Читать книгу Justice - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 12

In the dead of night, I wrote letters to my grandparents, all the while growing even more aloof from my father and stepmother. Jean tried to cut through my secrecy with insipid stabs into my personal life. It became clear that she thought I was sequestering a boyfriend. I answered her politely, but revealed nothing. My father never even picked up on my change of attitude. To him, I was a house pet. As long as I was healthy and didn’t pee on the carpet, I was left to benign neglect.

The school week rocketed by. With Chris gone, I was back to walking home. On Tuesday, Bull—né Steve—Anderson met me at my locker after school and offered me a ride. The school’s star halfback, as did Chris, ran in the fast lane of booze, drugs, and sex. Steve was handsome and buffed with a con-man smile. He’d been cordial to me the year I’d tutored him. But beyond that, he had never given me a second glance.

On the lift home, I sensed a change—the wolfish way he looked at me. I sat rigidly in the passenger seat of his Camaro, showing scant interest in his conversation. When he parked in front of my house, he told me I needed to loosen up and have some fun. He invited me to a party that night. I declined, citing schoolwork. When I closed the door to my house, I turned the deadbolt.

The next day, when Steve saw me in the halls, he acknowledged me with the barest of courtesy. I was relieved.

Chris called me up the following Friday morning. Hearing his voice sent ripples of pleasure down my spine. He wasn’t coming to school but he told me to come to his place tonight at the usual time.

I was weak-kneed when he answered the door that evening. He wore a black silk jacket over a black tee and faded jeans. His hair had been stepped in back, but it was long and loose in front. A gold crucifix hung from his neck. He took the lead-filled backpacks I was carrying.

“Welcome back,” I said.

“Thank you.” He hefted the book bags onto his kitchen counter. “These are heavy. Next time, just leave them in the car and I’ll get them for you.”

He poured me a cup of coffee and told me to take a seat. I pulled up a stool. “How’d your gig go?”

“Without a hitch,” he said. “I never have any problem with work. How’ve you been?”

“Fine. A little nervous actually.”

“Why’s that?”

“Mr. Hedding announced an orchestra test this Monday.”

“Which piece?”

“Brandenburg Number Two. I’m embarrassed to play in front of you.”

“Why?” He poured himself a shot of Scotch. “I’ve heard you play before.”

“Yeah, but now it’s different. I know you.”

“You see me struggling in my studies all the time. I’m not embarrassed. You shouldn’t be either.”

“But this is different.”

“Why?”

I leaned on my elbows. “Because my bad playing is so … visceral. It’s so … out there … public.”

“You never cared before.”

“Because I never had to look you in the eye afterward.”

Chris held a finger in the air, disappeared, then came back a moment later with a violin case. He took out the instrument, tuned it, then motioned me up from the stool.

“Play for me.”

He offered me the fiddle. I regarded it as if it were an evil talisman. “I don’t have the sheet music.”

He sat on his leather couch and sipped his drink. “Play what you know by heart.”

“I don’t know anything by heart.”

“So just draw the bow across the strings. Get a sound from it, all right?”

I sighed. I got As in orchestra only because I showed up on time and took all the tests. It was no reflection of my skill as a musician. Red-faced, I started bowing open strings. My hands were shaking. I made sounds akin to a strangling cat’s. I stopped and giggled, but Chris kept his expression flat.

“Keep going.”

“I know how sensitive your ear is. How can you stand it?”

“Keep going.”

I played the test piece as best I could by heart. I made mistakes. I sounded terrible. I was almost in tears. I kept waiting for him to grimace, but he sat stoically.

“Play it again.”

“Chris—”

“Play it again.”

“This is torture—”

“Play it again.”

I did. I sounded a bit better and Chris gave me a compliment to that effect. “Can I please stop now?” I asked.

Chris got up from the couch, took the violin.

“It’s a beautiful-sounding instrument,” I said. “I wish I could do it more justice. Why don’t you play the piece?”

He shrugged, tucked the violin under his chin, and came up with a concerto that was note-perfect as well as sound-perfect. I told him I hated him.

He smiled, put the violin away, then patted his jacket pockets. “Where’d I put … ah, here we go.” He pulled out a small wrapped package. “Maybe this’ll make you hate me less.” He handed it to me.

