Читать книгу Justice - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 13

And it was exactly like before. Chris stayed in his group, Cheryl Diggs giving him neck rubs, outwardly oblivious to my distant longing stares. Nothing passed between us, even when we were alone. I simply tutored him. As if he had locked up his feelings for me and put them in cold storage.

His apathy confused me, then angered me. In the end, he had cut me to the quick. I felt embarrassed and ashamed by what I had done for him, for falling for his glib talk and sweet words. By Friday, I decided that I didn’t want to see him anymore. When I came to his place that evening, he threw open the door, pulled me inside, then shut it with a slam.

He was short of breath and paced his living room. “I’m running a little late. My uncle. Effing pain in the ass, excuse my language. Gotta put everything on hold whenever Joey calls. Jerk was in a panic. He’s always in a panic. And me, his effing errand boy. God, I hate that man.”

He suddenly stopped moving and faced me. “I’m almost done setting up. I made coffee. Have a cup while I finish up.”

I stared at him. “Setting up what?”

His eyes went wide, then he smiled. “You’re putting me on, right?”

I shook my head no.

“Terry, c’mon.” His smile lost some wattage. “This is our night, remember?”

“Ah,” I said. “I see. I get Friday while Cheryl Diggs gets Saturday through Thursday. Thank you, but I’ll pass.”

His face fell. “What are you talking about?”

The best defense was an offense. I wasn’t about to be taken in. “Chris, I don’t feel well. I’ll see you Monday. Oh, good going on your math test. Farrell told me you did well.”

I turned to leave, but he came over and gripped my arm. I averted my eyes but didn’t resist his hold.

“Terry,” Chris whispered. “Cheryl means nothing—”

“Oh, please!” I interrupted. “Cheryl means nothing, Lorraine means nothing. What do you do? Surround yourself with girls who mean nothing to you? So what does that say about me, Chris? And let go of my arm.”

Slowly, he dropped his hold on me. Without looking at him, I told him I’d see him later.

“I wrote a composition for you,” he blurted out.

How convenient. I turned around and looked at him as best I could. Because my eyes were in the back of my head from rolling them.

“No, really. I’m not lying.” He held up a finger, indicating that I should wait. Then he went inside his hall closet and returned holding a sheaf of paper. He handed it to me.

My eyes slipped down to the title page.

A poem for Teresa

With special gratitude to Our Lord Jesus Christ, thanking Him for giving me a true spiritual love. May God forever protect her and keep her from harm’s way.

In the left-hand corner was a small drawing that could have been lifted from a fourteenth-century wood-panel painting. A young girl in a red dress, the crown of her head illuminated in gold pen by the spirit of God. Long chestnut hair, eyes closed, her hands folded in prayer, head bent modestly toward her breast.

The face was mine.

My eyes went moist as I scanned the pages. Six sheets of musical notation with lots of cross-outs. Chris took the music from me. “It’s done but it isn’t refined yet. But with the mood you’re in … I figured I’d better bring out the heavy artillery.”

I laughed through my tears. He lifted my chin until my eyes met his. “Let me play what I have so far, okay?”

I nodded. His smile was brilliant. “Okay, sit down.” He led me to his couch. “Okay. Sit. Wait.”

He went to his bedroom and came out carting his cello and stool. “Okay.” He sat down directly across from me and placed the instrument between his knees, burying the spike in his white carpet. “You never heard my Rowland Ross. It is one bitchen instrument. Okay. Okay. Now you gotta remember that it isn’t polished yet, all right?”

I smiled. “All right?”

“And I may make a few mistakes. I don’t have it all down yet. So cut me slack, all right.”

“No, I’m going to critique you,” I said, wiping my tears.

“So you’re happy now?”

“Yes. I’m happy now.”

“Good. ’Cause I’ll do better if you’re happy.”

“I’m delirious with joy. Play it already.”

His smile was edible. Then he closed his eyes a moment, started to breathe slowly. When his bow made contact with the strings, I closed my eyes.

The room filled with a sound so pure and sacred, it brought an ache to my heart, chills. Because he wasn’t playing music. He was praying. Soft, plaintive pleas of repentance answered by the all-encompassing embrace of God’s mercy. When he had finished, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t move. Emotion had paralyzed me.

“Do you like it?” he asked me.

I opened my eyes and swallowed dryly. “It’s …” Tears had been running down my cheeks. “It’s positively … sublime.”

“Like you.”

“Hardly.”

“Look at me, Terry.”

I did.

He said, “What Beethoven did for Elise, that’s what I want to do for you. I want to immortalize you.”

My heart stood still. I couldn’t answer him.

“That’s why I wrote this for you; that’s why I draw you.” He placed his cello on its side rib and came over to me. His lips brushed my forehead, his touch as gentle and spiritual as baptismal waters. “You are holy to me. Our relationship is holy to me. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

He handed me the title page. “Keep it. And whenever you doubt me, look at this. Because it’s the way I really feel. I love you, Teresa. More than you ever could know.” He paused. “Will you let me draw you tonight? Completely?”

