Her frequent fatigue was just one of many of her self-formed jinxes—the fates reminding her she was getting old, and they seemed to remind her with a fury. To hell with the fates, she thought. To hell with getting old. The assertion, however, didn’t help her feel any better.
She expected, as always, to hear the familiar sounds of Tom’s computer video games squawking when she entered. Pseudopod, Doom II, Dark Seed, and his newest, Sniper Joe vs. the Alien Bikini Snatchers—he had them all. But the condo lay quiet now. She knew he was home because she’d seen his Bonneville in the lot; he typically got home off work before she did.
“Tom?”
No answer, yet she could see him standing there, within the open sliding door which led to the balcony. Cold air blundered into the apartment.
“Tom?”
“Oh, I’m out here. I didn’t hear you come in.”
Helen dropped her purse and briefcase, kept her Burberry coat on as she went to him. His tone of voice seemed undistinguished, leeched, somehow, of the verve she’d come to know quite well.
“Dr. Sallee called,” Tom went on, still gazing into the sky.
“Dr. Sal—…, oh, damn. I missed—”
“He said you missed your appointment this afternoon.”
She had indeed. “I completely forgot,” she admitted, but said no more. Helen always felt hard-pressed to down-play her weekly appointment with Sallee, who’d been counseling her now for several years. She felt inhibited to admit that she was seeing a psychiatrist. This Tom easily sensed, and rarely asked about it. Goddamn nightshifts, she blamed. The rare but damnable alternate shifts stole all the form from her week, and made it all the more difficult to keep her schedule set in her mind. It was no big deal at any rate. Since Sallee had taken her off Prozac in favor of hormonal therapy, she honestly did feel better more of the time now. But…
What was wrong with Tom? Here on the balcony he seemed to wear a caul of sullenness, which was completely unlike him.
“Is something wrong, Tom?”
“No, no,” he nearly stammered. “I’m just…looking at the sky, thinking.”
The black sky seemed to shine, winking in a cloudless sea of stars. An egg moon hovered low on the horizon. “Thinking about what?” she asked, and put her arms around him.
“Dahmer,” he said.
Helen’s wince strained against her face. “Why bother thinking about that schmuck?”
Tom didn’t turn but instead remained rigid where he stood. “I don’t know. It’s just…weird.”
“What’s weird, honey?”
Silence. Staring. The stars flickered. “Even the gods have a sense of irony, don’t they? It’s weird, what I did today, I mean. I mean, that guy cut up over a dozen people, and today I cut him up. Christ, I weighed the guy’s liver; it weighed 1501 grams. I cultured some of his brain cells and sent them to NIH. I held his heart in my hand. It just seems so weird.”
“You mean because it was Dahmer.”
“Yeah, yeah. I guess that’s it.”
Even Tom, she supposed, a happy go luck and a morgue jokester, had his doldrums. But Helen could fathom where he was coming from. In this job victims were statistics—-they could never be anything else. But when they had names? When they had faces you’d seen in the papers? It changed the whole mix.
Helen tightened her embrace.
“Come inside.”
“Yeah, good idea. It’s cold.”
“Let me warm you up.”
««—»»
God… Oh, shit…
Tom made love to her in a keen ferocity, or at least that’s how it began. Generally, their lovemaking was on the lazy side, low-key and laid back, which was what Helen liked. Slow, slothy stress-relief after a long day.
But tonight…
No trimmings, no precursory glass of wine nor touchy foreplay and cuddles. Helen herself had to admit an odd spark. Perhaps it was diversionary. Perhaps seeing the body of a serial killer lying on a morgue slab posted some crude, inner-conscious primacy. At first she felt put off, even shocked, at the immediacy by which Tom commenced: tugging at her clothes as they stumbled out of the living room, one hand venturing unabashed up the back of her skirt to molest her buttocks, the other pawing her breasts. They never even made it to the bedroom. The floor would have to do. Tom, Jesus! she thought as he hauled her down. Pinning her down with his weight, he unbuttoned her blouse, nearly popping off the buttons. Then he quickly shucked her breasts out of the 38C brassiere, kneading them quite urgently. All the while, in spite of her initial silent objections, Helen felt her sexual fuse ignite. Soon, she was perspiring, breathing hard. Her heart thudded for more, and then he gave her more, pushing up her dress. He pushed her legs up, pulled off her shoes and sent them clunking back into the living room. Rough fingers tickled her belly, plucked at the delicate elastic band, then peeled off her pantyhose. Speechless, Helen watched the hose sail away into surreal darkness like some gossamer bird. “Slow down, slow down,” she whispered, but Tom didn’t hear her, nor, by then, did she even want him to. Her panties, then, were hauled down and left to dangle off an ankle. God… Oh, shit… Suddenly she felt like a woman in a pornographic film, half-stripped and hauled down to be spread open and humped. The fantasy titillated her. Coarse breath resounded in the dim light. A belt buckle clinked, a zipper rasped. Then her knees were pushed back nearly into her face. She didn’t have time to touch his penis or even see it; she was simply folded in half and entered. The minor discomfort of the position, and the floor beneath her, retreated after only the first few thrusts. He’s so hard, she thought. Then the thrusts stepped up, deepened. Helen’s breath expelled through pressed lips, her eyes seeing only through slits now: Tom’s pent-up, determined face, his still shirted chest hovering over her.
He moaned once, then uttered, “God, I love you, Helen…” but the sensation of being so deliciously skewered forestalled any reciprocal reply. Her breasts, large to begin with, felt twice their normal size, filling up with tingling heat. Her sex flooded onto the floor. “Harder,” she caught herself imploring, “Do it harder.”
Tom obliged.
Sweat dripped off his face onto her bosom. No, this wasn’t lovemaking… He’s fucking my brains out! came the crudest thought, and again she considered her earlier surmise. Sometimes the pressure of their jobs—which could often be grim at the very least—built up like steam in a cooker. Now, it was being released. Their intercourse chased away the images: Dahmer’s bruise-swollen face, the crustlike mask of blood, the stiff body, as well as every other ghastly thing she’d ever seen. Only now did she fully realize that this was what she needed. It was what they both needed.
His hips pummeled her. His erection felt larger than she ever noted, and it was kindling her right now to the point of something close to mania. Helen had never been particularly orgasmic—once in a blue moon was about all—but that never bothered her. In the best of moods, the feeling was enough, along with knowing that her body could give Tom pleasure. Now, though, an abrupt climax seized her. It felt like something belting out of her. She moaned so loudly she feared the neighbors would hear. The pleasure bloated her face, knocked more breath out of her. Christ Almighty—