I looked at it, then at him.

“For me?”

“Yes, for you. Open it.”

I ripped open the paper. The box held a set of pearl studs for pierced ears. My eyes went from him, to the earrings, then back to him. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you is fine. Try them on.”

I replaced my gold hoops with milk-white orbs. “How do they look?”

“They look beautiful. Rather, you look beautiful in them.”

“I don’t understand …” I lowered my eyes, then raised them to his face.

“What can I say, Terry?” Chris spoke softly. “You know I’m engaged to someone else. But the heart has a mind of its own.” He walked over to me and slipped his arms around my waist. “Do you love me, Terry?”

Without hesitation, I told him I did.

“I love you, too. So now what do we do?”

I leaned against his breast, soothed by his heartbeat. “I don’t know.”

He said, “Usually, when two people love each other, they express their love in intimate ways. But I can’t ask you to sleep with me. Because I’m going to marry someone else.”

“Do you want me to tell you that it’s okay?”

He held me tightly. “Is it okay?”

I didn’t answer him. He said, “Since we last saw each other, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind. And that’s saying a lot. Because I’m usually very good at compartmentalizing. I don’t want to sleep with you because it will hurt you in the end. But there are other ways we can be intimate with each other.”

I lifted my head and met his eyes. He read my confusion.

“Let me draw you,” he said. “Completely.”

Completely. As in the nude. My heart started racing. I closed my eyes and buried myself in his embrace.

“Look at me, Terry,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

I opened my eyes but said nothing.

“Do you?” he repeated.

I smiled weakly. He picked up my hands and kissed my fingers. “Terry, I know what they’ve taught you, so I know what you’re feeling.” He placed my hand on his cheek. “Embarrassment, shame—”

“I’m not that pious anymore, Chris.” I pulled my hand away. “I haven’t been to confession in over six months.”

“But the crap’s still there, right?”

“It’s not crap.”

He waited. When I remained silent, he drew me close and said, “You know the Italians have it over the Irish in their Catholicism. I mean the guilt’s still there in the Italians, but they’re more … flexible. God, even my aunt Donna, who was an old, old-fashioned Catholic woman, could look the other way. She once caught me drawing these pictures.”

He smiled at the memory.

“Real explicit pictures … of guys and girls … Anyway, I was thirteen and suicidal over my mother’s death. What else was I supposed to do?”

I hugged him hard.

Chris said, “The lady was smart. Know what she did?”

“What?”

“She took me to the Met. The art museum, not the opera house. We covered the place from top to bottom in a week. Mostly we concentrated on the religious art … lots of nudes in religious art, believe it or not.”

I nodded.

Chris whispered, “Terry, it changed my whole … image of what a human body was. From something hidden and shameful to something incredibly beautiful. My body is beautiful. Your body is beautiful. And I want it.”

I didn’t respond.

“Look, I’ll take you through it step by step. Anytime you want to stop, just cut the phone wires. I swear I’ll stop. Please do it for me.”

I bit my lip. “I’d do anything for you.”

Chris traced my profile with his left index finger—a preamble to his sketching. “I know what you’re giving me. Thank you for trusting me. I promise I won’t let you down.” He broke away and looked around the room. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Light’s probably better in here with the spots and all.” He faced me. “But I’d rather draw you in the bedroom. More personal that way.”

He took my hand and led me into his sleeping quarters. It also had a city-lights view and lots of built-in cabinets. Not a thing or an item appeared out of place. Not surprising. Because Chris was compulsive.

He hung up his jacket in his closet and pointed to his king-sized bed covered with a black quilt. “Just sit there for a moment. The cover will make a perfect backdrop. I want to get some auxiliary light.”

“Are you going to take photographs?” I asked.

“Nope. Just me and my charcoals.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“The sketches?” Chris broke a smile. “Ah, little girl, what you don’t know. I’m going to look at them whenever I’m alone and lonely … which is often. Rest of the time they’ll be locked up and stowed away. I swear they’re for my eyes only. I’ll be back.”

