The Breakup (17 page)

One afternoon, as Kate was sitting with her mother at the Tip Top diner in Queens, she looked through the window and noticed
a man standing by his car in the parking lot. His back was turned, but in that weird telepathic way that exists between
strangers, he intuitively knew someone was watching him and slowly swiveled his head around, making direct eye contact with
Kate. He smiled and his eyes rolled back in his head. His expression made Kate’s skin prickle. She grabbed a pen and jotted
down his license number before he drove away. Kate began moving toward the pay phone but her mother dissuaded her. “Enough
with this nonsense, already. This is getting ridiculous. Sit down and finish your tuna melt.” Kate never did call the cops
about the man in the parking lot. But after Son of Sam was captured, and his picture appeared in the
Daily News,
Kate saw that the man in the photograph was the man she had seen that day outside the Tip Top diner.

At the time, his look gave her the creeps, but her real horror came only in retrospect, as she realized how close she had
come to making contact with a killer. The stare was an intimacy she never meant to share with him. In all likelihood, Kate
was never a target—she was too young, she was in a public place with her mother, it was the middle of the day, and besides,
she was wearing her hood. But Kate came away from the experience traumatized, as if she were, in fact, caught in Son of Sam’s
crosshairs, spared only by some accident of luck.

I got the chills when I first heard that story. But Kate had only brushed shoulders with true evil. I was about to give it
a hand job!

Even with the stained sheet draped over the thing
in Eddie’s bedroom, I saw enough—the hard squared edges—to know I was looking at some kind of cage, and a big one, too, large
enough to confine a St. Bernard or bullmastiff, or, perhaps, a grown woman. My uncle Dennis had used a cage this size for
unruly Great Pyrenees while he was at work. The cage was eerily silent and impossible to ignore.

“What’s that?” I tried to sound only mildly interested, though I was consumed by the worst imaginings. Is that where he kept
her before he killed her? I made myself breathe.

Eddie locked the door behind us. “I told you. A project. Forget about it.”

“What kind of project?”

He chuckled softly. “A really fun project.” Eddie’s face seemed to darken. “Forget about it, okay?” He turned me away from
the crate, then gave me a little shove toward the bed. “Take your clothes off.”

Call me crazy, but I was determined to get through this ordeal fully dressed. “Mmmmm . . . not so fast, you naughty boy. You
first.” I ran a finger lightly across his zipper and licked my lips as seductively as I could manage.

Eddie pulled his black T-shirt over his head, exposing his hard belly and hairy chest. “You do the rest,” he said, flopping
back on the bed, folding his arms behind his head. “Go ahead. Knock yourself out.”

I took a deep breath as I unzipped Eddie’s jeans.
He wasn’t wearing underwear and he was fully aroused. “This is like a dream come true,” I heard him mutter. “Honest to God,
Val.” He lay passively while I struggled to pull his pants off. He grinned happily at me. “Easy, baby, easy. What’s the hurry?”
I glanced at my wristwatch. 2:19. Pete’s school was over in forty minutes. I had to work quickly, efficiently. I tried not
to think about the cage. I peeled his pants over his big feet and dropped them on the floor.

“Aren’t you going to take your clothes off?”

“No, lover, this is all about you,” I forced myself to say. “I want to give you a gift. Just lay back and relax.”

“Oh, come on. At least take off your shirt. Give me something to look at.”

I undid the top buttons of my blouse, hoping to placate him, but it wasn’t enough. He reached over and I held my breath as
he unbuttoned the rest and yanked my bra up around my collarbone. “That’s better.” He fell back on the pillow. “I like a good
view.” He slogged down another beer, his fourth. Good: The more he drank, the more deeply he would sleep. I also knew that
Eddie could be ugly when he was drunk, less rational, more explosive. I had to move quickly.

“Slow down,” he muttered. “And use your mouth.”

I kept him in my hand; with enough spit and just
the right pressure, he didn’t seem to notice the difference. His eyes were rolled back in his head, his hands were clenched,
his breathing quickened. Soon. Soon. He was almost there. I went faster, harder. All the while, I mentally reorganized my
linen closet, sorting towels by color and size, separating the flat sheets from the fitted . . .