I dried my eyes and nodded yes.

He whispered, “Go into my bedroom, take off your clothes, and put on one of my robes. I’ll be there in a minute, all right?”

I got up and did what he asked of me. He came back in, set up for around five minutes, then turned to look at me. I regarded his eyes. I was looking for a window to his soul. All I got was leaded glass. I cleared my throat. “You want me to take the robe off now?”

He nodded yes.

Slowly I untied the belt and let the garment fall from my shoulders. “Should I sit the same as last time?”

He shook his head no. “I want something different tonight.”

“Different?”

“I want to tie you up.”

Involuntarily, my fingers wrapped around my throat. “What?”

“I want to tie you up.”

The room went silent. I started shivering. “Why?”

He extended his arms out from his shoulders and slumped his head to the side. “You are my artistic vision of Our Lord Jesus on the cross. I can’t crucify you. So this is the next best thing.”

I was too stunned to talk.

“Say no if you’re squeamish.”

“Chris, I’m not squeamish—”

“So do it.” He came over to the bed and draped his robe around my shoulders. “Please, please, Terry. It’s very important to me.”

I looked at the ceiling. “You are absolutely the most wonderful, but weirdest boy I have ever met in my entire life.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Call it artistic temperament.” His eyes met mine. He lowered his head and kissed my feet. “I’m begging you. Please?”

I fell backward onto his mattress. “I must be crazy—”

“You’ll do it?”

“Yes, I’ll do it.”

Without ceremony, Chris got up from the bed, went to his closet, and pulled out a dozen neckties. I felt my heart beating wildly. I stuttered out, “You’ve done this before?”

He didn’t answer.

“Just swear to me that you’re not a serial killer.”

“I’m not a serial killer. Lie down.” He waited, I waited. Gently, he pushed down on my shoulders. “Please.”

As I lay on his bed, he pulled off the robe, took my right arm, and secured it to his headboard with one of his ties. Then he did the left. I felt as powerless as a deboned chicken. I wiggled my fingers.

“Too tight?” he asked.

“No … I have circulation … barely.”

“Your limbs start to tingle, let me know. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, that’s comforting.”

His face became flat. “Terry, I could snap your neck as easily as taking a breath. I don’t want to do nasty things to you. I draw you as an expression of my love for you. Do you believe me?”

“Of course, but—”

“Good. Then cross your ankles.”

“You’re tying my feet, too?”

“Jesus was bound and constrained when he died. Cross your ankles.”

I crossed my ankles. He tied them together, then took another tie and bound me to his footboard. Completely immobilized, I started to shiver. He threw the blanket over my body and started arranging my hair.

“You want to paste a false beard on me?”

He didn’t answer, smoothing out loose strands of hair. He moved my head to one side, then to the other. He told me to look up, look down, close my eyes, open my eyes, smile, frown, then look beatific. Finally, he stood and removed the blanket from my body. Chris studied me for a long time.

He went to his easel and drew for twenty minutes, then stopped. “The angle’s not right. It’s too much an aerial view.”

“Perhaps you’d like to construct a cross and we can try it again next week.”

His voice turned harsh. “Don’t make fun of me.”

I was quiet, felt tears in my eyes. He stared at me for a moment, then threw his chalk across the room. “Fuck it!”

He stomped over and began untying my arms, angry and frustrated. I felt as if I’d failed him. Worse yet, I felt as if I’d failed art.

Freed of the binds, I shook out my limbs as he sat dejected on the edge of his bed. I blanketed myself with his comforter, sat next to him, and reached for his hand. He tensed at my touch. I withdrew my fingers.

I said, “It’s early, Christopher. Let’s try it again.”

He looked at his watch. “It’s almost nine. How much time do you have?”

“As much as you need.”

He ran his hand over his face. “God, I’m being a selfish pig. You’re pale. You must be hungry. Let me take you out to eat.”

“No, it’s okay. Let’s just keep going.”

“Not until I get some nutrition into you.” He stood and began to pace. “Put on one of my robes and I’ll make you something. While you’re eating, I want to look at some religious art books. That sound okay?”

“Yes, it sounds ducky.”

He bent down and kissed my forehead. “You’re a great sport.”

“Thank you,” I muttered. “You can put it on my tombstone as an epitaph.”

He left without answering me. I shuddered. I was sorry I’d made the wisecrack.

After the break, Chris became very mathematical about his proportions. He measured distances and angles—from my shoulder to my hand, from my hand to his headboard. He struggled with many positions until he found a couple of poses he liked. By the time he actually began drawing, it was close to eleven. At one in the morning, Chris ripped up his current work.

“I’m fading.” He paused. “You looked tired, too.”