He came back a minute later toting lamps, an easel filled with paper, art supplies, and a bottle of Chivas. He set his equipment down on the floor and poured himself another drink. “Will Jean have a fit if you’re not home by a certain hour?”

“No,” I said. “My parents are out for the evening. Melissa’s sleeping over at a friend’s house. You can take your time.”

“Good.” He took about a half hour to set up. “Would you like some music before we start?”

“That’d be nice.”

Chris opened a drawer and pulled out a CD cartridge. “Let’s see what I’ve got loaded—Pearl Jam, Spin Doctors, Metallica, Crash Test Dummies, Greenday, Eric Johnson, Joe Satriani, Nicholas Gage, Yo Yo Ma, Jacqueline DuPres, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons …” He looked up. “That’s nice and light. How about that?”

I nodded. He put on the music and told me to move to the middle of the bed.

“Keep your clothes on for now. Just sit there like you’re doing, Terry. With your knees pressed to your chest and your shoulders hunched over like that. But keep your head up and look at me … to the left … perfect. Hold that position, all right?”

This was easy enough. He studied me, then started making swipes at his easel.

“Can I talk while you draw me?” I asked.

“Absolutely.” He looked at me, then back at his paper. “Say whatever’s on your mind.”

“Did you see Lorraine while you were back east?”

Preoccupied, he didn’t answer. He flipped over his preliminary sketch and started anew. “Yes, I saw Lorraine.”

“Were you on good terms with her?” I asked.

“Good terms?” He squinted at the paper. “Are you asking if I slept with her? Yes, I slept with her.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Look at me, Terry.”

I did.

“Ah, such anguish in those beautiful eyes.” Chris started on a fresh piece of paper. “I did it because it was expected. Closed my eyes and imagined you. She means nothing to me. I’m not marrying Lorraine, I’m marrying her family. My uncle arranged the whole thing when I was fourteen.” His eyes went from me to his drawing. “Believe me, I’d get out of it if I could. But you don’t mess with my uncle without good reason.”

“But you don’t love her.”

“That’s not a good reason.” He stood back and studied his work. “It’s chilly in here. I’m going to turn up the heat. Give you a chance to strip down to your bra and panties without me staring at you. And sit in the same position. If your feet are cold, leave your socks on.”

He disappeared. Slowly I took off my sweater, jeans, and shoes. Barely clad, I rubbed my arms and shivered. When he came back in, he glanced at me, saw me shaking. Keeping his eyes averted, he draped a comforter over my shoulders.

I know what they’ve taught you so I know what you’re feeling.

He knew exactly what I was feeling. Doing everything he could to make it easy on me, to make me feel beautiful. All the guilt, the shame … he was right. It was crap. I had to get past it. I couldn’t live with myself if I let him down.

“You can take the cover off whenever you want to.” Chris rubbed his hands and reviewed his pictures.

“Can I see?”

“When we’re done.”

I slowly let the comforter drop from my torso until it rested over my legs.

Chris took in my bare shoulders with his eyes. “Nice.” He began a new sketch. “That’s real nice. Look up, Ter.”

I raised my head. There was nothing lecherous in his eyes and that made me feel good. I said, “Why isn’t ‘you don’t love her’ a good reason?”

He started shading with his thumb. “You ever hear of Joseph Donatti?”

I scrunched up my forehead trying to attach the familiar name with an event.

“His murder trial made the national papers about four years back.” Chris’s fingers were black. “Before that, he’d been arrested for racketeering, extortion, bribery … uh, pandering and pushing … money laundering. Nothing ever stuck. Evidence got lost.”

I stared at him, openmouthed.

“He was acquitted in his murder trial, by the way. Witnesses either changed their stories or mysteriously disappeared.”

I remained silent, wondering if he was putting me on.

Chris spit into his hand, rubbed his palms together, and began working the moisture into the paper. “My uncle’s mob, Terry. And I don’t mean small-time hoods who’re cute movie characters. I mean real mob. Lorraine is a daughter of the mob. She’s from a rival family. Our engagement has bought both families a truce and lots of money. If you’re warm enough now, toss the comforter on the floor.”

Mechanically, I did what he asked. I was still dumbfounded by his recitation. It was his demeanor—as casual as an afternoon sail.

