Chapter Four - Reunited

Jeff did not come home. More to the point, he did not come home alive. All weekend he had been upset over Kathy’s strange behavior. He planned to take an earlier flight, but at the last minute he received a call from his company requesting that he fly directly from Washington to Atlanta. A problem had occurred which they felt he could straighten out. He called Kathy hoping she would ask him to come right home. Not certain she could face him right away, she urged him to go on to Atlanta. Three days later he phoned Kathy to say that he was flying back to Washington and hoped to catch a connecting flight to Pittsburgh. However, he became violently ill in the Washington Airport and died a few hours later in a hospital there. The autopsy showed the cause of death to be salmonella poisoning attributable to a chicken sandwich he was served on the plane.

Kathy took his death much harder than anyone expected. Close relatives were worried about her. For the first two days the family doctor kept her heavily sedated. She tried, but could not bring herself the visit the funeral home. After each drugged sleep she woke to the terrible knowledge that it was she who had persuaded Jeff to attend the meeting in Washington. It was her insane desire to see Stein. And Stein, too, was guilty. Even before he decided to see her on Saturday, he had told her to send Jeff away. The thought of him sitting in Jeff’s chair and wearing Jeff’s robe was driving her crazy. And in the bedroom she and Jeff shared...this old, fat, pervert had been there with his horrible leeches. He was as guilty as she. It seemed to her that she’d made a pact with the Devil to kill her husband.

Her memory of Jeff did not admit to the night when she told him about Wally. She remembered Jeff as she wished him to be. There was nothing terribly self-deceptive in this because almost always Jeff was exactly the kind of man she needed and wanted. She must have been crazy. She was crazy still. The only thing that kept her from suicide was, or so it seemed, the idea that Stein would be free, free of guilt, free to practice his obscenities on some other vulnerable woman. Both she and Stein were responsible for her husband’s death. If they hadn’t conspired to send him away, Jeff would not have been on that plane from Atlanta to Washington. Stein, too, must somehow be made accountable. Damn him!

It rained on the morning of the funeral. By the time the entourage reached the cemetery, however, the rain had stopped. But a solid, gray cloud cover continued to mask the sun and sky. Since the news of Jeff’s death, she’d eaten almost nothing, but on the morning of the funeral she awakened ravenously hungry. After eggs and ham and several cups of coffee, she showered and then carefully selected her clothes: a black skirt and suit jacket, a white tailored blouse, black stockings and pumps.

She had not been in the sun for several weeks. Her face was pale, but in spite of the past few days, she looked serene. Her skin was tight and smooth, almost translucent. The redness had gone from her eyes. As she applied her mascara, she noticed that her hands were quite steady. She’d been given a small black hat and veil, which, after some hesitation, she decided to wear. She pinned it on, arranged the veil, and carried her raincoat.

Jeff’s parents picked her up and took her directly to the cemetery. They arrived shortly after the hearse and the cars carrying relatives and friends. The people standing around the gravesite parted to make way for them. Among the mourners were Brian, who had been their best man, and his wife Cordelia. Brian approached her but she quickly bowed her head, not wishing to talk to him or look at the casket.

The priest began speaking. Several times she heard him say Jeff’s name, but the words were meaningless sounds. She and Jeff had known each other since high school. Until this past month of insanities, he had been her world. The fact that he was gone was just beginning to register. Tomorrow he would not be running up the front steps, happy and laughing, and calling out her name. He would not come home tomorrow, or ever, not ever again. She felt faint. The priest had paused in his eulogy.

She raised her eyes and there, across the gleaming mahogany lid of the casket, was Ezra Stein’s head. For a moment she thought she had gone mad. The head seemed dismembered. From her angle of view it appeared to be resting on the casket like a pumpkin. She gasped and quickly looked away. Her father-in-law felt her trembling and took her arm.

After a little while, she turned and looked up again. Stein had stepped back, but he was no more than six feet away from her. Only Jeff’s body and the grave separated them. The fat man wore a shabby black raincoat that was pulled tight across his huge stomach. His pig eyes stared at her across the little distance. She looked away once more fearing, for a moment, she might be sick. Her cheeks reddened with anger. There was a shovel beside the mound of dirt. She wanted to swing it in one terrible blow that would cleave his evil face like an apple.

