Chapter 11
Days passed and he was only vaguely aware of their passing and of the events within them. The meals for his prisoners seemed endless, the washing and drying of dishes seemed endless until, at last, Ellen announced she would prepare the meals again. A few days later, Janie began to wash and dry the dishes as she had done before.
During the gray period that remained so vague in his mind he developed a temperature and knew he was dangerously close to pneumonia. He fought the illness by resting as much as possible. When his temperature became worse he went to a doctor in Trenton. The doctor administered a shot of penicillin and gave him a prescription for some pills.
One day Ellen told him they had heard over the radio that Irene's keys and underclothing had been found in Sellers' Park. The news made him feel better. His plan to mislead the police had succeeded. Now they would assume that Irene, Emma, Ellen and Janie had been kidnapped near Sellers' Park.
The next day Ellen told him they heard over the radio that Emma's body had been discovered in the Delaware River. Again the police assumed that Emma had been kidnapped near Sellers' Park, her body carried through Sellers' Park and dumped into the Brandywine River-from that point floating down to the Delaware.
One day, after Ellen had prepared lunch, she turned toward him and said suddenly, "You blame yourself, don't you?"
The question caught him off-guard. "Blame myself for what?"
"You blame yourself for Emma's death."
"No. She killed herself."
Ellen sat on the other side of the kitchen table. "You do. It shows in your face. You shouldn't blame yourself. It wasn't your fault."
"If I hadn't kidnapped her, she wouldn't have killed herself."
Ellen shrugged her shoulders. "You didn't actually do anything to her. You didn't hurt her in any way. You really didn't give her any reason to kill herself."
He could think of no answer. They sat in silence until Ellen looked up at him again. She reached across the table and touched his arm. "Why did you kidnap us? You aren't the type of person who kidnaps women. You aren't the type of person who rapes women. You aren't the type of person who-"
"I must be the type," he interrupted. "I did it." He spoke quickly and laughed. But she had aroused in his mind the question he'd asked himself over and over again. Why? There were no full answers-only partial ones. He knew that part of the reason was that he'd been without a job for weeks and had sat around the house, only sleeping, reading, eating.
The boredom of his life had driven him to a near-madness. He'd had women before-he'd made love to at least a dozen women. None of them had been beautiful, only a few had been attractive, some of them had been prostitutes and he'd paid for their services. In the days before Irene, Emma, Janie and Ellen stopped at his house, he'd felt a strong building desire for a woman-any woman.
Maybe these were the reasons-the maddening boredom and mounting desire for a woman. They were a bad combination and then, abruptly, four attractive women had walked into his house. He had kidnapped them without really thinking about the consequences.
Four women-and he had controlled all the necessary elements to kidnap them and rape them. It was like almost starving to death and suddenly finding yourself alone in a room with a million dollars. Maybe some things were irresistible.
After he locked Ellen in the cellar, he went outside and started the car, sitting in the front seat and letting the motor race. He knew he should run the car at least once a day to keep the battery charged. Once last year he'd let it run down and been forced to walk to the nearest gas station to get someone to come and recharge it.
It was a long walk to the nearest gas station, and he knew he should have one of three things-a phone installed so he could call a gas station whenever he had a dead battery, an extra battery or one of those gadgets that could be plugged into a house-circuit to charge a battery.
When he went back into the house, he walked aimlessly from room to room. He drank a cup of coffee, poured another cup of coffee and carried it to the living room. Sipping the coffee, he thought of Ellen and realized he hadn't touched her since Emma's death. How many days? Three? Four? Five? It was hard to remember.
He knew he could go to the cellar and point the Luger at her and force her to the bedroom. Or he could take Janie or Irene. They would have to do what he wanted-or he could kill them.
He thought of how it might feel to take either Janie or Irene and the thought brought a swell of desire to his loins. He toyed with the idea of raping either of them and then he remembered Amy Jarrell.
Amy had invited him to visit her and he had been too busy to accept the invitation. Maybe this was a good time to see what she had to offer....
When Amy opened the door, Stan saw her mother in the hallway struggling with one of the children. Amy's mother was a white-haired, round-faced woman with kindly blue eyes, rosy cheeks, rimless glasses. She looked as if she could have stepped right out of a Norman Rockwell painting of a Thanksgiving dinner. She typified the American mother in all ways.
