Punish Me with Kisses (4 page)

Puzzled, seized with vague premonitions and a sense of doom, she went about her life much as she had before, rising late, reading through the afternoons, watching from her rocking chair at night. Sometimes crossing the path of a member of the family she felt she was living with people trying to avoid contact at almost any cost.

Her mother, drinking steadily now from morning to night, stalked the lower part of the house with a mad smile that seemed painted on her face. Her father ate his meals alone in his study off a tray. Sometimes, passing his door in the evening, she could hear him whispering, dictating a lecture he was to give, about the reconciliations between humanism and business, before a manufacturer's convention in the fall. If her mother hardly left the house, Suzie hardly entered it. She had her meals served to her in the
poolhouse
. Twice Penny saw Cynthia French carrying polyethylene garbage bags to her car.

Penny watched every evening, expectant, waiting, and then, finally, it happened—she heard Jared's motorcycle coughing in the dark.

She wished that night that she could feel bitter, could hate him for coming, could hate Suzie, too, for luring him in. But she couldn't. As much as she longed to feel hatred, she could not quell a lingering affection for Jared, a sense of gratitude for what he'd been to her, and a fascination with Suzie and her nocturnal rituals, a fascination that she recognized as perverse. That was what was so strange. As painful as it was for her now to watch Jared steal across the fog-shrouded lawn, and approach the
poolhouse
, knowing as she did that he was going to make love with Suzie, knowing how he would do it, wishing, imagining that he would do it with her, still she felt the cold almost cruel power of the voyeur, seeing yet unseen, surveying the pool-house from her dark hiding place above, looking down, spying, as thrilled as a tourist in Africa hidden in an observation post high up in a tree watching wild animals congregate, drink, copulate and growl.

He paused in the middle of the lawn, turned and scanned the main house. She rocked back in her chair, braced her feet, held her breath. He couldn't see her; she was sitting in darkness. But still she wondered: might he have caught a glimmer of movement, have noticed a reflection, some clue to her presence there? Suddenly he was revealed, etched out, his dark hair highlighted by a beam. Then, just as quickly, he was lost again in the gloom. She was startled for a second until she realized what had happened, that there'd been a break in the clouds passing before the moon, a gap just large enough to admit a momentary shaft of light.

That vision of him, short as it was, stayed with her, even as she saw him turn toward the
poolhouse
again. It was as if the moonlight had frozen him for an instant the way a flashlight beam can catch and freeze a prowling deer, and in those few seconds of illumination she thought she'd seen something on his face—indecision, perhaps, or worry, or something else, something attentive and alert, as if he felt himself in danger, as if he knew he was being watched.

Voices, then—she strained to listen. They were greeting one another. She heard a laugh. The ritual she knew so well began: the old Dylan tunes, vague movements beyond the windows—little flashes of clothing, flesh, the suggestion of a dance. She couldn't see much, the moon was cut off again by the clouds, and the Maine night fog hung like thick black smoke just above the grass. She closed her eyes, imagined the two of them moving, swaying, a vacant smile on Suzie's face, a smoldering, a hunger distending his. They wouldn't touch, though they would come unbearably close. She imagined herself, then, in Suzie's place, synchronizing, matching her movements to his, feeling him, too, his aura, that dizzying essence that came off his body when he was eager, warm and close. He'd raised his hands now—she was sure of that, could feel them as they came down upon her shoulders. She'd reach out with her own hands, placed them lightly on his hips. They'd be barely dancing now, just moving back and forth, creating a slow, wonderful, agonizing tempo, rolling in unison, swaying with desire.

Her rocking chair creaked back and forth as she dreamt of all of this, and then of Jared taking her in his arms.

Had she slept? She shook her head, peered out again, tried to penetrate the darkness, the fog. There was no sign of anything, no sounds, though the lights in the
poolhouse
still were on. Far in the distance she could hear the roar of the sea, then something coming from the trees, the sound of an owl perhaps, then silence.

They were smoking now—she was sure of it; that was the pattern, Suzie and her
boyfriends
made love, then smoked, then made love again. Were they tangled up with each other, naked limbs entwined, sharing a reefer now from Suzie's stash of dope? Perhaps she should go outside, creep around to one of the windows of the
poolhouse
and check. But that was crazy. She closed her eyes again and tried to recapture what it had been like, resting beside Jared that final time three weeks before when they'd made love in his room in town.

He'd kissed her many times, and she remembered whispering to him as he did: "Yes, yes, I love you. Yes, I love you. Yes—"

Suzie was right—she really was a child. Out of all her reading, her novels, her fantasies she'd spun a fabric of illusions. Thinking back made her flush with shame. She'd tried to turn a rough carnal exchange into a romance. She'd been a fool.

Tears suddenly pulsed up to her eyes. The banality of her predicament—the lonely, neurotic, unsexy sibling who'd lost a boyfriend to her popular extroverted sister—made her want to cry. It was so stupid, such a stupid, dreary, tedious cliché. What was she doing now, staring down at the
poolhouse
, imagining herself with Jared, imagining him holding her, kissing her, then feeling so miserably sorry for herself? He'd been nice but shallow. She'd been nothing to him but an audience before whom he could rehearse his act, the sensitive primitive in need of a muse as he declaimed poetry to the sea. Suzie was right—it was better to use people than to be used. She, too, now would have to start dealing with the world as it was. She would find lovers, and enjoy them, and when she was done with them, when they bored her, when the magic was gone, she would send them away without a pang. She would harden herself, make herself strong and ruthless. Maybe that was the lesson of the summer, something valuable she could extract from all the pain.