When she looked up again, he was still staring directly at her. She looked back at him, a scream of rage swelling in her chest. Then his heavy lips began to form silent words. She wasn’t sure at first what they were. He repeated them.

“Will you leave with me?”

She looked again at the ground, hoping it would open up at her feet and swallow her just as it was soon to close over Jeff. Dimly aware that the priest had come to the end of his speech, she heard him ask for a moment of silent prayer for the repose of her husband’s soul. She knew Stein was watching her, waiting for her answer. She nodded her head in assent.

Before she could collect her thoughts, a blur of people began to crowd around her offering sympathy and expressions of their sorrow. Jeff’s father directed her down the path toward their car. Behind them she could hear the casket being lowered. She was aware of Stein up ahead, waiting. She took a firm grip on her father-in-law’s arm, determined to ignore Stein. But when they were next to him, she heard herself introduce him as an old and dear friend of Jeff’s. He offered to drive her home saying he lived in the neighborhood. She accepted, quickly explaining to Jeff’s parents that the trip back to her house would take them out of their way. They protested for a moment but, anxious to begin the long drive back to Boston, they left her there standing in the road with the rather shabby fat man.

As soon as they started to drive away, Stein pushed her back against the side of his car. He leaned his fat bulk into her.

“I hate you!” she hissed, raising her hands to strike him. Just before their car turned the bend, Jeff’s father looked into the rearview mirror and, although Kathy was not visible, the fat man’s arm was lifted as if he were waving. His blow caught Kathy on the side of the head, slamming her against the car. Her cheek carried the imprint of his hand. She bit her lip, holding back the tears.

“You will never do that to me!” he said, fighting to control the anger in his voice. She leaned against the car sobbing. “Never,” he repeated. She nodded her head. He opened the car door and, pointing to the passenger side, slid behind the wheel. She got in and sat next to him. As they drove away, she glanced back. Two men were shoveling dirt into her husband’s grave.

Stein drove slowly and cautiously like someone who had just been granted a license. The car was an old Chrysler. The seats were greasy and wads of cotton fiber hung from the torn fabric. On the floor behind her beer bottles rolled back and forth clinking together. Even though the afternoon had turned muggy, Stein did not open the windows. Under the smell of spilled beer was the faint odor of vomit. Stein did not speak until they reached an open stretch of highway. “Tell me, Mrs. Ryan,” he said, “what did you think about when you heard your husband was dead?”

“Killing myself,” she answered.

“And killing me?”

She waited a moment wondering if it would be better to avoid the truth. “Yes, and you too,” she said, realizing it was impossible to lie to him.

“Guilt again,” he chuckled, “major, world-class guilt. Only this time you like to think we are both guilty, we both killed your husband. And now you want to avenge his death?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Well why don’t you do it? Why don’t you kill me?”

She did not respond. He pulled slowly to the side of the road and stopped. “Here, I’ll make it easy for you.” He reached under his seat, fumbled around, and withdrew a tire iron. “Take it,” he placed it in her lap. “One hard blow right here,” he tapped his temple. “I’ll look the other way. You can say I tried to rape you. Plead self-defense. The lovely widow defending her honor on the day of her husband’s funeral. My guess is that they won’t even make you stand trial.”

She didn’t move for several minutes. Then, with both hands she picked up the tire iron holding it firmly at one end. Stein turned away from her and looked out at the passing traffic. She raised the heavy bar and, with a sob, put it down on the seat between them.

Stein turned back to face her. She stared ahead, her body rigid. “I’m surprised, Mrs. Ryan,” he said smiling. “Here it is not more than half an hour after burying the man you so dearly loved. I’ve given you the opportunity and the means to avenge his death and you refuse.” He placed the tire iron beneath the seat. “A short time ago we were treated to the sad sight of the pretty widow dressed in black weeping at the grave of her beloved husband. And now she is sitting in a car with the man she believes is responsible for his death. And she’s hot. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Ryan?” He placed his puffy white hand over hers. She drew in her breath sharply at his touch but did not move. “Do you think I’m responsible?” He waited for her reply.

