Messalina: Devourer of Men (37 page)

* * * *

                                  
“M”

She is pure sex. Messalina is a voluptuous vixen with the business acumen of Warren Buffet and the sexual appetite of the Marquis de Sade. And she’s in stores now—in the raw. So, come on.

. . . You know you want to.

Three days later and not only does the journalist for
Redd Ink
 rave about the latest issue of
The Life of Lucrezia
, bringing up its popularity in the underground and its slow, but inevitable, crossover into the mainstream, but there are also rumors that it may be banned in some states. He goes on to list locations where people can get it.

Like Preston’s Place in LoDo.

I put down the magazine.

Lucrezia is no more.

Long live Messalina.

Chapter nineteen

“A woman scorned”

Messalina: Devourer of Men
issue #1 hits the streets as a serial in its own right, in a way
Lucrezia
never did, and I am starting to see hints of it all around me.

The signs are subtle: a young man wearing a black button with a white, gothic “M” in the center, or a young woman wearing the same in the form of a baseball cap.

But last week, when I saw a woman standing in line at the deli by the campus wearing a T-shirt with the “M” on front and the new catchphrase: 
. . . you know you want to
, on the back, I thought I would drop dead.

It’s all very clever the way Jared (by way of Trey) is marketing his latest creation and developing a type of beacon for those in the know to seek out each other. Perhaps even more disturbing is what I see in
Messalina
. It’s definitely a darker, more violent story line than the quaint idea of suburban bordellos in
Lucrezia
.

Jared and I have been apart for a few months and the issues are still sent to my address, but I don’t need a Freudian to tell me the pages are a representation of Jared’s state of mind. When you compare the two series,
Lucrezia
is drawn in a style similar to the old
Archie
comics, whereas
Messalina
has a noir feel reminiscent of classic DC Comics. This is appropriate considering
Messalina
is turning out to be more of a detective comic than erotic fun like
Lucrezia
.

But I have other things on my mind, such as my family and my future at Bellingham College.

During my years at the college, I’ve been living under the radar. Given my untenured position, I haven’t gained the status to strike out at the establishment by making provocative statements, such as the ones I made at the debate. Since then, I’ve felt like I’ve been under surveillance by the powers that be.

It’s lovely when you’re teaching a class and someone higher up the food chain comes in halfway through your lecture, all smiles, and takes a seat in the back as an “unnoticed” observer.

And I consider myself lucky that, over the last few months, I’ve been called into my head of department’s office on four separate occasions to be asked how I’m doing, or if I’ve heard anything or needed to talk to someone about the Hyde case, especially since I’ve been mentor-less while on the verge of being offered tenure.

Nevertheless, these gestures of support have done nothing but make me skeptical and rattle my nerves. I’m thinking a long vacation may be in order—away from Bellingham, away from Colorado, away from everybody.

* * * *

My office isn’t too big or small. It has windows and, apart from the summer months during some of the mini-courses, I have the office to myself. So when a large envelope with the word OSCAR written across it in black marker appears on my desk . . . my heart stops.

Sitting down, I open the envelope. Several photographs and paper clippings of various sizes fall out. I don’t even have to look at them to know that I’m in a world of shit.

I get my eyes to work and this is what I see: Jared and me kissing on his doorstep; Jared leaving my apartment building; the newspaper clipping of me, Jared, and Tony; and a clipping from the campus paper about the debate with my name highlighted along with the quotes.

But that is nothing compared to the next series of photos of me bent over the arm of Jared’s couch with him fucking me from behind. It’s an excellent photo taken from between a gap in the curtains allowing anyone with a high-power lens on their camera to have at it. The tattoo on my hip is clearly visible, but there is something else about the photo that turns my mouth into cotton.

Quickly, I get up to close and lock the door to my office, then I go about closing the blinds, never mind that I’m on the second floor and my office windows open out onto the quad. Whoever took these snapshots is spying from afar and an open window is all it takes.

With the blinds closed and the clouds coming in from the west giving credence to the forecast for rain, my office is dark enough for me to turn on my grandfather’s desk lamp.

After slipping all but one of the photos back into the envelope, I undo the latches of my briefcase and open it. Inside the last compartment, behind a half dozen student essays and articles waiting to be copied as part of my lecture notes, I find my copy of the “Sex” issue. I pull it out, open it to the page in question, and place it next to the photograph.

The way the scene in the book is illustrated, with the background in shadow, it is easy for the casual reader to overlook the décor. I’m not a casual reader, but I definitely have not been observant. Like everyone else, I was too busy looking at the action.

It never occurred to me when I saw it the first time, or the hundreds of times since, that it was all here in full color. On top of the bookcase in Messalina’s office sit several pieces of pottery. The shadows make it impossible to see detail, but their shapes are distinctive and they are the exact same shapes in the exact same order as the row of pottery sitting on the mantelpiece in Jared’s living room.

Next, I notice the floor lamp in the corner of the drawing that throws a small circle of light in the comic book is the same lamp standing in the corner of Jared’s living room.

Like the image I saw when catching my nephews with the magazine all those months ago, instead of a dentist and his patient doing it doggy-style in the dentist’s chair, there can be no doubt that this is Jared and me—Jack and Messalina—screwing each other like it’s going out of style.

We are the centerfold.

“I am such a
fucking
moron
.”