Flipping over his sketch, Chris attacked the clean paper with renewed vigor. “I want you to know that I have nothing to do with my uncle’s activities. All I want is a nice, quiet life as a classical cellist. Unfortunately, what I am is a pawn in a wargame played by two dangerous men. I screw with this engagement, heads’ll roll. Namely my own.”

I stammered out, “Your uncle would … kill you?”

Chris continued drawing. “Nah, you’re right. He wouldn’t kill me.” His eyes bored into mine. “I wouldn’t be the problem.”

Slowly, my brain absorbed his words. I felt myself go light-headed. Chris stopped drawing, placed the comforter over my shaking body, and stuck Scotch in my face. “Drink.”

“I don’t want—”

“Drink!”

I took a sip and immediately started coughing. He patted my back. “Take another sip.”

“It makes me sick—”

“Drink it, Terry.”

I sucked the smoky liquid into my mouth. I could never figure out why people drank to clear their heads. Alcohol only made me queasy. I wrapped myself in the comforter, resting my pounding head in my hands.

“Are you all right? You’re white.”

I whispered that I was all right.

He let out a small laugh. “Guess honesty isn’t always the best policy. Terry, nothing’s going to happen to you. My uncle doesn’t care what I do just as long as I show up at the altar. You know, I could tell my uncle about you, right now, at this moment—”

“Please don’t do that.”

“I won’t, but I could.” He put his arm around me. “He’d probably feel sorry for me. Loving one girl and marrying another. He’d know how much it hurts. Because he loved his mistress very much.” He removed the comforter from my shoulders. “You want another sip of Scotch?”

“No.”

“Can you take your bra off for me?”

I closed me eyes. “Chris, I don’t feel very well.”

“You want to stop?”

I opened my eyes and peered into his—unreadable. “No.” My voice was shaky. “No, it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

I answered him by slipping off my bra. He stared at my chest for a long time before going back to his easel. “Hunch over like you were doing before.”

Gladly, I did as I was told, my knees hiding most of my nakedness.

He began a new drawing. “You’re very, very beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t ever be ashamed of what God gave you, you hear me?”

I nodded.

He drew one sketch, then another, then another. We didn’t talk as he worked his way through one pad, quickly replacing it with a new one. He wiped sweat from his brow.

“I’m hot,” he said. “I’m going to take off my shirt.”

I shrugged. He worked bare-chested. His body was hard and developed, but not overdone. Not an anabolics user. Too much chest hair, and he was more sinewy than inflated. I remembered Bull Anderson parading around the halls in his swimming trunks one day after school, his oiled, hairless barrel chest reddened by patches of acne.

Chris stood back and fingered his crucifix, his eyes on my face. “Your color’s back. You must be feeling better.”

I nodded.

“Good.”

I said, “You used the past tense when you spoke about your uncle’s mistress. What happened to her?”

“She died.”

“Did he kill her?”

Chris jerked his head up. “In a sense, I guess he did.”

I waited for more, but he didn’t explain. He sketched furiously. “You can take your panties off now.”

I froze.

Chris said, “If it’s too hard for you, Teresa, we’ll forget the whole thing. The purpose of this is to make us closer, not to put up walls.”

He spoke smoothly and soothingly, as if my feelings were his only concern. At that moment, I would probably have drunk poison for him. Instead, I slipped off my panties, keeping my knees up, legs soldered together.

Chris walked over to me. Looming over my smallness, he must have sensed how insignificant I felt. He knelt down and spoke very softly. “Give me privilege, angel. I swear I won’t ever let you down.”

I still couldn’t move.

“Let me help you.”

He put his hands on my knees and opened my legs, positioning them about two feet apart. His face was so close I could feel warmed air on my inner thighs. His skin was flushed, his eyes had dilated, and his breathing had become audible. He remained in the same position for what seemed like an interminable period.

Finally, he let out a breathless laugh. “I swear to Jesus, I can’t get up. I can’t move. I’m … too weak.”

I smiled.

He closed his eyes, crossed himself, and finally stood up. He threw back his head and burst into unrestrained laughter. “Well, that was a first.” Slowly, he made his way back to his sketch pad. “Just keep that position.”

