Some well-meaning people, seeing Harry's distress, tried to make excuses for Lilian. She was a "sick woman," they told him. She "needed help." Well, she had help now. She had Harry's help. Even that first night, as the police and the reporters prowled through the house, Lilian was right upstairs, hidden in their bedroom, not making a sound. Harry was proud of her for being so quiet. That was before he discovered she no longer spoke.
On that first night he had yet to appreciate the good part of all this. Then, much later, after everyone had finally left him alone and he had declined all offers to stay somewhere else, the sex with Lilian had been sensational. So often in the past she had pleaded the traditional headache or had performed in a perfunctory manner, the better to get it over with as soon as possible. Now, suddenly, she was insatiable. As often as Harry wanted to do it, she was receptive and ready.
No, there was no way he would let anyone take Lilian from him now. Not after the month he had enjoyed with her.
There had been the one close call with his mother a week ago. Right from the start she and Lilian had never gotten along. There's something wrong with that woman, his mother had said prophetically. She just isn't right for you. On her last visit, Harry's mother had sniffed the air and looked around the empty living room as though it were filled with garbage.
"You really should come and stay at home," she said. "I've got plenty of room. This can't be healthy for you, living here alone like this."
"I'm fine, Mother. Really." He had glanced up the stairs and caught his breath when he saw the bedroom door was open. The full-length mirror on the inside of the door reflected Lilian's naked body as she lay on the bed. On her lips was the slight, taunting smile.
He had quickly moved in front of his mother to cut off her view, and he hustled her out of the house as soon as possible. He sent her away with false promises to visit her. When he returned to Lilian he intended to scold her for taking the chance that his mother might see her. But as always, the proximity of her soft white body and the ineffable look of innocence in her eyes fired him with desire, and all else was forgotten.
Now, so urgent was his ache that Harry did not take the time to undress. He fumbled to unzip his pants and push them down on his thighs. With a little moan he dropped on top of his wife.
While Lilian's naked body flopped around beneath him, he thrashed and pumped and rolled from side to side on the king-size bed. With his eyes tightly closed he felt as though he could lose himself entirely in the mysterious inner darkness of the woman. The scent of her was sharp in his nostrils. The little sounds she made teased his ears.
The climax crashed around him like a towering wave over a solitary beachcomber. In his right hand he squeezed her breast as though holding on for his life. His emotions boiled over and out in a screaming, jabbering orgasm.
It was a full minute before he became aware of the sound. Door chimes, followed by an urgent pounding downstairs.
"Mr. Crofft!" Sergeant Verick's voice.
What were they doing back here? Harry pushed himself up and off Lilian and saw the open bedroom window. Damn, that was careless. He disengaged himself from Lilian, took a moment to calm himself, and walked downstairs.
The two policemen stood outside, their eyes watchful, muscles tense under their rumpled suits.
"Are you all right?" Verick said, his cold eyes probing Harry's.
"We heard someone shouting from the bedroom," Ash said, glancing toward the stairway.
"I'm fine," Harry said, pleased with the steadiness of his voice. "You must have heard the television. When I turned it on the volume was way up. Everything's all right. Really."
But the two policemen were not listening to him. They were staring down at his hand. His clenched right hand.
Harry followed their eyes and saw the shriveled tissue in his fist. A crusted brown nipple peeked out between his knuckles. His fingers loosened. The withered breast of a woman, thirty days dead, dropped softly to the floor.
CRUISING
Lisa W. Cantrell
Danny Norvill opened the door to the sleek gray Jaguar and slid behind the wheel.
Darkness coiled around him. Silence. The allure of the night.
A cool October wind cut sharply through the light clothes he wore and chilled his blood. But that was all right. He'd soon be warm. He'd be with Karen.
He reached over and closed the door.
Smiling, he placed his hands on the steering wheel — lightly, lovingly, rubbing his open palms against the black leather wheelcover.
Sitting in the car always affected him this way: an initial rush of pleasure, a tightening at his crotch. It was almost a sexual joining, and it fed the hunger in Danny the way a storybook woman sparks fire and passion in her man.
The long hood stretched endlessly before him; night-damp and shimmery, slick and sweet, it caressed his eyes like a silver dream:
It was the first time he'd seen the car, sitting in Fat Jack "Have WE Gotta DEAL For YOU" Carson's Used Car Lot over on Fourth and Main. He hadn 't even known it was a Jag then, but he'd known he wanted it. Wanted it like he wanted Karen. Wanted it until the pain of that wanting was a constant ache in his groin.
He still marveled at how Fate had dealt him a winner's hand: the not-unreasonable asking price; the sudden big sale that had netted his old man a sizable commission; the final payment on his Mom's Chevette. He hadn't quite believed it the day Fat Jack placed the keys in his hand and slapped him on the back, making some nowhere remark with a wink to his old man. They'd laughed, but it hadn't mattered. Nothing mattered but the keys in his hand and the car that had been in his blood from first sight. A special car. It made Danny Norvill special, too.
A turn of the ignition key, the car sprang to life, first with the growl Danny knew so well, then smoothing into the purr of the beast at rest that lures the reckless and cautions the wary.
He checked the gas gauge, smiled to see it near "Full." The old man had taken to giving him hell when he asked for extra cash, crappin' about lousy gas mileage and cost of upkeep and repairs, "not to mention insurance; shoulda never bought you that damn Brit car!" The old man's sales were down.
Danny didn't care. The Jag was worth it. Worth the extra work and expense. Worth the old man's flap. Worth it all when he sat behind the wheel and threaded the car like a silver needle through the staring eyes of the other kids.
Danny backed off the gas and let the XJ6 idle on its own, savoring the thrum of power, the headiness of being on the edge. The car consumed him like it always did, making him feel a part of it: the mind in the body, the hand in the fist.
He switched on the stereo.
Music spilled around him, the deep, primordial hammer of heavy metal bass — just the way he liked it. It pounded at his eardrums, drove into his body until he felt its rhythm like the beating of his heart.
The turn of a knob: running lights blinked on, wicked amber eyes gleaming in the darkness. A second revolution brought the headlights to full.
He cupped his right hand over the rounded gear shift lever mounted in the center console. Cool and slick, it fit his hand like a lover.