companion.
The broken windows are only the beginning. Soon you will understand how much you need me. How much you need me to take care of you. You won’t leave me again. I won’t let you.
Marie is dead,' the voice said . You already killed her.
He denied the voice, banished it.
“Hey fella, you look a little lonely,” said a sultry voice at his open window. He looked up to see a bleached blonde in clinging black leather grinning in at him, her neckline so low he could almost see her nipples. Her teeth gleamed obscenely between plum, wet lips. “Want some company, Honey?”
“Take off, whore,” he said softly, almost pleasantly.
She had a sailor’s vocabulary herself, and was about to give him a free sample, but then she saw something in his eyes that made her think better of it. The hooker who, in another lifetime, was a pretty cheerleader and wannabe model hurried down the deserted sidewalk, the lonely sound of her high heels clacking on the pavement loud in her ears, icy breath at her back. Once, she darted a look behind her, nearly tripping in her panic, but there was no one following her.
She was gasping for breath and sweating hard in her black leather outfit when she finally stopped and looked back at the car still parked beneath the streetlight two blocks away.
It was nearly dawn when Peter let himself into his apartment. Shrugging out of his jacket, he hung it up in the closet. Then he looked around the room as if seeing it for the first timethe tweed sofa, his recliner chair from the house, the tables, the lamps, a couple of generic pictures on the walls. The brass clock Aunt Iris gave them as a wedding present sat on the mantle, ticking faithfully. He hadn’t put much thought into decorating when he moved here, but at least everything didn’t remind him of Mary Ellen.
For awhile he had wanted that, had drawn comfort from being surrounded by those things that reflected their life together. But later he sold the house and, but for a few things, gave most of what there was to his son and daughter-in-law out in California.
His briefcase lay on the coffee table, thirty-two papers inside waiting to be marked. Ignoring them, he went out to the closet-sized kitchen, got a beer from the fridge, took it into the livingroom. Slumping into the La-Z-Boy, he clicked on the remote. No point in going to bed now; it would soon be time to get up.
The picture came up slowly, like some exotic fish surfacing in murky water. The TV was an old Philco, on its last legs.
Jay Leno was bantering and giggling with a stunning black woman in a gold lame dress. Though he referred to her as the newest singing sensation, Peter had never heard of her. A sure sign he was getting old. He used to know them allLena Horne, Tony Bennett, Johnny Mathis, Ellaand of course, old blue eyes. On their second anniversary, he took Mary Ellen to Las Vegas to see Sinatra perform live at MGM. Who cared if he messed up a couple of lines; he was still ‘the boss’.
As he sipped his beer, he thought of Tommy. He was worried about him. Tommy had been one of his best students. After he suddenly dropped out of school Peter went out to the house, determined to talk him into coming back. He might as well have been talking to a stone wall for all the good it did. Peter knew it was because of Tommy’s father, who let Peter know in no uncertain terms that he didn’t appreciate the interference.
“I was out working when I was fourteen,” Nate Prichard had ranted. “If it was good enough for me, it’s damn well good enough for my kid.”
Did Tommy break those windows tonight? Why that particular house to vent his rage on? Because Peter was pretty sure that rage had to be what Tommy was feeling right now. God knew the kid had every reason to be angry. His own mother had abandoned him. And Peter had seen the evidence of Nate Prichard’s brutality on more than one occasion.
The broken windows are only the beginning. Soon you will understand how much you need me. How much you need me to take care of you. You won’t leave me again. I won’t let you.
Marie is dead,' the voice said . You already killed her.
He denied the voice, banished it.
“Hey fella, you look a little lonely,” said a sultry voice at his open window. He looked up to see a bleached blonde in clinging black leather grinning in at him, her neckline so low he could almost see her nipples. Her teeth gleamed obscenely between plum, wet lips. “Want some company, Honey?”
“Take off, whore,” he said softly, almost pleasantly.
She had a sailor’s vocabulary herself, and was about to give him a free sample, but then she saw something in his eyes that made her think better of it. The hooker who, in another lifetime, was a pretty cheerleader and wannabe model hurried down the deserted sidewalk, the lonely sound of her high heels clacking on the pavement loud in her ears, icy breath at her back. Once, she darted a look behind her, nearly tripping in her panic, but there was no one following her.
She was gasping for breath and sweating hard in her black leather outfit when she finally stopped and looked back at the car still parked beneath the streetlight two blocks away.
It was nearly dawn when Peter let himself into his apartment. Shrugging out of his jacket, he hung it up in the closet. Then he looked around the room as if seeing it for the first timethe tweed sofa, his recliner chair from the house, the tables, the lamps, a couple of generic pictures on the walls. The brass clock Aunt Iris gave them as a wedding present sat on the mantle, ticking faithfully. He hadn’t put much thought into decorating when he moved here, but at least everything didn’t remind him of Mary Ellen.
For awhile he had wanted that, had drawn comfort from being surrounded by those things that reflected their life together. But later he sold the house and, but for a few things, gave most of what there was to his son and daughter-in-law out in California.
His briefcase lay on the coffee table, thirty-two papers inside waiting to be marked. Ignoring them, he went out to the closet-sized kitchen, got a beer from the fridge, took it into the livingroom. Slumping into the La-Z-Boy, he clicked on the remote. No point in going to bed now; it would soon be time to get up.
The picture came up slowly, like some exotic fish surfacing in murky water. The TV was an old Philco, on its last legs.
Jay Leno was bantering and giggling with a stunning black woman in a gold lame dress. Though he referred to her as the newest singing sensation, Peter had never heard of her. A sure sign he was getting old. He used to know them allLena Horne, Tony Bennett, Johnny Mathis, Ellaand of course, old blue eyes. On their second anniversary, he took Mary Ellen to Las Vegas to see Sinatra perform live at MGM. Who cared if he messed up a couple of lines; he was still ‘the boss’.
As he sipped his beer, he thought of Tommy. He was worried about him. Tommy had been one of his best students. After he suddenly dropped out of school Peter went out to the house, determined to talk him into coming back. He might as well have been talking to a stone wall for all the good it did. Peter knew it was because of Tommy’s father, who let Peter know in no uncertain terms that he didn’t appreciate the interference.
“I was out working when I was fourteen,” Nate Prichard had ranted. “If it was good enough for me, it’s damn well good enough for my kid.”
Did Tommy break those windows tonight? Why that particular house to vent his rage on? Because Peter was pretty sure that rage had to be what Tommy was feeling right now. God knew the kid had every reason to be angry. His own mother had abandoned him. And Peter had seen the evidence of Nate Prichard’s brutality on more than one occasion.
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