She raised the gun to her temple. Or tried to. The movement was jerky and imprecise and gave Nicole plenty of time to grab her mother’s wrist and ease the gun from her hand.
Then her mother began sobbing. She slipped to the floor, reeking of her own vomit and urine, wild-eyed and aggrieved beyond Nicole’s imagining, slumped trembling and dry-heaving and crying on the pink bathroom rug.
Nicole knelt next to her mother but it did no good. Kate wrenched herself away. “I fucking hate you, you little snotty bitch! You want to put me back in rehab! I fucking hate you!”
Nicole tried several times to console her mother but finally gave up. Her mother had slipped into a fetal position and started muttering to herself in a language and cadence only she could understand. If even she could comprehend it.
Only a few days ago, this had been a happy woman.
Nicole slipped quietly from the bathroom, and went and made a phone call.
They were in the kitchen. Nicole and her mother. At the table. Drinking coffee. This was six hours after the shower incident. Kate had showered, eaten half a sandwich, and begun drinking black coffee as fast as Mr. Coffee could turn it out.
And, most important of all, Mitch had given her a boost.
Nicole had called Mitch. He’d agreed to come over. He’d brought a large suitcase. He’d agreed to try it again, with Kate and all, for a few days.
Mitch was upstairs now, in the master bedroom, waiting for Nicole.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Kate said. “You really don’t.”
“It was my decision, mother.”
“I mean, you know how appreciative I am. And he is very good in bed, honey. And he promised me he’d be very, very gentle and take his time. You could do a lot worse, your first time.”
“I’d better get up there. He’s waiting.”
“He’s really not a bad guy, hon. He’s really not.” Then, “What’re you going to wear?”
“Just my pajamas, I guess.”
“Too bad you never liked sleeping gowns.”
“I like sloppy old pajamas, Mom. They’re comfortable to sleep in.”
“You’re so pretty.” Kate touched her daughter’s cheek. “And you’re such a good girl.”
Nicole looked upstairs. “Well, I’d better go.”
She was just leaving the kitchen when her mother said, “You really don’t have to do this, you know.”
He was in bed. Propped up against the headboard. No shirt. Glass of wine. Cigarette going in the ashtray. A PBS concert of some kind on the tube. This was a very nicely appointed bedroom.
He smiled at her. “You looked scared, Nicole. I’m not the boogeyman. I’m really not.”
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”
He raised his wineglass. “Well, first of all, I want you to chill out a little. You know what I mean? Relax. Believe it or not, you just might enjoy this. Kate tells me you’re a virgin. Is that true?”
“More or less.”
“Oh-oh. Was there something you never told your mother?” The smile firmly in place.
“I’ve never gone all the way, if that makes me a virgin.”
“Well, that certainly makes you a virgin in my book.” He patted the bed next to him. “Why don’t you come over and sit down next to me. I want you to like me, Nicole. I really do. We could have a very nice relationship. We really could.”
“The three of us, you mean?”
“Sure, the three of us. Or just the two of us — and me — and the three of us. You and I would have one relationship, Kate and I would have another relationship. You see what I mean? And maybe sometime—” He paused.
“Maybe sometime what?”
“Oh, we’ll talk about it later, maybe. For now, pour yourself some wine and sit down here and let’s get to know each other a little better. All right?”
He was gentle.
A couple of times, she even found herself if not exactly enjoying it then not exactly not enjoying it.
She’d had all these preconceptions. That it would hurt a lot. That there would be a good deal of blood. That she would feel deeply changed by the experience.
None of these things happened to her.
They made love twice. They started on a third time but then he asked her gently if she’d mind doing him. The doing scared her more than the actual intercourse. She hated doing him and when she sensed he was going to come, she jerked him out of her mouth. She felt angry that he came all over her mother’s bedspread.
He lay back and pulled her down to him, holding her. He lit a cigarette.
“So, do you hate me?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I tried to be gentle.”
“You were gentle.”
“I tried to be nice.”
“You were nice.”
“I was hoping you’d feel a little better about me, you know, after we’d done it and everything.”
She said nothing.
“You hear what I said, Nicole?”
“I heard.”
“So, do you feel any better about me?”
She said nothing.
“Guess you don’t want to talk, huh?”
“I’d like to go to my own room now.”
“Sure, if that’s what you’d like.” Then, “You know what I’d like?”
“What?”
“You remember when I said ‘maybe sometime.’ ”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, what I was thinking about was the three of us getting together all at the same time.”
“My mom?”
“Yes.”
“And me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Having sex with you?”
“It could be a lot of fun. I mean, I admit it sounds a little over-the-top at first. But when you think about it, it isn’t all that raunchy. I mean I’m sure it’s been done before.”
She stood up. She felt sick.
It would probably happen, what he was talking about. Somehow they’d be able to convince her to get involved in it. Somehow.
“I’m going now.”
“Just think about it, Nicole, all right? What I was talking about?”
She slipped out of the dark bedroom and went into her own bedroom.
In about half an hour, her mother came in. The bedroom was all shadow and silver moonlight. Nicole was under the covers.
“Nicole?”
No answer.
Her Mom came over and knelt next to the bed. “Did it go all right?” Nicole decided to answer. “Yes.”
“Was he nice?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t hurt you or anything?”
“No.” Then, “Could we talk in the morning, Mom? I’m real tired.”
She lay there for an hour trying to get to sleep. But all she could think of was what he’d suggested, about the three of them getting together.
She slept until late into the dark night. They woke her with their noises. Her first impression was that he was hurting Mom but then she realized it was just Mom’s wild enjoyment she was hearing. Mom would go along with it when the time came. Not at first. Not without some convincing. But eventually, she’d go along.
She’d go along.
And so would Nicole.
Three different neighbors report the shots. People on the nice, quiet, respectable block are up from their beds and out the door, arriving in pajamas and nightgowns and robes and slippers just about the time the first patrol car reaches the Sanders’ driveway.
A heavyset cop knocks on the front door of the Sanders’s home, pauses, and then knocks again.