Blood of the Impaler (6 page)

Three hours later she lay quietly in his arms upon her bed, listening to his heartbeat as the first rays of the morning sun began to drift into the room through the open shades. "Malcolm," she said softly.

"Hmm
?
" he replied curtly.

"It really doesn't matter. Honest to God it doesn't. It happens to . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he said irritably. "It happens to every guy once in a while. But two nights in a row?"

She leaned up upon her elbows. "Listen, Mal, you just make it happen again by worrying about it. It doesn't mean
anything, not a damn thing. The psychiatrists call it perfor
mance anxiety. Nobody feels like making love all the time, no matter what the movies try to tell us. So you didn't really feel like it last night, and worrying about last night messed us up for tonight." She kissed him lightly. "Just don't worry about it."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he said, his tone indicating dismissal, not agreement. "Maybe I ought to see a doctor."

She yawned, saying, "Oh, don't be silly! You don't need a doctor for something like this! It's very common and very unimportant."

"It's not just this," he muttered. "I think I need a checkup or something."

"Why?" she asked. "Are you feeling ill?"

"Not ill, exactly," he said, sighing. "I've just been feeling . . . I don't know, funny. I never have much of an
appetite. I feel weak and listless all the time. I can't seem to sleep at night . . ."

"You're never home at night. You work at night."

"Yeah, but not every night, and I don't go out and do things every night when I'm off. When I go to bed, I just toss and turn. I can't seem to fall asleep until morning half the time, and when I wake up, I feel like shit for hours."

Holly sighed. She had never been the type of person who enjoyed reviewing personal problems with friends, and she was not particularly interested in Malcolm's sleeping habits. Part of her was hoping that he would snap out of this malaise, part of her was worrying that he might have some sort of sexual problem, and part of her, though her conscious mind denied it, was reluctant to continue a relationship with a crippled libido. What she said was, "Okay, so you have insomnia, and you can't stand your sister's cooking, and you're suffering from performance anxiety." She forced a laugh. "If that's all that's bothering you, you're a lot better off than most people."

They were silent for a long while, and then he asked, "Do you think something's wrong with me?"

"Yeah," she muttered sleepily. "You think too much. That's the problem with you intellectual types. You spend so much time thinking about life that you can't live."

He considered this for a moment and then said, "Holly?"

"Ummm?" she asked.

"Okay if I close the blinds? The sunlight hurts my eyes."

"Yeah, sure, go ahead," she said indistinctly, and then a slight contraction in her nether regions was followed by a moist trickle of warmth. "Ah, shit," she muttered.

"Get your period?" he asked distantly as he rose from the bed to block out the sunlight.

"Yeah. It's due, and I felt it coming all day. 'Scuse me for a minute." As she went to the bathroom, she wondered,
That's odd. How did he know? I didn't tell him
.

Malcolm lay back down upon the bed, too self-absorbed to ask himself the same question. Had he taken the time to think it over, he might have realized that he had smelled the blood.

A
t four o'clock the following afternoon, Jerry Herman knocked loudly on the door of the Harkers' house. He waited patiently, reasoning that whoever was home needed some time to get to the door. Jerry had come from a long line of apartment building dwellers, and he assumed that anyone who lived in a house this large probably spent their leisure time in the library or the conservatory or the aviary or in some other unusual room far from the front door.

He knocked again and waited longer, and at last Rachel opened the door and said, "Yes . . . ? Oh, it's you"

"Afternoon, Mrs. Rowland," he said, grinning.

"It's almost evening," she snapped. "What do you want?"

"Is Malcolm in?"

She appraised him critically for a moment and then
pulled the door open wider. "Yes, he's upstairs sleeping. Why don't you go and wake him up?"

"I hate to disturb him," he said untruthfully as he walked past her into the foyer.

"Feel free," she said. "Still asleep at four in the afternoon! I've never heard of such a thing! At least you seem to get up at a decent hour."

"Yeah, I've been up since noon," he said, ignoring the daggers her eyes shot at him. He walked toward the staircase and stopped as he noticed old Quincy sitting in his easy chair in the large sitting room to the left of the stairs. "Hi, Mr. Harker," he called out.

The old man raised his rheumy eyes from his newspaper and squinted in the direction of the voice. Then he smiled and said, "Hello, Jerry. How are you
today?"

"Fine, just fine. And yourself?"

"I can't complain, boy. I think Malcolm is still sleeping."

"Well, I'll go and see," Jerry said, and started up the stairs.

"Malcolm is going to mass this Sunday afternoon. Why don't you come along with him?"

Jerry smiled, slightly perplexed. "Well, uh, maybe I will. We'll see." As he continued up the stairs toward Malcolm's room, he wondered if the old man was losing his memory. He was reasonably certain that Quincy knew that Jerry was Jewish, but old folks sometimes have a hard time remembering their own names, let alone the religions of their grandchildren's friends.

Rachel watched him disappear around the corner just past the landing and sniffed disapprovingly at her grandfather. "I don't see why you have to be so friendly to that person," she huffed.

"He's Malcolm's friend," Quincy muttered distractedly, returning to his
Times.
"Never hurt anyone to be civil."

"He's a bad influence on Malcolm," she insisted.

"I don't think anyone is an influence on Malcolm, for good or ill."

"And he's nothing but a middle-class oaf, to boot!"

Quincy looked at his granddaughter over the rim of his bifocals. "Don't try to be a snob, Rachel," he said seriously. "You can't afford to be, not with your background."