“Keep going,” he whispered. “Just like that. Keep . . . it . . . going.” With tears in my eyes, I continued working on Eddie
until I felt his body stiffen. “There,” he whispered. “There. Yes. There. That’s it.” I wiped my hand along the edge of the
mattress. “You’re amazing,” he muttered, already bleary eyed. “I swear I’ll return the favor.”

I covered Eddie with the blanket and lay beside him, my head on his chest. “This is the way it should be, the way it was meant
to be,” he whispered. He absently circled my arm with a fingertip. “We make a helluva team.”

I responded with a low “Mmm-hmmm,” fearful that anything more articulate might stimulate him to wakefulness. I listened for
his breathing to slow and deepen until I was sure he was asleep. He threw a heavy arm across my body, pinning me to the mattress.

I watched Eddie’s chest rise and fall. His hands and feet twitched, like a dreaming dog. I could hear the ticking of my wristwatch.

I had to get out of there. I had no idea what was
under that sheet, but I knew with complete certainty that I wanted to pick my son up from school and remain in his life until
I died, preferably in my sleep of natural causes at 102 years old. Not now, not here, not by the hand of my former lover.

I snapped my bra back into place and decided to worry about the blouse buttons later. With my heart rioting against my ribs,
I slipped my hand into Eddie’s jeans, first in the front pockets, then the back. Nothing but a wallet, couple of coins, and
the plastic drink stirrer. Jesus. I checked the tiny fifth pocket, but it, too, was empty. Where the hell was that key? I
was choking back tears as I scrambled under the bed and searched fruitlessly. I suddenly remembered that Roger used to keep
a spare house key in his wallet, as did my father. Maybe it was a guy thing. Still crouched on the floor, I pulled Eddie’s
worn leather wallet from the back pocket, flipped it open, and wildly stuck my finger in all the compartments. I found a gold
Schlage key behind his driver’s license.

I glanced at Eddie. He didn’t seem to be sleeping as deeply now. After all the beer, I knew it would be only a moment or two
before he would wake to pee. I had to get out. But I also had to know if Zoe Hayes was inside that cage. I started to pull
away the sheet.

“Hey!” Eddie murmured. “What are you doing?” He propped himself up on his elbows. My heart stopped.

“All right, Little Miss Nosey. Go ahead. Have a look,” he said.

I had nothing to lose. I shut my eyes and slowly drew the sheet away.

“Isn’t she a beauty?”

I slowly opened my eyes.

It was a go-cart.

“Took me three weeks to put that baby together,” Eddie said, beaming. “Full suspension. Three-point-five-horsepower engine.”
He rolled off the bed and ran his hands over the go-cart’s metal frame. “I made it for Tracey, my brother’s kid. She wants
to be a race car driver when she grows up. And an FBI agent. And a ballet dancer. Last time she was here she changed her getup
three times.” Eddie stood up. “That reminds me. I gotta do a wash. She left some of her stuff here and I told my brother I’d
throw it in the wash.”

I exploded in tears. Eddie put his arm around me. “Hey,” he murmured. “What’s all this?” He kneaded my shoulder. “Are you
okay?”

“It’s just that . . .” What could I say? Oh, Eddie, I’m so very relieved you’re not the Long Island Kennel Killer? And I just
engaged in a gratuitous sex act with you?

“. . . I’ve never seen such a beautiful go-cart.”

Eddie walked me to the door. “Hey, thanks for the treat,” he said, touching my hair.

“Think nothing of it.”

He chuckled. “Cute.”

I turned to face him. “No, Eddie, I’m serious. I don’t want you to think about any of it. Don’t think about us.” I knew I
could never be with him again. Maybe he wasn’t the serial killer after all, yet I’d suspected him, and that’s reason enough
to end things now.

Eddie stuck a finger in my belt loop and pulled me toward him. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He put his mouth on
mine and gave me what I knew would be our last kiss.

’Til next time,

V

Kevin called. My printer is ready. By the time I made it to his apartment complex, my makeup had melted and I was soaked in
sweat (the A/C on the Jeep broke down last week and I couldn’t afford to have it fixed). I took a rickety elevator up to the
second floor, then walked down a narrow hallway saturated with a mélange of smells from many kitchens.