He laughed again. It was infectious and I started to relax. After a while, my eyes traveled down his body, landing on the noticeable bulge in his crotch. I felt tingling below, wondered if he noticed. A moment later, he gave me a knowing smile.

“You dirty girl, keep your eyes up and off my groin.”

“You can look, why can’t I?”

“I don’t mind you looking,” he clarified. “But I need to see your beautiful eyes.”

“You’re not looking at my eyes, Christopher.”

Again Chris smiled. “You’re nasty, Teresa. Of course I’m looking at your eyes.” He flipped to a new piece of paper. “If you’re that curious, I can take my pants off.”

“I’ll pass. My heart’s only good for a shock a day and I’m still dealing with your uncle’s death threats.”

“Terry, nothing’s going to happen to you.” He studied me, then his drawing. “I’d … kill myself before I’d let anything ever happen to you. You may be little in size, but you’ve got a six-four, one-hundred-eighty-pound killing machine at your service. More reliable than a pit bull and I don’t have bad breath. Hold still.”

“Chris?”

“What?”

“How did your uncle’s mistress die?”

He didn’t answer me. I didn’t press it. He sketched in silence for half an hour. Finally, he set down his charcoal, put on his shirt, then picked up the comforter from the floor. He draped it across my shoulders.

“She died of breast cancer. She had it for a long time, but was afraid to go to the doctors. She was afraid of losing her breast, disfiguring the body he loved so much. She just let it go until it was way too late. Stupid. He later told me the sexiest thing about her chest wasn’t her breasts but her heartbeat.”

He traced my jawline with his finger.

“You would have liked my mom. She was beautiful, but real down to earth. Just like you.”

“Your mom?” I looked at him, wide-eyed. “So your uncle Joey isn’t really—”

“No. After my dad was murdered, my mom took a job at Joey’s place as a housekeeper. He took an instant liking to her; they became lovers. Joey’s wife—the woman I call my aunt—was always the refined lady. She just … looked the other way. After my mom died, she and my uncle adopted me. They never could have their own kids, so this seemed like a good solution.”

He stopped talking, his eyes far away.

“My aunt got her revenge on my mother. She co-opted me. I never talked about my mom after she died. My aunt wouldn’t have allowed it. I was no longer my mom’s kid. I was my aunt’s child. Only remnants of my former life are some scars and my name.”

“It must have made you angry.”

“More sad than anything. I knew what she was doing but was still grateful to her. Both she and my uncle could have sent me packing. Which would have meant five years in foster homes. After my mom died, I had nowhere to go.”

I said, “Now I understand why you agreed to marry Lorraine.”

His laugh was bitter. “I didn’t agree to anything, Terry. I obeyed an order.”

The room fell quiet.

“Only thing I ever bucked Joey on was school,” Chris continued. “He wanted me to marry Lorenza as soon—”

“Lorenza?”

“Lorenza’s her given name. He wanted me to marry her as soon as I turned eighteen. I told him it made more sense for me to finish up my schooling out here, then go back east and get married. He finally gave in, but he wasn’t happy about it. He won’t be happy until I’m tied for life with a couple of sons under my belt … common grandchildren.”

He kissed my hand and brought it to his cheek.

“Can we do this again next Friday night? Make it our special evening?”

I told him yes.

“Thank you.” He kissed my hand again, then let it go. “Terry, listen to me. Everything we’ve said is very private. We go back to school on Monday, it’s like before. You stay with your friends, I stay with mine. You understand why?”

“You don’t want your uncle to find out about me.”

“Yes. Also I’ve done stuff in the past—a couple of drug convictions and some B and Es. Stuff I did to prove myself to my uncle. All I got for my efforts was beatings. But I didn’t care. I wanted my uncle to see me as tough.”

“I understand.”

“Joey spent lots of money on me, Terry. He bribed the right people. Now I’ve got a clean record. Matter of fact, that’s why he sent me out here in the first place. A fresh start. But I’m still known as Joey Donatti’s kid. If my uncle ever goes down, I drown with him. It’s better if people think you’re only my tutor. It’s late. Get dressed and I’ll follow you home. Make sure you get in all right.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” Chris whispered. “You have a treasure, you guard it with your life.”