I was exhausted. I never realized that modeling was such hard work. He untied me. I shook out my limbs, feeling numb and drained. He placed the comforter around my shoulders, then told me to put my clothes on.

He didn’t see me when I walked into the living room. I watched him play back his answering machine messages, the last being a girl telling him to get his butt over to Tom’s because he was missing a terrific party. I knew the voice. She was pretty and loose—two traits that made her very popular. Short blond hair and bright blue eyes. The sex goddess of Central West Valley High.

“Cheryl Diggs,” I said.

Chris turned the machine off and pivoted to face me. “You’ve got a better ear than I thought.”

“For some things.” I rubbed my eyes. “What’s the story with you and her? Why is she always giving you neck rubs?”

“What are you really asking me, Terry? You want to know whether I’ve slept with her? Yes, I have.”

I looked away. Chris said, “You want me to treat you like I treat her, Terry?”

“No, but …”

He waited for me to complete my sentence.

I sat on his sofa. He sat next to me. I didn’t look at him. “I’m not a nun, Chris. I have sexual feelings—”

“I know that—”

“I also have human feelings. I get jealous.”

“And that’s precisely why I’m not sleeping with you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

And what could I say to that? “You don’t mind hurting Cheryl?”

“Cheryl’s been around the block. I walk away tomorrow, she couldn’t care less.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“Yeah, you’re a mind reader.”

“No, I’m not. I know she doesn’t care because she’s promiscuous. Terry, I’d rather be with you. But you’re complicated. Cheryl’s easy. So that’s why I’m with her. Any other questions?”

I didn’t answer. He blew out air. “Look, we’re both real tired. How about we try this again next week?”

Finally I kicked the words out. “I don’t think so. I’m a tutor, Chris, not a model. I don’t feel comfortable doing this, even for immortality.”

“But you’re a great model.”

“Thank you, but it’s irrelevant—”

“Let me show you some of the drawings. Maybe they’ll change your mind.”

He started up, but I held his arm. At least he didn’t tense. I said, “It won’t change my mind.”

He tapped his foot. “Look, you’re making fifteen an hour as a tutor, right? I’ll pay you fifty an hour to model for me.” He glanced at his watch. “Tonight’s haul would be two hundred and fifty just like that. That’s great bread by anyone’s standards.”

I glared at him. “You think I’m holding out for money?”

“No, of course not. I was just trying to motivate you—”

“By offering me money? I’m not a nun, Christopher, but I’m not a whore, either.”

The room fell quiet. Something wasn’t right.

I said, “You know, Chris, you’re doing okay in your work. Maybe it would be better—”

“No, no, no, no, no.” He smiled weakly. “I’ll behave myself. Forget about this whole modeling thing. I shouldn’t have … let’s just go back to the way it was.”

My head was reeling. “Chris, that isn’t possible—”

“Sure it is.” He began to pace. “It’s just perspective, Terry. That’s all it is. I can view you this way. Or I can view you that way. You can be my girlfriend. Or you can be my tutor. Or you can be my model. It’s just perspective, compartmentalizing. You know what I’m saying?”

I stood and slipped the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “No, I really don’t.”

“Terry, please don’t leave.” He grabbed my hand. “Just sit a moment, okay?”

With great reluctance, I sat back down. He sat next to me. Calmly, he said, “Just tell me what you want.”

“I don’t want anything, Chris. Everything’s okay.”

“Then if everything’s okay, we’ll go back to the way it was. You’re my tutor, I’m your student. I’ll see you on Monday then.”

I kneaded my hands. “I think …” I cleared my throat. “It really would be better if you found another tutor.”

The room turned silent and cold. I started shivering. He rubbed my arms.

“Is that what you want, Teresa?”

My eyes became moist. “I don’t know.”

“We’re both too tired to make decisions. Let’s talk on Monday.”

“Chris, this past week has been real intense. I need a break. How about if you call me in a week, okay?”

He stared at me for a long time.

“Please, Christopher. If it’s love, it can wait a week.”

His eyes never left mine. Staring me down. Finally he shrugged. “Sure, I’ll call you in a week.”

Suddenly, I could breathe. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad at you?” His smile was wide but off. “I could never be mad at you. Sure, I’ll call in a week.”

We both knew he’d never call again. He dropped my hands and scratched his head. “In the meantime, I’ve said some things to you in confidence.”

“You know I’m very trustworthy.” I laughed nervously. “Besides, you have some pretty detailed drawings of me. In the leverage department, you’ve got a clear advantage.”

He laughed out loud. “Yeah, you’re right about that.”

“Can I have the drawings, Chris?” I gave him as earnest a look as I could muster. “Please?”

But he shook his head no. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep them locked up. No one but me will ever see them.” He crossed himself. “That much I swear.”

“Why can’t I have them?”

He smiled slowly. “Because they’re mine.”