I found Kevin’s apartment at the very end: 2B. He greeted me cheerfully and invited me in. I told him I didn’t have much time.
“Give a guy a break,” he said playfully. “We don’t get a lot of womenfolk in these parts. Please. You’d be doing me an enormous
favor.”
He bowed and waved his arm with a flourish. His apartment smelled like Thanksgiving and looked just as I’d pictured it—a mess
of disabled technology. Computers with their guts laid bare, dismantled fax machines, broken desktop copiers, heaps of technical
magazines and instruction manuals, cans of compressed air to blast away dust, tangles of cables and wires. If it had been
my apartment, I’d be apologizing for the mess, but Kevin behaved comfortably. He was barefoot. His feet looked soft and delicate,
like a child’s.

“You’ve got to taste this,” he said, gently setting an old aluminum pie tin on the table. “I made it myself.” He peeled off
the aluminum foil. “Sweet potato pie. My mom’s recipe.” He lifted a forkful to my lips and I suddenly felt shy. It was such
an intimate and tender gesture. And it was so nice to be with a sweet, normal man for a change.

I opened my mouth and he gently slid the fork in. “It’s delicious,” I said. “Really incredible.”

Kevin beamed. “I know.” He grabbed another fork and we dug into the pie together.

Then excused himself and this time I heard it: the buzz. I’m sure it came from the bathroom. What could he possibly be doing
in there? Shaving? Drilling holes? Using a vibrator (but why? and how?). A few moments later, I heard a flush and then the
sound of water in the sink. I pretended to leaf through one of his electronics magazines.

“Hey, before I forget, I’ve got something for Pete.” He pulled a shopping bag from what was originally designated as a living
room. I looked inside. It was filled with broken Game Boys, radios, and Palm Pilots. On the top of the pile was a pair of
plastic goggles and a small screwdriver set. “I get this stuff from suppliers, use it for components. I thought he’d enjoy
fiddling around with it.”

“Thanks! I’m sure he’ll love it.” I probably shouldn’t have said anything else, but my curiosity was like that of a hyperactive
two-year-old. “Hey, Kevin, I was just wondering . . .” I started. “The last couple of times you, you know, excused yourself,
I heard a sort of buzzing sound coming from the bathroom. Is that some kind of electronic gadget, I don’t know, some state-of-the-art
computer thingamajig you’ve got there? I’m just dying to know.”

“I’ve got an artificial sphincter, Valerie.”

Oh God. “I’m so sorry, Kevin, it was none of my business, please forget I ever asked anything. God, I’m such an idiot!” I
felt the blood rush to my neck and face.

He sat down and smiled. “No, no, don’t be silly. It’s a fair question, and I’m not embarrassed to talk about it. I guess it
would have come up eventually if we became closer.” Kevin went on to tell me that he accidentally shot off part of his lower
intestine and rectum in an unfortunate accident involving his college roommate’s handgun. “That’s the real reason I
dropped out of Michigan after my freshman year. There’s a cuff around my anal canal. Most of those cuffs inflate on their
own but it takes about ten minutes, and that’s a little too long, so I got the kind with the electric pump. Ten minutes is
a long time when you have a lovely lady waiting for you in the living room.” He winked at me.

I know this sounds hardhearted, but I really don’t want to date a man with a fake ass.

’Til next time,

V

I went to the health club to sweat off Kevin’s sweet potato pie and ran into The Incredible Shrinking Anna Fletcher, whose
son Eli is in Pete’s Tiger Cub troop. I met Anna eleven years ago in a stress management seminar I was leading at the public
library. She weighed probably close to 200 pounds. I’d watched her slide up and down the scale for years, thin as a whippet
some months, other months so fat that even her back had cleavage. Today Anna is a fit size 12 and has remained so for five
or six years.

I figured she went on a liquid diet, or had her stomach stapled, which seemed like a drastic strategy but not out of the question;
at this point I’d slice my fat off with a turkey carver. I would consider anything.
I had to know how Anna dropped those pounds. So I asked her.

She quickly glanced around the room, then pulled me into a corner. “How desperate are you?” she asked, her voice almost a
whisper. “I mean, have you hit rock bottom?”

I recognized that phrase. It originated with Alcoholics Anonymous. Anna must be in a twelve-step program. Let’s see. I recently
ripped a pair of Victoria’s Secret underwear with my bare hands because the elastic waistband was cutting off circulation
to my lower limbs. I reached into the garbage disposal to retrieve the half a Kit Kat bar Hunter had tossed in. I picked all
the marshmallow stars out of a box of Lucky Charms, then told Pete it must have been a defective batch. “I guess so,” I told
her.