Eye Candy (16 page)

34

Jack Smith called and said he'd really like to see me when I got back to the city. I wanted to tell him I was
never
coming back, that I'd decided to move to Westhampton and become a clam digger.

Would he believe that?

I don't think so.

I had no desire to see Jack. I wanted to say, “Jack, buy one of those plastic, inflatable girls. She'll think you're fascinating.” But even after my dip in the river, Tommy Foster insisted I keep saying yes. So I said, “Yes, of course. Let's get together,” in my sweetest voice. And I told him to call me Monday after work.

Honest truth: I was afraid of Jack, too. He was just too ordinary, too uninteresting. Sometimes I was sure it had to be an act. Like he was controlling himself. Like he was keeping his real self deep inside, afraid to let it come out.

Because he knew he was evil.

Two weeks had passed since my terrifying plunge into the Hudson River with Brad looking on. I had nightmares about it every night. In two of them, I drowned.

Ann-Marie said if you die in your dreams, you're supposed to die in real life. She said she learned that in a psych class.

How helpful was that?

Ann-Marie hadn't forgiven me for accusing Lou that night. It was such a mistake. What was I thinking? It put such a dent in our friendship. I wondered if we could ever patch it up and be really close again.

Since Ann-Marie seemed so distant, I started confiding more in Shelly. We had dinner two or three times at Good Enough To Eat, a comfortable, down-home restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue in my neighborhood, where they serve up enormous portions of meatloaf and fried chicken with old-fashioned mashed potatoes and gravy.

Shelly insisted we finish off our dinners with big slices of coconut cake, and I told Shelly the main result of all the horror I was going through was that I was going to put on twenty pounds.

“Lindy, you'd still look hot if you put on
fifty
pounds,” he said.

Sweet.

Then, of course, Shelly jumped up from the table, puffed out his stomach, and did an imitation of me walking around with an extra fifty pounds. He had everyone in the restaurant laughing, even though they didn't know why.

Shelly loved to perform. Sometimes I found it hard to get him to stop, to be silent, to sit still and stay in one place, to stop his mind from jumping from topic to topic.

But once I did, he was a terrific listener. He stared at me, giving me all of his attention. He held my hand. He was kind and sympathetic and tried to assure me that the whole thing would soon be over.

A real friend.

I tried to be a friend to him, too. I begged him to let me see some of his writing, but he always said no, he wasn't ready to share it. I begged him to at least tell me what it was about. He said he was trying to work out a murder mystery, but he was having trouble with it. The plot wasn't coming along.

“Why a murder mystery?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Why not?” The only time he really clammed up was when I asked about his writing.

He often held my hand and, once in a taxi, he slid his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. He'd come hang out at my apartment sometimes after our dinners. But he never invited me to his apartment. We kissed but it never led to anything more.

Shelly never made a move.

I puzzled over that. Was he gay? I didn't think so. Was he really shy? Was he being considerate, knowing all the trouble I was in, waiting for me to make the first move?

A real mystery. And actually, I was relieved. I really did want Shelly as a friend. I'd realized I wasn't attracted to him in a sexual way.

And now it was Saturday night, escape night for me, and here I was in the glamorous Hamptons. A hundred miles away from the city.

Ann-Marie and Lou had driven into town and come back with an enormous picnic basket filled with clams and mussels and shrimp and lobster salad and corn bread and coleslaw, bottles of white wine, and a key lime pie for dessert.

It was a warm night, balmy for June, with warm breezes off the ocean, and a fat, full moon to light the beach. We spread a blanket on the sand, dropped down around it, and had our fabulous picnic dinner, the first of the season.

“It doesn't get any better than this!” Ann-Marie declared. And we all raised a glass to that and agreed with cheers and laughter.

But I glimpsed the scars on Ann-Marie's arm as she raised her glass, and I felt a chill that kept me from laughing and joining in.

Here I was in this beautiful setting with my friends a hundred miles from New York City. I loved the silver moonlight splashing over the waves. The feel of the evening-cool sand beneath my legs. The fresh, fishy smell of the air off the ocean.

But those scars on her arm . . .

I couldn't escape by running away.

“Check out that house.” Lou pointed to a beach house behind us near Dune Road. “It's all glass. You can see everyone inside it!”

The house was a basic A-frame, on low stilts, but the side facing us—facing the ocean—was nearly all glass. Several of the rooms, upstairs and down, were brightly lit. Squinting hard, I could see people sitting around a table in the kitchen, having dinner. A man and a woman, both in swimsuits, lingered in one of the bedrooms.

“Wow. You know what they say about people in glass houses,” Luisa said. “They should buy curtains.”

“Think if we stay late, we can see them fucking?” Lou asked.

“Why don't you wait here and see,” Ann-Marie said, still on his case.

Three guys came wandering out from another beach house, and Luisa invited them to join us for pie and wine. Then a couple sat down on the sand near us. The woman was tall and pretty with straight black hair down her back. I thought I recognized her from Stuyvesant High, but maybe I was wrong.

