected I could bear this, too. But that didn’t make the pain any less in the moment.

I rolled onto my side and surprised myself. Where was the bitterness? By all rights I should have been swearing off men, love, romance. But I found myself wanting these things again, and soon, and soon enough that what I had read earlier in the evening would not preclude this possibility.

For a moment, I mistook a streetlight for the moon.

What consumed me in the morning was the thought that Bennett might have invited Libertine to observe me, as he had done with Susan and Samantha. Had Libertine been sitting behind us in the theater when we saw Grizzly Man ? Had she been another guest at one of the B&Bs in Maine? Had she borrowed my notes from a lecture at school? Had I met her? I tried not to cross the line between rational query and paranoia, but the fallout from reading the poisonous e-mails the night before made me think of those people who contract the flesh-eating virus. Did I still have arms? Did I still have legs? How was it I was able to stand up at the stove and wait for a kettle of water to whistle?

When the phone rang, I jumped.

“I’ve got good news,” Billie said. “But I feel like a ghoul, saying so. I just found out that the sick dog at For Pitties’ Sake has a day at the most to live.”