“Then I shall see that you never return to that pubescent whorehouse.” He cleared his throat, fanning himself. “I couldn’t help but notice when I undressed you. You were wearing”-he bore a pained expression, as if the very words hurt him-“thong underwear. Do your parents know about this?”
“No. A girlfriend bought them for me. Amber.”
“I thought as much. Well, I destroyed the offending article.” He leaned in close and whispered, “There’s only one kind of girl who needs thong underwear, Helen. And you aren’t that kind.”
She spoke hesitantly, her words still slurring occasionally. “You can’t know what kind of girl I am. You don’t know me.”
“You’re wrong, my lovely. I’ve been watching you. When you slipped out.”
“What?”
“I’ve even been to your Web site. I know you’ve been unhappy. I know your mother doesn’t understand you. I know you were contemplating leaving home for good. You want something better than what you have been given, something richer. A Dream-Land.”
The fear in her eyes was so intense he felt it in his heart as if it were his own. He had always been like that, sensitive to a fault, so in tune with the feelings of others that it sometimes became unbearable. He wished there were some way to turn it off, to flick the switch, to distance himself. But he had learned long ago that distance was not an option for him. He was a part of this world, and so he would remain. And if he could not escape the world, then his only recourse was to make it a better world.
Staring down into her fearful eyes, golden locks encircling her face, it was impossible not to think of another girl, another innocent, from that lost time so long ago. Following him through the forest, splashing him at the beach, she was the best of him, too pure to be tainted and forever young.
“Mister? Do you think if maybe I promised not to wear that underwear anymore, you could, um, let me go?”
“But my sweet, we have so much work yet to do.” He returned to the basin and placed a washcloth in damp water. With great vigor, he began scrubbing her face.
“Mister? You’re… you’re hurting me.”
“It’s got to come off. All of it. A good girl doesn’t need paint to make herself attractive.”
“But-you’re tearing-”
“A little elbow grease. That’s what’s wanted here.” He made a small gasping noise. “Are those eyelashes false? Pity.” He ripped them off.
“Oww! Mister, please-”
“And the same goes for these earrings, I’m afraid. Imagine piercing your flesh so you can adorn yourself with colored glass. They’ve got to go.” He yanked them off through the lobe.
The girl shrieked. “Please! Oh, my God, stop, please!”
“Don’t fret. I’ll get something to stanch the bleeding.”
The girl began to tremble helplessly.
“And that leaves us with the problem of the hair. What to do about the hair?”
“Maybe-I could just wear a wig?”
He considered. “I fear that would only intensify the artificiality. No, there’s only one thing to be done.” In the cabinet beneath the basin, he found a battery-operated electric shear.
“Please, don’t. Please.” She breathed heavily, twisting her head back and forth.
“I don’t want to. But I have no choice.” He switched the clippers on. “Please don’t move.”
He applied the shear to the crown of her head and moved over the crest in a long straight line, like a Marine barber buzz-cutting a new inductee. The girl let loose hopeless streams of tears that she couldn’t wipe away.
In a matter of minutes, the cutting was done and the hair was gone. He took a brush and dustpan and cleaned up the girl and the table she rested upon. He retrieved his damp warm cloth from the basin and used it to gently, tenderly rinse her face and scalp.
He ran the palm of his hand across the top of her head. “Smooth as a baby’s bottom. There now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“You-you cut off my hair,” she said, her voice loose and broken.
“It was a necessary unpleasantness, but there’s an end to it. Now we can relax and wait until the moment of-” He stopped short. His mouth twitched. “You’ve painted your fingernails.”
Her eyes were wide, pleading. “Everyone does it!”
“No, not everyone.”
“Please don’t hurt me anymore. I’m begging you.”
He smiled reassuringly. “Fear not. You’ll barely feel it.”
It was a simple procedure; they were artificial, press-on augmentations that left little dots of glue on the true nails after he tore them off. Then he pulled a chair to her side and rested. This process was more difficult than he had anticipated. He gazed out the window into the crepuscular sky, contemplating the outlines of the pretend palaces of the Strip, the headlights rushing from one nowhere to the next, hustling people about like the miserable ants they were. He was so fortunate to be here-sanctified, removed, anointed. So lucky.
His eyes turned upward, tracing the rectilinear line where the horizon melted into the sky. This was his favorite kind of dusk, with no moon and just enough light to turn the sky a rich roseate blush. Gazing at this masterpiece painting, he thought: who could doubt that there was a plan for us?
“Look at the stars,” he said after he wiped the tears and blood from her. “You can see the heavens so clearly. There must be a million of them. They’re beckoning to us, leading us to the truth, telling us how we can live among them. But so few listen. So few can.”
“Mister,” she said. Her voice was dry and coarse, a staccato grating. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because you took me and you brought me here and I can’t move and, and-” Her voice broke down. “And I think maybe you’re going to kill me.”
“Well, I’m not. Not precisely.”
“Then why? Why have you kept me here so long? What are you going to do to me?”
He pressed his head close against hers, and his eyes shone with reflected starlight. “Something wonderful.”
2
Am I dead? I wondered.
My last night in detox, I woke around five A.M. and saw David standing at the foot of my bed.
“Sugar bear?” I whispered, only marginally awake. My eyes were filmy and I knew I was mumbling, but I didn’t think it would matter.
“I’m here, Susan,” he answered. “How are you?”