Case of Lucy Bending (25 page)

"Wayne," he said, "you're a smart asshole, I can see that. I'm not trying to butter you up; I really think you've got a brain. The fact that Eddie Holloway, an older guy, takes your advice just goes to prove it. All right, here's a chance to use your brain. Why do you think Lucy acts the way she does?"

"You mean feeling up old guys?"

"Yes."

The boy thought a long time. Or pretended he was thinking. Levin couldn't be sure which. But then, when Wayne finally spoke, he looked directly at Levin with a frank and open manner, and the doctor was certain he was dissembling.

"What I think," he said, and then cleared his throat. "What I think is that the kid is a nyfomaniac."

"A what?"

"Nyfomaniac."

"You mean nymphomaniac?"

"Yeah. Like that." "Where did you hear that word?"

"Oh . . ." Wayne said vaguely. "Around."

"Do you know what it means?"

"Sure. A woman who wants to do it all the time."

"And you think Lucy is a nymphomaniac?"

"Sure," the brother said, looking wide-eyed at the doctor. "What else could it be?"

"Lucy is only eight years old. Not old enough to do it all the time, even if she had the opportunity, which she doesn't."

"I know that," Wayne Bending said wisely. "But she
wants
to. Don't you get it?"

"Mmm," Dr. Levin said. "An interesting theory. I'll have to look into that. Wayne, I think our time is up. Thank you for coming in and talking to me."

"Anytime," the boy said briskly. "You going to straighten out Lucy, doc?"

"I'm going to try."

"She's a pisser, isn't she?" the brother said, shaking his head in wonderment.

The moment the door closed, Dr. Levin switched off the tape recorder and lighted up a cigar. Fifteen minutes before the next patient, an obnoxious little boy who had thrice set fire to his own home.

But Levin did not want to think about him. He wanted to reflect on Wayne Bending, a sad boy whose melancholy had probably already turned to despair, and from there to frustration and fury.

Levin knew the progression well: it was his own boyhood. And he had been raised in a large, warm, loving family environment. So much for a happy childhood. No guarantee of adjustment and a sense of self-worth.

Like Wayne, he had been physically unattractive. Short, stumpy to the point of deformity. Low-br0wed and glowering. A squeaky voice. Helpless at sports. /He couldn't walk through a room without bumping into furniture. And girls laughed at him.

He had gone through the same sequence Wayne was enduring: misery to hopelessness to hostility. He had been rescued by a ninth-grade teacher, a fierce, old maiden lady who had recognized his intelligence and had convinced him that he could do, be, anything he chose.

So he
knew
Wayne Bending, just as he remembered the young Teddy Levin, the clumsy kid with nothing going for him but a good brain and a raw sensitivity.

Wayne Bending was hiding something; Levin was convinced of it, recalling how he concealed his innermost terrors. That talk of a "nyfomaniac" was designed to confuse or mislead. Wayne knew, or guessed, the cause of Lucy's behavior. But he wasn't talking.

Which could possibly mean that the revelation would be too painful or might pose a threat to Wayne personally. What was the boy hiding?

Sighing, Dr. Theodore Levin pressed a button on the intercom. A signal to the receptionist to send in the juvenile pyromaniac.

For two nights following his walk on the beach with Mrs. Teresa Empt, Edward Holloway had arrived at the gazebo promptly at 9:00
P.M
. He sat on the worn blanket he brought along, hugged his knees, and waited. Nothing.

"You blew it, dumbo," he complained to Wayne Bending. "She ain't going to show."

"Sure she will," Wayne said confidently. "She asked you what time you got there, didn't she?"

"Yeah."

"So she'll show. Have a little patience, for God's sake. She's just trying to prove she hasn't got the hots for you, that it means nothing to her. So she's stalling awhile. But she'll show up."

"You think so?" Eddie said. He respected Wayne's knowledge of how old people thought and acted. "Well, I'll give it another couple of nights. Then screw it."

"She'll show," Wayne assured him. "And don't, for Christ's sake, hit her with the loan for the boat the first time. Act the nice, innocent, tender boy. Play her along. When you get her hooked, you can go for the loot."

"I know what to do," Eddie said, aggrieved. "If she shows, she's dead meat. Mamma mia, those jugs!"

On the fourth night, Eddie made his usual preparations. He washed his armpits. He changed to a clean pair of yellow bikini underpants. He combed his long blond hair carefully. Then, when it was plastered into place, he tousled it with his fingers.

He went out the window of his bedroom, blanket under his arm. He ran lightly over the shed roof of the kitchen, then dropped to the ground. It spared him the hassle of exiting through the living room and scamming his parents about where he was going.

She showed. About twenty minutes after nine. He saw a light flash on briefly in the rear of the big house. Then it went out, and he could see a white figure walking toward the gazebo. Moving slowly. Sort of wandering.

Eddie Holloway grinned. That Wayne Bending! He was some kind of genius.

She came up to him, arms folded, gripping her elbows. She had a white cardigan thrown across her shoulders. The ruffled, high-necked blouse was white. The pleated silk skirt was white. She was dressed like a fucking
lady!

"Why, Eddie," she said, laughing timidly, "you really do come here, don't you?"

"I told you, Miz Empt," he said sincerely. "I sure hope you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind. But isn't it too cool for sitting tonight?"

"Not really," he said. "I brought along this old blanket to keep out the damp. It's a nice night."

"Yes," she said, looking up at the stars. "It is, isn't it? A divine night."

"The benches are kinda hard without cushions, Miz Empt. Would you like to sit here for a minute?"

He moved aside politely.

"Why, thank you, Eddie," she said. "Maybe just for a minute."