She squeezed her eyes shut again. She wanted to wring out every remnant of her tears. She was done with feeling sorry for herself. She would change her life, rid herself of her illusions. Suzie would help her, tell her what clothes to buy, show her how to redo her hair. Most important she'd teach her not to care, how to think only of herself.

But then she cried again—she couldn't help it. It was too awful if life came down to that, if everyone was cold and hard and selfish and if love was found only in books. The tears now were streaming down her face.
Oh, God
, she thought,
do I have to be a bitch?

Sounds. Something was happening. She wiped her eyes and peered outside again. The underwater pool lights were on. She heard laughter, then a splash. She strained to see, but her tears obscured her view. Then she recognized Suzie's voice jeering in the night. She was standing naked beside the pool. She threw something at the water, then placed her hands on her hips and laughed. "That's it,
fetch
—"

More motion. Jared swam to her. Penny could just make him out, kicking with his legs, causing the water to ripple and catch the turquoise light from underneath.

Suzie reached down. Jared seemed to have something in his mouth. Suzie took it, patted him on the head, stepped back, threw it out again. It hit the water and bobbed, something white, some sort of ball.

Penny saw Jared turn, then lost sight of him. He was probably swimming under water, she thought. Suddenly he emerged with the ball again. Suzie clapped her hands and laughed. Penny felt sick and looked away.

So—Suzie had turned him into a dog. Now he swam for her, and fetched, and she patted him on his head as a reward. What degrading games her sister liked to play. She was really sick, and now Jared was like all the others—foolish, pathetic, weak.

"What's the matter,
loverboy
? Tired already?
Bored
?"

There was something too derisive in Suzie's tone, something too taunting, too full of scorn, contempt. She was going too far. No one acted like that. She was overplaying.
Why?

All that summer she had carried on in what had seemed impossibly over-heated ways. Just what was the point of this exhibition with Jared?
Does she know I'm watching, listening?
she wondered.
Is she doing all this for me?

Suzie went back to the porch of the
poolhouse
, turned off the pool lights, and disappeared inside. Penny heard a splash as if Jared was still in the water floundering around; then there was silence except for the wind rustling in the pines.

Later she wasn't sure how long she slept, or even if she really had. She remembered closing her eyes, wanting to sleep, wanting to shut off her mind and her misery, wanting to stop thinking, to forget, and she had, or at least she'd dozed for a while in her rocking chair until she'd heard the noise. It wasn't loud, only a moan, a faint one, agonized enough to nudge her into wakefulness but hardly intense enough to jar her wide awake. She blinked a little, turned her head, then heard it again, more piteous this time, more agonized, something like the weakening helpless whimper of an injured animal in pain.

She looked out the window. Everything was dark. Suddenly she heard a slamming sound and a shout, then a thud. She saw a flash of light, so quick she barely caught it, the sweep of a hand-held light. Someone rushed from the
poolhouse
, then paused just in front. Penny blinked and in that moment the figure disappeared into the shadows of the trees.

Everything was quiet for a moment. She remembered feeling confused. Then the screaming began, a series of short, sharp, shrill terrifying cries, and then the dogs began to yelp, and she heard people moving in the house, talking, calling, running around. Someone switched on the floodlights mounted on the roof. All the grounds, the tennis court, the garden and the pool, were set ablaze, and the burglar alarm siren began to screech. As she watched the scene with a growing terror, Jared stumbled out of the
poolhouse
, and her parents, the gardener and his wife, and the dogs converged around him on the lawn.

The floodlights must have blinded him, for as he stood there, naked, screaming at them for help, awkward and unbalanced, his body wet and spattered with blood, he raised one hand to shield his eyes. In his other he held the shears, their long, glistening, pointed blades hanging open by his side.

Afterward Penny would have no memory of her flight down the stairs, her own mad rush out onto the lawn. But she would never forget the sight that met her at the
poolhouse
door. While Jared stood behind her shaking, and her mother's incoherent sobs were lost in the siren still screaming from the house, she looked in at Suzie lying torn and dead upon the slashed waterbed. Her thick red blood was still gushing from the deep wounds in her breasts and stomach and cheeks, spreading into the surrounding flood, staining it an ever-thinning pink.

Turning, she saw Jared drop the bloody shears onto the tiles. Then she lunged, knelt, and vomited into the pool.

I
sometimes wonder if Child will ever get her shit together. I sure hope so. Otherwise she's doomed. I know she's watching me all the time now, sad-eyed, hurt. I think she's trying to figure me out (Well, best of luck, Child!) I guess she thinks I'm crazy, and maybe I am. Maybe someday, too, I'll be able to explain it to her. In the meantime I have to do what I have to do—

S
he hated
being recognized.

Once she was sitting alone in one of those New York pub-type restaurants with track lights and bare brick walls and hanging plants and out-of-work actors serving steaks to convivial foursomes when she heard someone talking at another table, heard "Maine" and "sisters" and "shears." They'd seen her, recognized her, begun to talk about the case. She called for her check and left.

Another time she was window-shopping on Fifth Avenue, staring at a pair of expensive Italian shoes, when a well-dressed young woman with an intent expression on her face came up to her and said: "Excuse me, I don't mean to be rude, but weren't you involved in something a few years back?" She recoiled and walked away as fast as she could.

Still another time she was jogging around the reservoir in Central Park early in the morning. The sky was blue, and the buildings were reflected in the water, and she was feeling wonderful, feeling as if she could run on and on and even merge with the wind, when a young man running toward her began to stare and scan her face, and then he said, "I know who you are!" and then he grinned. She felt like she was a freak or something who had to live out the rest of her life as this character in the
Suzie
Berring
Murder Case
, and then she ran all the harder, but the joy of it was gone, and she ended up in front of the Metropolitan Museum, panting and sweating and depressed, and, worst of all, remembering, reliving that awful time.