Her jaw dropped open at his raising of the unspoken topic. "Wh . . . whatever are you . . . ?"

"The boy may be a middle-class oaf, but I'll wager his father was never hanged for murder, not to mention . . . well, the other thing."

She trembled angrily, considered a stinging retort, considered reminding him that her father was also his son, but then thought the better of it and marched away in a huff, muttering to herself. Quincy watched her leave and then, shaking his head sadly, returned to his newspaper.

Upstairs, Jerry pushed Malcolm's bedroom door open softly and leaned his head into the room. "Mal?" he whispered. "Mal? Are you awake?"

He saw a huddled mass beneath heavy blankets stir on the bed in the dark room and heard a hoarse voice say, "Go away, goddamn it. Leave me in peace."

"Mal, it's me, Jerry." He did not enter, but neither did he withdraw.

After a moment, Malcolm said, "Come on in, Jer." He sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry. I thought you were Rachel or Daniel."

"Hey, thanks a lot." Jerry laughed and walked over to the window and opened one of the venetian blinds, allowing the late afternoon sun to illuminate the room. "I wanted to know if you'd like to catch a movie before work. They're showing the new Woody Allen at the Midway." He paused and frowned. "Hey, you look like shit!"

"Thanks," Malcolm muttered as he climbed out of bed and went over to examine himself in the mirror above his bureau. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin chalky white. His customarily thin face seemed somehow haggard and slightly emaciated. "God, I look like I just came down from a five-day binge."

Jerry sat down on the edge of the bed and grinned at him. "I guess Holly really knows how to party!"

He glared at him. "What was that supposed to mean?"

"Hey, nothing, man," Jerry said quickly, startled at Malcolm's anger. "I was just kidding. I mean, I thought that since you were with her last night, the two of you probably drank too much or smoked too much or something, that's all. What's bugging you, anyway?"

Malcolm sighed and sat down on the bed beside his friend. "Jerry, can you keep something to yourself?"

"Sure. I'm as tight-lipped as they come. What's the matter?"

"I'm not kidding, because if you ever told anybody about this, I'd kill you!"

"Don't worry about it, Mal," he said sincerely. "I won't tell a soul."

Malcolm sighed again. "The last two times I was with Holly, I . . . well, I couldn't . . . I mean, when we started making out and stuff, I . . . well, you know, I just couldn't . . ."

"You couldn't get it up?" Jerry asked simply.

Malcolm grimaced. "You've got a delicate touch, Jer."

"Okay, so what's the big deal?" he asked. "Happens to everybody."

Malcolm looked over at him. "Ever happen to you?"

"Of course it has!"

This surprised him. He had expected a vehement denial. "No kidding?"

"No kidding." Jerry paused. "Of course, I'd kill
you
if you ever told anybody I said that!"

Malcolm laughed, slightly relieved at having someone in whom to confide. "You got a deal. So you don't think I should worry about it?"

"Nah, course not! If you can figure out why it's been happening, fine. If not, forget about it." Jerry grinned. "Or why it hasn't been happening, actually."

"Holly says it's performance anxiety," Malcolm said as he began to dress.

"Probably right." Jerry nodded. "Hey, aren't you gonna take a shower?"

"Took one before I went to sleep," Malcolm muttered. "Anyway, I don't know if I can just forget about it."

"Well, it's like riding a bike or rolling off a log. Get right back up into the saddle."

Malcolm shook his head and smiled. "You're confusing your similes, Jer."

"Huh?"

"But I know what you mean. Problem is, I've probably convinced myself that . . . well, that Holly and I won't . . . well . . ."

"No, no, you dope, not with Holly." Jerry laughed. "You find another chick, get it on with her, show yourself that you've still got what it takes, feel silly about worrying about being impotent, and then everything'll be okay with you next time you're with Holly."

Malcolm shook his head. "I don't know, Jerry. Things just seem different with Holly. I mean, I feel different when I'm with her than when I'm with other girls. I don't think I'd want to . . . I don't know, I feel like I'd be cheating on her or something."

"What are you talking about? You two engaged or something?" Malcolm shook his head and Jerry smiled with exasperation. "Well, you're a little too old to be going steady!"

Malcolm felt himself being swayed. "Holly would be awful mad. Hurt, I mean."

"Malcolm, will you grow up! You don't tell her about it, for Pete's sake. You just do it!"

"Maybe," Malcolm muttered as he stepped into his loafers and brushed his hair. "Maybe. But I'm not the kind of guy who just picks girls up and ends up in bed with them. I mean, don't think I haven't tried!" He laughed softly and Jerry smiled again. "But I've just never had that kind of, well, social talent."

Jerry appraised his friend with amusement.
Mal, old buddy
, he thought to himself,
if I had your looks, your poise, and your family's money, I wouldn't be able to get out of bed often enough to change the sheets!

"What I mean," Malcolm went on, "is that it would take me a while to develop the kind of relationship with a girl which would—"

"Malcolm, will you cut it out?" Jerry said, shaking his head. "Who's talking about a relationship? We're just talking about getting you laid, that's all!"

"Yes, but I'm trying to tell you that it isn't all that easy for me. I don't know the kind of girls who are that willing on the spur of the moment."

With an expansive flourish, Jerry pulled a tattered, compact address book from his back pocket. "Leave that part of it to me. Where's your phone?"