Stan had seen her only twice before but he would never forget her. When he first saw her at Amy's and Bob's wedding, the thought had passed through his mind that if there was such a thing as choosing your own Mother, he would have chosen Amy's.
He couldn't remember his own mother-he had been too young when she died. He could recall only a vague shadow of a mother and often, in his teens, when he'd felt a strange kind of loss, he'd sat by the hour and studied her pictures in the old photograph album.
"Hello, Mrs. Greene."
For the moment, seeing her, he forgot about Amy. Amy stood in the doorway before him, smiling, but for the moment he couldn't take his attention from Mrs. Greene. She seemed to be struggling to slip a coat onto one of Amy's boys. The boy was no more than five and was resisting her efforts fiercely.
"I don't wanna watch television. I don't wanna!"
"Oh, hello, Stanley. How are you, Stanley?" And in an instant she had turned her attention to the young boy again and succeeded in slipping the coat onto him, buttoning it and smiling all the while. "Of course, you want to watch Grandma's nice television. Of course you do! I'll bet you don't remember all the ice cream you had last time, do you? I'll bet you don't remember!"
The youngster seemed to waver and a flicker of a smile crossed his lips.
Mrs. Greene rose and counted the young faces around her. "Now ... where's Emily? Where did she go?"
"I think she went upstairs to get her doll, Mom."
In a sudden silence-for no apparent reason-everyone seemed to be looking at him. Mrs. Greene, Amy, the three children-and then, as Emily came bouncing down the stairs clutching a battered doll in a torn dress, Emily, too, seemed to have all her attention focused upon him.
"I left my gloves, Amy."
"Here they are, Stan. I thought they must be yours. You must need them in this weather. You should have come sooner."
The gloves were pressed into one of his hands. He slipped into the gloves and backed toward the door. "Thanks, Amy."
"I have to go to the bathroom!" The announcement came from Tommy.
Amy rolled her eyes heavenward and smiled weakly at Stan, but Stan noticed, when he glanced at Mrs. Greene, that the older woman had taken the announcement in stride, still smiling but with a firm grip on the young arm, she was guiding Tommy down the hallway toward the bathroom.
"Let's go, Tommy. We don't want to miss Cinderella, do we? We'll have to hurry. Nice to have seen you again, Stanley."
Stan reached for the doorknob. Mrs. Greene and Tommy had disappeared from sight, but three of the Jarrell children stood near him, studying him intently. Emily, clutching her doll, seemed to regard him with suspicion.
He opened the door and heard Amy whisper, "You children stay here."
As he stepped onto the front porch, Amy followed, closing the door and still holding her hand on the knob.
"My mother takes the children to her house once a week. They'll be gone in a few minutes. I ... wanted to talk to you, Stan. Could you ... come back in fifteen minutes?"
Stan nodded.
He drove a half mile down 882, turned onto a side road, went a quarter of a mile and then headed back toward 882. At the last minute before he reached the main road, he realized he hadn't allowed enough time for Mrs. Greene's departure. He pulled off to the curb of the side road and parked. He lit a cigarette and waited.
Expectancy throbbed through his veins and warmed his loins. He tried to imagine how Amy would be when he made love to her, tried to imagine how long it would take them to find their way to a bed or a couch, how many lies they would tell each other. In the final moment, would she be passive and yielding while he took her, or would she be aggressive and bold?
Amy wanted him. She'd wanted him a long time ago. She had told him that by the expression on her face whenever she looked at him, by the way she held him whenever she danced with him, by the way a few days ago, she had told him she wanted him when she stood by the side of his car, shivering from the coldness.
Come back again soon, Stan. Please!
Later, she'd said, Please, Stan. I'd like to see you again. It gets ... awfully lonely way out here.
She couldn't have made it any clearer unless she'd sent him an engraved invitation to make love to her.
A beige Buck came down 882. He could see it only vaguely through the cluster of skeleton bushes at the edge of the road, but he recognized it as the Buick that had been parked in front of Amy's house. When he was sure he had allowed enough time for the Buick to be entirely out of sight, he drove to Amy's house and parked in the back yard, where the car would be hidden from the road.
