Bill Pronzini - With an Extreme Burning

“Yes. She took it well enough.”

“Sure it's a good idea to leave her home by herself?”

“I didn't,” Cecca said. “I asked her to stay with my folks for a while, starting tonight. He can get to her there, too, of course, but … I don't know, I just thought it would be best.”

“I think so, too. She give you any argument?”

“A little. But she went. I want to call my dad, make sure she got there all right.”

She made the call from the kitchen. Yes, Pop said, Amy was there and everything was fine. He hadn't asked any questions when she'd called before leaving home and he didn't ask any now. She wished she could confide in him. But there was no telling what he might do; he was unpredictable these days. And Ma's health was fragile enough as it was. At least they were accepting people, never prying or poking into her private life. There when she needed them; left her alone otherwise.

She said she'd talk to him again tomorrow, and that she loved him, then rang off. When she turned from the counter, Dix was standing a few feet away. He said, “Okay?”

“For now.”

She was conscious again of her heartbeat. Its rhythm was rapid but less erratic than it had been earlier. She closed the gap between them, put her hands flat against his chest. They seemed very small to her at that moment, like a child's hands. Through his shirt she could feel the throb of his heart—quick, too, and as steady as her own. Her eyes held his, and when his arms came up she moved into their fold and fitted her body to his. She'd hugged him before … earlier at Louise's … but never like this. It was a good feeling. It felt right.

Against his chest she said, “Do you want to be alone tonight?”

“No.”

Trust him now, this way, or she never would. You had to have complete trust in somebody at a time of crisis, above all other times. If you didn't, you were lost—you'd be trapped by suspicion forever.

“Neither do I,” she said.

They undressed in the bedroom, by the pale light from the bedside lamp. She was unhurried and neither embarrassed nor shy, and this made him the same. Naked, her small body was firm, almost girlish, where Katy's had been long and ripe and soft; her breasts were half the size of Katy's, the nipples dark and hard rather than pale and plump; her pubic hair was as thick and black and curly as poodle fur, where Katy's had been sparse, blond, downy—

Angry at himself, he yanked down the mental curtain. Cecca, this is Cecca. No more comparisons. Cecca.

He drew her into his arms. Her flesh was cold and she was shivering. He kissed her tenderly, and when they lay down together he pulled the covers up over their bodies. He stroked her until the trembling eased, until there was warmth instead of chill under his hands; the skin of her breasts and hips was satiny once the gooseflesh disappeared. They kissed deeply then, and he continued to caress her, heard her breathing quicken, felt her begin to knead his flanks with mounting urgency and then take hold of him with her small fingers. Long minutes of this, sweet minutes.

But none of it had any effect.

There was not even a stir of arousal in his loins. It was as if he'd gone dead from the waist down.

“I can't,” he said after a while. “It's no use, I just … can't.”

“It's all right,” she said.

“It's not all right.”

“We'll just hold each other.”

“I'm sorry, Cecca …”

“Shh. Lie still. Rest.”

“I can't rest.”

She reached behind her. The room went moonlit dark.

“Yes you can. Sleep. We'll both sleep.”

“I can't sleep,” he said.

And slept.

Sometime toward morning, he awoke with a hard-on.

That was the proper term for it. A great, throbbing, painful thing such as he hadn't experienced in more than fifteen years, since the early days of his marriage. A swelling pressure, a blood balloon that felt as though it would burst at any second. When he moved, the light friction from the sheet covering him was excruciating. He lay still, waiting for it to diminish. It didn't. If anything, the pressure and the hurt intensified. Finally, almost in desperation, he turned toward Cecca sleeping beside him.

She moved when his body touched hers, came half awake, murmuring something; then, when she felt the heat and bone-hardness, she said, “Oh!” and woke fully. “Oh, Dix.”

“Do you still want to?” he whispered.

“Yes. Yes.”

Their joining was awkward, fumbling, and when he filled her completely, they both gasped. For him, as they moved together, it was mostly painful, with very little pleasure and faint random twitches of guilt. His climax was sudden and fiery, and it brought no relief. He was just as hard and swollen afterward as before. He knew that it had not been good for her either, and immediately he tried to withdraw; but she held him tightly with her arms and legs.

“Stay with me,” she said against his ear. “I like you there, I like the way you feel.”

He stayed, and still he did not diminish. For a while they were motionless; then Cecca began to nuzzle his neck, to pet him with her fingertips. He held her fiercely, and soon the rhythms started again, now slow, now gentle, now synchronized. And this time it was good for both of them, relieving and searching. This time he felt mostly pleasure, with very little pain and no twitches at all.

“Dix?”

“Mmm?”

“Any regrets?”

“No. You?”

“No, but I keep thinking I should have.”

“Why?”

“Katy. Katy's house, Katy's bed, Katy's husband …”

“Not anymore. ‘That was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.’ ”

“… I know she hurt you, but that sounds cold.”

“I didn't mean it like that. I just meant that she's gone. So is the man she was married to, in a way.”

“Gone? What way?”

“I'm not the same person I was before Katy died. I've changed and I'm still changing and that's probably a good thing.”

“Why do you think it's good?”

“I don't particularly like the old Dix Mallory.”

“Why not?”

“He isn't much of a man.”

“I always had the opposite view. I still do.”

“You're not looking at him from in here.”

“What don't you like about yourself?”

“Mostly it's what I've done with my life, the way I've … thrown a lot of it away.”

“How do you mean, thrown it away?”

“Too many compromises, large and small. Self-delusion. Contentment with mediocrity.”

“You think you're mediocre?”

“… Yes.”

“If you are, then so am I. So are most people.”

“But we don't have to be. We don't have to settle for it.”

“No, that's true. We don't.”

“Let's talk about you. You don't really consider yourself ordinary?”

“I'm not that self-analytical. But if I were … yes, I'm ordinary.”

“You must have taken a good look at yourself a time or two.”

“A time or two.”

“And what did you see? Who is Cecca Bellini?”

“An unfulfilled woman.”

“You said that without missing a beat. Why unfulfilled? Not because of Chet.”

“God, no. You can't think all a woman needs for fulfillment is the right kind of man?”

“No. That was a statement, not a question. Sexism, at least, isn't one of my failings.”

“Well, it has nothing to do with Chet. It's … expectations, I suppose. I always expected a lot of myself. I don't mean I had visions of becoming somebody important or famous, being a mover and shaker. Or that I had any specific goals I haven't met. It's just that I expected more of myself, more out of life. And it's my fault I haven't gotten it.”

“Settled for less when you didn't have to? Opted for what was easy, safe? Accepted and never questioned unless you were forced to?”