Some twelve-packs of Budweiser magically appeared. Someone had a boom box cranked up high. More people joined the circle. Two big dogs wrestled onto our blanket. Ann-Marie and I struggled to pick up the remaining food before it got crunched.

And suddenly it was a regular beach party.

I started talking with the woman with the sleek, black hair—and she
was
the one from Stuyvesant. Jeri Waldberg. She was in the class after mine. I remembered her because she'd been a tremendous actress. She starred in all the school plays, and there were rumors that Hal Prince was her uncle and was going to put her in a big musical.

I guess the rumors weren't true. She told me she was marketing assistant at a small boutique ad agency in SoHo. When I told her I worked at FurryBear Press, she said it sounded like real fun. She should only know.

A small campfire blazed, sending tall flames licking up against the purple night sky. The music grew louder, and a few couples began to dance. In the flickering firelight, I saw Luisa dancing with a bare-chested guy in baggy cargo shorts, his hair down to his shoulders, his arms covered with tattoos. They both carried cans of beer as they danced. Her head was tossed back as if frozen in laughter.

I was wearing a pale pink midriff top and low-riding jean shorts, and I began to feel the chill of the night air off the ocean. I shouted to Ann-Marie that I was going to run back to the house to get a sweatshirt. Standing with a group of people near the fire, she waved, but I'm not sure she heard me.

I pulled on my plastic flip-flops and ran to the road, hugging my bare shoulders. A Westhampton police cruiser was stopped at the edge of the sand. The two cops inside had their windows rolled down and were watching the party. I could hear the beeps and static from their police radio.

I gave them a wave as I crossed Dune Road in front of them. They both waved back. “How's it going?” one of them called, but I kept running.

I unlatched the gate on the picket fence and started up the walk to the front door. The flowers along the walk swayed in the gusting wind. The full moon had faded behind a thin veil of low clouds. The porch light glowed brightly. Lights were on inside the house. Curtains fluttered in the open front window.

I reached for the front door—and it opened. I gasped in surprise. “Lou—”

“Hey, Lindy. How's it going?” I smelled beer on his breath. His skin looked yellow under the porch light. He smiled. “We've got to stop meeting like this.”

I faked a laugh and tried to slide past him. “Just getting a sweatshirt.”

He blocked my way. “You look totally great,” he said. His eyes moved up and down me. “No offense, but I like it when you show some skin.”

I groaned. “Give me a break, Lou.”

He grabbed my wrist. “Why don't you give
me
a break, Lindy? You know how I feel about you.”

“No. Come on.” I tried to snap my hand free, but he held on tightly and forced me closer to him.

“Jus' lissen to me.” He was slurring his words. “That's all. Jus' lissen, okay?”

“Let go of me. Now.”

He released my wrist. He lowered his face to mine. His eyes grew wide and sad. “You know I'm crazy about you. You know I'm tired of Ann-Marie. I can't stop thinking about you, Lindy.”

“Stop it,” I insisted, keeping my voice low and steady. I tried to hide my fear. But he was so much bigger than me; if he decided to make a move, it would be hard to fight him off. “Isn't this a rerun?” I asked. “Didn't we already have this conversation?”

“You're totally beautiful,” he said. He ran his fingers through my hair.

“Stop it, Lou. I'll call the police. Really. See that cop car out there?” I turned. The cruiser was gone.

“You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen,” he said. “I just want to touch your hair. Your face.” He ran his fingers down my cheek. I started to tremble.

Should I kick him in the balls and run?

What about Ann-Marie? If I told her this happened again, would she believe me?

“Lissen to me. Jus' lissen. When I'm with Ann-Marie, I always think of you. Really. I always picture you.”

“Stop it!”
I screamed. “I don't want to hear that. Ann-Marie is my friend. Do you understand that? You can't tell me things like that. Don't you understand—”

“Every time I'm with her,” he repeated, nodding his head. “I see you there. I pretend it's you. But I don't want to pretend. Get it? I stay with Ann-Marie so I can be close to you. But I don't want—”

“Shut up. Just shut up. You know what I've been going through. Don't you care that someone attacked Ann-Marie? That someone tried to kill me? Don't you care at all?”

No reply. He grabbed me by the shoulders. He spun me around and backed me against the front door. He was breathing hard, his chest rising up and down beneath his muscle shirt. His eyes locked on mine. I could see he was trying to decide what to do next.

“Lou, please,” I whispered.

He held me by the shoulders. His hands were sweaty. His fingers dug into my skin.

“Lou, listen to me. Let go—
now
.”

He slid one hand down over my breast. “Nice,” he whispered.

“Lou—?”

I'm going to knee him, I decided. I'm not going to stand here and let him rape me. I'm going to knee him in the balls, then run. And I'm going to tell Ann-Marie the truth—no matter what the consequences.

“Lindy . . .” he whispered, his hand still caressing my breast. “Lindy . . .”

I took a deep breath. Clenched my muscles.

“Hey, guys! What's up?”