He started to go around to the front of the house and enter through the front door, but Amy called from the kitchen door for him as he passed by the steps. When he entered the kitchen, Amy was at one of the counters, busy with glasses and bottles of beer. He couldn't see her face-she kept her back toward him-and he wanted to end all the pretension by walking directly to her, spinning her around, kissing her, using his hands on her body.
"Mother takes the children at least once a week. She has a color television set now and the kids usually love it except, today, Carl didn't want to go. I'm glad mother talked him into it. Sometimes one kid can be as bad as twenty. I don't know what I'd do if it wasn't for this oasis of peace every week. I love the kids, but they sure are noisy."
He removed his coat and put it on the back of a chair. He stuffed his gloves in one of the coat pockets and sat at the table.
"No. Let's go in the living room, Stan. I'm sick of the kitchen. Meals, meals, meals-dishes, dishes, dishes! I spend half my life in here."
She had two glasses of beer and turned from the counter, facing him and smiling. He noticed she had put on fresh lipstick, the deep red kind that made her lips look incredibly soft. She had combed her hair but there were stray wisps that fluttered around her cheeks.
He followed her into the living room and they sat side by side on the sofa. She placed the glasses on the coffee table before them. He noticed she wore no stockings. Her slippers were a red that had faded to a faint pink. Her dress was clean but frayed in places-obviously a dress she used only when she did housework.
He'd caught her off-guard.
"I'm glad you came, Stan. It gets so lonely around here it drives me crazy. The kids ... they're noisy, but they're not the same thing as adult companionship. Since Bob's had the job with the liquor store-"
"Bob has a part-time job? I didn't know that."
She shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe he was too embarrassed to tell you. It costs so much to live. He's been a clerk at the liquor store for almost a year now. The money is wonderful but it sure knocks hell out of everything else."
She raised her glass and sipped the beer.
"Sorry I can't offer you bourbon or scotch or champagne."
"I like beer." He took his pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, offered her one, lit it for her. While he lit his own cigarette, he watched her as she walked across the room to get an ashtray. When she placed the ashtray on the coffee table in front of them, she sat on the couch but this time, he noticed, she sat closer to him.
"I've been talking about myself so much, Stan. But why don't you tell me all the news about yourself?"
She turned on the sofa and slid her legs beneath her. Her knee faced him, almost touching him, her legs slightly apart so that her skirt drew taut. He could see a brief expanse of soft white thighs and suddenly he wanted to slide his hand beneath her skirt, between her thighs. Her position would give him a soft tunnel walled by her flesh and her skirt, and to fight the temptation he placed his arm on the back of the sofa.
"Nothing to tell, Amy."
"Are you still working at Ajax Chemical."
"No. They laid off a lot of men. Lack of sales. Lack of work."
"Still not married."
"No."
"Girlfriend."
"No."
She laughed. "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were queer or something. But ... I know you. You're just shy, that's all." She smiled. This time, when she smiled, there were warmth and tenderness in the liquid black eyes.
"I'm shy," he admitted.
She sipped her glass of beer, placed it on the coffee table again and blew at a wisp of hair that had drifted before her mouth. "My hair's a mess. You'll have to excuse it. I really need a permanent. Maybe next week...."
"I like your hair."
His hand on the back of the sofa was near her head. He touched her hair and ran his fingers through it. The soft blackness of it flowed through his fingers and without planning the movement, he pressed them against the side of her head. He exerted slight pressure and she leaned forward until their mouths met. At the last moment he noticed she had closed her eyes and when they kissed, her arms were raised to encircle his shoulders.
After the kiss she remained passive while he explored her body. She continued to lean against him, her arms around his shoulders, her eyes closed. He unbuttoned her blouse and discovered she was wearing a bra. For awhile, when he kissed her again, he explored the size and shape of her breasts through the fabric of the bra. Then, when the kiss ended, he removed the bra and explored the contours of her naked breasts. When he kissed her again, he explored beneath her skirt until her lips parted with a gasp. She slid from the sofa and, hand in hand, they went to the bedroom on the second floor.
In the bedroom she closed the curtains and in the stillness of the room, he could hear the rustle of her clothing. He undressed with his back toward her and when he finished he turned toward the bed. She waited there and, when he joined her, they kissed again.
They pressed together, lost in the act of kissing and-when their bodies joined-it seemd a wholly natural thing, the meeting of two lovers, the meeting of two bodies destined to meet. She shuddered, clinging to him with all the strength of her arms and legs.