She folded gracefully down onto the blanket, tugging her skirt over her bare knees. She fussed with the cardigan over her shoulders, so the tied empty sleeves fell across her front. She sat with knees to one side, back erect. He caught a whiff of her perfume.

"Tell me, Eddie," she said conversationally. "How are you getting along in school?"

"Okay," he said. "I mean, I'm no great brain or anything like that, but I'm not flunking. About average, I guess."

"Maybe you have too many outside activities," she said in a teasing tone.

"Nah."

"Don't you date a lot, Eddie?"

"Well . . . now and then."

"No special girl?"

"Not really," he said, voice troubled. "I'll tell you, Miz Empt, the girls I meet mostly don't interest me. I mean, all they want to talk about is rock groups and movies and all that bul— stuff like that."

"Well, they're young, Eddie," she said lightly. "Aren't they?"

"Yeah," he said. "Too young for me. I'd like to meet a girl, a woman, I can talk to about serious things."

"Like what?"

"Oh . . ." he said vaguely, "you know. Like what we're going to do with our lives and so forth."

"It is a problem, isn't it, Eddie?"

"You can say that again."

He lay back supine, hands clasped behind his head. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, the tails outside his jeans, the front unbuttoned low enough to show his hairless chest. And around his neck, a long black shoelace from which dangled a shark's tooth, gleaming against tanned skin.

"Sure is a nice night," he said. "Must be a jillion stars."

"Yes," she said in a low voice. "It is nice."

"Like I told you," he said. "That's why I come here. It's so secret. Away from everything."

"It isn't as cool as I thought it would be," she said throatily, the words catching.

She untied the sleeves of her cardigan. She folded the sweater neatly, put it carefully aside. He glanced briefly, saw the ruffled blouse had no buttons, no zipper. Son of a bitch! A pullover, unless the zipper was on the back.

She moved, bringing up her knees. She was facing him. If he turned his head, he swore, he'd be able to see up to her cooze. She bent forward to rest her head on her knees. The long hair streamed down over the white skirt. He reached out to touch her hair, just for an instant, then clasped his hands behind his head again.

"You sure have pretty hair, Miz Empt," he said.

"Why, thank you, Eddie. But don't you think it's silly for you to keep calling me Mrs. Empt? You can call me Teresa. If you like . . ."

"Yeah," he said, "I will. But only when we're alone. You know? I mean, when other people are around, I'll still call you Miz Empt. Okay?"

"You're very understanding," she said, laughing shakily. "For such a young boy."

He turned to look at her.

"I'm not so young," he said.

She dived on him. That was the way he described it later to Wayne Bending: "The fucking cunt
dived
on me!"

One moment she was sitting quietly there, knees drawn up, head bowed, and then suddenly she uncoiled and pounced. Her long body fell upon his, driving out his breath, and a frantic mouth was seeking his, a hot, wet tongue was darting wildly, forcing his lips.

He didn't even have time to take his clasped hands from behind his head. She was all over him, stroking his hair, then one hand ramming up under his shirt to rub his stomach, pinch his nipples.

"Hey," he managed to gasp. "Hey. Take it easy."

She wouldn't take it easy. She acted like she wanted to devour him. She bit his lips, sucked his neck, raked his bare torso with her fingernails. It really hurt. And all the time she was making crazy noises, little cries, moans, some words he couldn't understand.

He feared she had gone off her gourd, and he was scared. He got his hands free, pinioned her arms. He held her as tightly as he could until she stopped threshing about and lay still, face turned away from him.

They lay that way in silence for a few moments. Her big jugs were pressed into his chest. One of her knees was between his thighs, pressing into his nuts. But she just lay there motionless. Like she had fainted. Or died. He didn't know what to do.

"I'm so sorry," she said quietly. "I'm so ashamed."

Then he knew what to do.

"Oh Teresa," he said, trying to get a groan into his voice. "Teresa, don't be sorry. Don't be ashamed. Don't you think I've been wanting to, uh, kiss you? I see you on the beach in your little white suit and tanned skin and long hair and all, and I go bananas. I mean, I dream of you all the time. I truly do. Kissing you and all. Maybe that's why my marks aren't so good. Because I think about you at school, at home, at night in bed. All the time."

He felt her body stiffen, then relax into him.

"Really?" she said breathlessly. "You feel that way? Really?"

He rolled her away, not without some effort because she was a big woman. Then they were on their sides, facing, so close their noses almost touched.

"I get all hot when I see you," he whispered. "Last week I had a wet dream all because of you."

"Did you?" she said, laughing gaily. "Oh Eddie, how
nice!''

He kissed her. Nose, mouth, chin, neck. Then back to her lips, his tongue wagging.

"That's called a French kiss," he told her.

"I know," she said.

They kissed, they kissed. Her hand snaked down to his crotch, felt him.

"Oh my," she said.

"See what you do to me?" he cried. "I told you. Didn't I tell you?"

He cupped a big breast through the white silk blouse. He could feel a bra. Wired. The tit felt like a rock. He put his lips to the cloth.

"Please," he moaned piteously.

His fingers found the zipper at the back of her blouse. He fumbled, but couldn't get the damned thing started.

"Let me do it," she said stiffly.

She pulled away from him, sat up. Reaching behind her with a dexterity he admired, she unzipped the blouse and shrugged it off. She shook it free of wrinkles, folded it carefully, set it atop the cardigan sweater.

She pulled down a side zipper on the skirt. She raised her hips, slid the skirt down from her legs. She flapped it once, folded it neatly, stacked it on the blouse and sweater. Then she lay back on the blanket, arms outstretched, staring at the stars.