At the sound of Ann-Marie's voice, Lou let go of me and lurched back. His mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide for just a second. But he recovered quickly and turned to face Ann-Marie with a smile. “How's it goin', babe?”

Ann-Marie's eyes were on me. I'm sure she could see that I wasn't okay. I couldn't recover as quickly as Lou.

“What are you doing here, Lou?” Ann-Marie asked sharply.

He shrugged. “Had to use the potty.” He motioned to me. “The front door was locked, so I was helping Lindy get inside.” His thick, black eyebrows rose up on his forehead. He stared at me as if challenging me to contradict him.

Ann-Marie studied me for a long moment. “Are you having a fun time tonight?” she asked.

I didn't say a thing.

She wrapped her arm in Lou's. “Let's go back to the party, baby.”

Did she see Lou feeling me up? How long had she been there?

How much did she hear?

35

This one was wrong from the beginning. I think her name was Evan Something. Yeah, she had a boy's name. She looked not great, kinda browned-out and mousey, and no lipstick or anything, her face all one color, and her eyes a sick green. Not at all like her picture on the Web site.

I took one look at her and knew she was a loser. I took her to a movie so I wouldn't have to talk to her.

Just my luck, she was one of those women who likes to giggle and chat and whisper stupid comments all through the movie. And I hated the way she shoved popcorn into her mouth, not delicate at all, but shoveling in handful after handful like someone was going to steal the bucket from her.

Then when she finished the whole tub, she tried to hold hands with me. With the butter and salt still fresh on her skin. I thought I would blow chunks. She wouldn't even let me concentrate on the movie, she had so many “witty” things to say.

I knew there was no way I could sit through a meal with her. And when we walked out of the theater and I saw the two greasy popcorn kernels stuck to her stringy, brown hair, I knew she had to die as soon as possible.

I mean, what kind of person lets her hair dip into her food? Girls named Evan, I guess. I mean, you start out life ten steps behind if you're a girl and your parents call you Evan, for Chrissakes.

I suppose I should have felt sorry for her. But I couldn't. She put herself on the Internet for everyone to see and judge. If she had any sense at all, she'd forget the whole dating thing, stay in her apartment, turn on the Lifetime channel, and have a good cry.

That would have been safer, at least, than going out with me. Tricking me with that glamorous photo and then walking around with buttery popcorn waste matter in her hair. Because now I had to kill her.

“Who Murdered Evan?” That's the name of
this
story.

I took her to the service area at the side of my apartment building. It's a narrow walkway, a dark space a couple yards wide between my building and the one next to it, where the garbage cans are hauled out and where all the delivery guys go. I'd checked it out before. I'd always known it would come in handy.

It's very dark there at night. And if you go halfway back, no one can see you from the street.

So I invited Evan to my place. Told her I'd cook us a quick, romantic dinner. You should have seen her eyes light up when I made that suggestion. She licked her lips with the fattest tongue I've ever seen on a human.

Oh God. Is this a night to forget?

I could have been with Lindy. Instead, I picked an Evan.

Evan help me!
Ha ha!

I took her around to the side of the building. I told her I had a private entrance at the back. She didn't even hesitate, just followed me down the narrow walkway.

Near the back, I turned to face her. I could hear the roar of air conditioners all the way up the side of the building. I heard pigeons squawking from a roost on a low window ledge.

Then it was Evan's turn to squawk.

She smiled because she thought I was going to kiss her. Her lips parted. I grabbed her head and slammed it as hard as I could into the brick wall.

“Hey!” she shouted. Her eyes clamped shut with the pain.

I slammed her head into the bricks one more time, just to get her attention. Her head tilted to one side. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed to the sidewalk.

I wrapped my hands around her throat and choked her. Harder. Harder.

The eyes didn't pop. I love it in the cartoons when the eyes pop. But it's harder to achieve in real life.

I squeezed until my hands hurt too much to continue. I knew Evan was dead, but I always like to give it a little extra.

I dragged Evan to the back of the passageway. I turned her on her stomach so I wouldn't have to see that ugly face, all twisted in pain, mouth frozen open, that fat tongue hanging out like the thumb on a catcher's mitt.

Bye, Evan. It's been great.

Shaking my sore hands to make the pain go away, I started toward the front of the building. I was nearly to the street when I saw the flash of blond hair.

A flash of color. A red skirt and a white top. And that silky, blond hair bobbing behind that beautiful face as she hurried away.

She was running away.

I recognized Lindy. And I'm sure she recognized me.

Oh no. Oh God, no.

Was it really Lindy? Did she see the whole thing?

Please, no. I like her so much. She's the first girl I ever really liked in this way. Lindy is so perfect. So perfect in every way.

Oh, please no.

I'm heartbroken. There's no other word for it. I'll never be the same. I know that. I'll never be able to forget her.

Lindy—why? Why did it have to be you? Why did you have to be there watching me with Evan?

Shit! Pull yourself together, dude. You know what you have to do now.

Game over. Sign Off time. Delete delete delete.

Go do it. Kill Lindy now.