After he finished, she curled against him, carefully maintaining the union of their bodies. She buried her face against his chest and when he looked down he could see only the darkness of her hair. He ran his fingers through its soft darkness and wondered if there was anything he should say.
Amy, I've always wanted you.
Amy, I've always loved you.
Amy, this had to be.
Amy ... dearest.
From where he lay, he could see most of the bedroom and his gaze wandered while he held her in his arms. He saw near the bureau a rusted truck, a bright red whistle, a miniature airplane with a broken wing. Toys ... the children had left them there.
Near the window, between the bureau and the wall, there was a black-and-red bowling ball bag ... Bob's. The closet door was ajar and he could see on the back of the door a tie-rack filled with ties ... Bob's. In the closet on metal and wooden hangers hung Bob's pants and shirts and coats. On the floor in the closet lay Bob's shoes. On the bureau a statuette of a man bowling, a trophy ... Bob's.
He closed his eyes and drew Bob Jarrell's wife tighter against him....
He awoke. He wondered how long he had been asleep but his left arm was beneath Amy, his wristwatch out of sight behind her back. His arm ached and he wanted to see his watch. He tugged on his arm in an effort to get his wrist where he could see the time, but the movement awakened Amy.
She stirred sleepily, her eyes fluttering. Her deep red lips parted in a smile, she kissed him on his lips, tracing her mouth across his cheek to his ears, where she nibbled gently.
"Ummm. Stan, we should have done that ten years ago."
"We should have." He moved a hand down the length of her body, to her stomach and lower to discover they had fallen asleep with their bodies joined.
"Ummmm. I missed a lot." She began to squirm. She wiggled her hips and pulsated against him until he felt new passion arise within his flesh. She laughed softly when she sensed his arousal and rolled on her back, pulling him above her.
He responded and this time they made love with more abandon, Amy twisting and gyrating beneath him. The first time she had kept her eyes closed but now she looked up at him as he performed the act of love. When they were finished, she curled against him again, twisting until they were lying on their sides.
"I wish it could last forever," she whispered.
"I don't think I could last forever, Amy. Maybe once more-if you give me a chance to rest."
He squeezed one of her breasts and she laughed. The laugh died in her throat and became a gurgling sound. Voices had entered the house. Young voices. They called, "Mom? Mom?" Footsteps clattered on the stairs.
Amy stiffened beside him and suddenly, beneath his fingers, her breast felt as cold as ice.
"Oh God!" She turned on the bed and stared at the clock, her eyes uncomprehending. "How long did we sleep? Oh God!"
She pulled away from him, rolling off the bed and running naked across the room. She reached the door as someone from the other side started to open it. She slammed the door and locked it. A tiny fist pounded against the door.
"Mom!"
"I'll be there in a minute, honey. I-have to get dressed. Did Grandma leave yet?"
"No."
Stan dressed as fast as he could, watching Amy. She finished long before he did and stood there, biting her lip, watching him with impatience. She had slipped into her dress and shoes, ignoring all her underclothing. When he finished dressing, they went down the stairs together. He tried frantically to think of some explanation for his presence.
His mind refused to function and he wondered if Amy would be able to come up with any reasonable explanation for his presence. His heart pounded. He told it to stop pounding but it refused all commands. His mouth felt dry and he realized this was the first time in his life he'd ever been caught with another man's wife. He was caught. There was no escape.
Mrs. Greene sat in the living room, in a huge upholstered chair that made her seem small by comparison. She sat facing the opposite wall and did not turn to look in their direction as he and Amy passed through the hallway by the door. Although he could see only her profile, he knew Mrs. Greene knew he was there, knew what he had done. He had made no sound, spoken not a single word since her arrival, but somehow she knew.
Amy walked onto the porch with him. "What can I tell her, Stan? What can I tell her?"
"I don't know. I can't think of any excuse for being here."
"She must have seen your car. Nobody could see it from the main road, but she parked her car in the driveway. She must have seen it. Anybody could see it from the driveway."
"This is a hell of a mess. Do you think she'll tell Bob?"
"I don't know. Oh, God, I hope not! Bob would kill you!"
He started down the steps. There was nothing else to say. When he reached the bottom of the steps, Amy whispered after him in a voice he could hardly hear, "Call me tomorrow, Stan. One o'clock."