I turn to the first page of the issue and instead of engrossing myself with the bodies before me, I analyze each and every object in every frame. The mystery photographer would not know that the bronze in Messalina’s study can be found in Jared’s hallway, or that the painting hanging in her bedroom is a miniature of Jared’s own creation located in his spare bedroom. But I do.

And I had missed it all.

Stupid, silly me with the advanced degree missed all the little details where the Devil lies pointing at me, mocking me.

“God damn.” I rub my forehead, then my eyes. The birth of a migraine is starting at the base of my neck and will reach my temples within the hour. I start packing everything away and when I pick up the envelope. All the snaps fall out and scatter across my desk, including a white piece of paper.

Pressing my lips together, I turn the slip over and read:

Dear Evadne,

I am sure you would like the memory card to go with your photos so I suggest you be in your office at this time tomorrow.

My initial curiosity has now changed to survival instinct.

* * * *

Over the next twenty-four hours, I try to think of my battle plan only to discover I don’t have one.

I consider calling Ana, Tony, even Trey, but decide there is very little they can do but give me a pep rally. Glynnis? No. Not because I think she’d gloat, but because she warned me several times and I ignored her.

I could try to contact my “mentor,” Terrence Hyde, and get his opinion as to what it’s like being in the center of a sex scandal.

Fuck that. If Terrence Hyde kept his pants on, he could have been here to prevent this.

Oh, who am I kidding? This is my own personal fuck-up and I’m going to have to handle it myself. Sitting in my dark apartment, I watch the rain and come to realize that this is what happens when you listen to everybody else and to your own excuses for so long.

I was the good girl, the baby. I used to tell myself that the reason I didn’t have a man was because there was something wrong with me. I was fat and everyone made sure I knew it—from my mother, to people like Sarah, to every piece and type of media in the world.

I told myself to “protect my body and exploit my mind” while doing just the opposite with my schizoid reasoning and picking up men in a theater, while ignoring good advice from Glynnis, Ana, Talley.

And Jared.

I’m just as image conscious as everyone else, and look where it’s gotten me. I’m still alone, still fat, and still unhappy. The only time I felt happy and satisfied was when I allowed myself to ignore what people would think. Like the time in Dallas. And, if I admit it, during the debate, because I was sticking my neck out to I stand by what I said.

I’m a grown woman still letting people treat me like a child. I’ve said it before, but this time I mean it. Starting tomorrow, I have to take charge—and responsibility—for my actions. Regardless of Jared’s covert way of exposing me, Neil Hollister has forced my hand. 

All night I sit, watching the rain, watching the sun rise.

Thinking of my next move.

* * * *

When I arrive at work, I can’t believe how calm I am. Perhaps it is the lack of sleep, but I’m feeling apathetic yet serene.

At exactly three-thirty, I enter my office, open the blinds all the way, and turn on my desk lamp. Now anyone who wants to can see that I am in and ready for any visitors who wish to see me.

So when Neil Hollister walks in and closes the door, instead of my heart missing a beat at the unmasking of my blackmailer, I have the strong urge to stifle a yawn.

“Hello, Hollister.”

“Hello, Evadne.” He smiles warmly and sits in the chair at the side of my desk. The way his body occupies the chair’s curved structure is so smooth it’s as if Neil’s true, slimy composition has revealed itself, allowing him to move with a fluidity I have never seen before.

“I see you got my present yesterday,” Neil speaks in a whisper the way doctors do when trying to sound compassionate as they deliver bad news.

“Yes, Hollister. I received your present. I’m surprised it was for me, though.”

“Oh, yes.” He smiles and leans back into the chair. “You most certainly deserve the top prize, because you, my dear, Evadne,” he says, looking at me from top to bottom, “are the big one.”

I want to reach out and claw the smirk from his face, but instead I say, “First of all, I would like to thank the Academy, if I knew who they were. But what did I do to deserve such an honor?”

“Oh, for no specific reason except that I’ve always fancied you.” He looks at me and his brown eyes, which used to have a cute, puppy-like quality, are now hard as his gaze tries to penetrate my own.

“You see, the other fellows wanted to call you Miss Black Achievement, but I didn’t think that award carried as much status.”

I bite the inside of my mouth at the slight. “What ‘others?’ You mean you’re not the only one behind this?”

“No. My associates and I have had you in our sights for quite some time.”

For the first time, I feel uncomfortable. “What are you saying? You all fancy me?” This time when Neil laughs I want to cringe.

“I’m afraid not, Evadne. You’re not the boys’ type. They prefer their meat white and lean, while I,” he says and grins, showing a perfect set of teeth, “I’m more open-minded.”

“What do you want, Neil?”

“Well, it’s not just me who wants something, but my associates too.”

“Spill it. Now.”

He sucks in his breath and reaches for my hand. I don’t pull away.

“I wouldn’t suggest adopting that tone, Evadne. Especially when we have your reputation to consider.”

I grit my teeth and take a deep breath before saying, “Neil, you and your ‘associates’ have gone a long way to get me here. Now would be a good time to tell me why.”

“OK.” He lets go of my hand and leans back in his seat. “We want you to change our grades to what they should be.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Over the last twelve months, you have given me and a few of the lads grades that, if they stand, will prevent us from transferring to our chosen graduate schools. All we ask is that you admit your error and give us our proper grades.”