“Yes,” she said, not looking at him. “I told you before that you caused it. Jeff would be alive now if...”

He interrupted, “After you came to the bar that afternoon, did I try to contact you?”

“No,” she said quietly.

“Well then, Mrs. Ryan, how did we manage to get together?”

“I...I...phoned you.”

“And pleaded with me to visit you, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Then you wrote a letter to me asking me to come to your home?”

“Yes.”

“And because of the rather unusual nature of our relationship, who suggested that your dear Jeff go off to Washington? Did I?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “You wanted him away from home. But, yes, I urged him to go.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Ryan, you did. And as to the leeches, did I force them on you?”

“No, no you didn’t.”

“In fact, during the course of our short acquaintance, have I ever forced anything on you?” His voice was almost a whisper. “Isn’t it true, Mrs. Ryan, that you’ve had the option to say ‘no’, to refuse?”

“Yes!” she cried, turning abruptly away from him, leaning against the side window, the tears welling up in her eyes. “Yes!” she cried again. “I can’t help it. I can’t, I really can’t.”

“Help it or not, the choices have been your own. It is a hard fact of life, Mrs. Ryan, that we must live by the choices we make. I suggest you learn to live by yours.”

“Or die,” she said softly, looking straight ahead.

“That, too,” he answered.

They sat in silence for a few moments. She stopped crying and wiped her face with a handkerchief she’d taken from her purse. Stein leaned back in his seat and sighed. “That’s settled,” he said. “Now, I would like you to do several things for me but only if you wish.”

“What things?” she asked. He waited. “I’m sorry,” she said, “what would you like me to do, Mr. Stein?”

“Yes, that’s better.” He tapped the steering wheel with both hands. “I do not like driving. I am not good at it and this is a borrowed car. I’d like you to take me home.” She reached for the door handle. “Not yet,” he said. “Are you wearing anything under your blouse?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, “a brassiere.”

“I would like you to remove it and the blouse as well. And these...” he pointed to her stockings.

“Pantyhose,” she said.

“Those, too. I would like you to be naked except for your hat, jacket, skirt, and shoes.”

She hesitated. To do as he asked, now in this place at this time would be unthinkable, worse, even, than accepting the leeches. This obscenely gross degenerate was partly responsible for her husband’s death. She had watched them lower Jeff’s casket into the grave less than thirty minutes ago. She should have killed Stein. She should have crushed his skull with the tire iron.

“Yes, Mrs. Ryan, or no?” he asked.

Without a word, she removed her jacket, her blouse, and her bra. Then she put her jacket back on and buttoned its single button. The swell of her breasts was clearly visible between the deep V of the jacket. She slipped out of her shoes and stripped off her pantyhose. Her white legs contrasted sharply with the black skirt. After she had wiggled her bare feet into her shoes, she waited. During all this time, Stein had not looked at her.

“Did you want to do that for me?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Stein,” she said softly.

“Now, one more thing. Draw the index finger of your right hand along the outer lips of your cunt and across your clitoris, then hold it up for me to see.” She reached between her legs and did as he asked. He glanced at the finger she held up. It glistened with her come. “Ahhh,” he said, his small eyes staring into hers. “When was the last time you were like that? The truth, Mrs. Ryan.”

She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “On that night.”

“Mrs. Ryan, I do wish you would learn to be more specific.”

“On the night you came to my house.”

“And when did this begin?” he said, pointing at her hands.

“The cemetery.”

“Precisely when at the cemetery?”

“When I saw you there.”

“So, across your dear husband’s coffin you see Ezra Stein, this fat, ugly, evil old man and your dry cunt suddenly becomes hot and wet. What does that tell us, Mrs. Ryan?” She was silent. “Never mind, I think we know.” He motioned toward the door. She got out and walked unsteadily around to the driver’s side. He’d gathered her blouse, bra, and pantyhose together. As she slid behind the wheel, he opened the door again and dropped them to the gravel. “Show me your breasts,” he said. She spread her jacket and he leaned closer to peer at her nipples. Each had a tiny triangular scar where the leeches had fed. He smiled and sat back in his seat, his pudgy hands clasped over his stomach. “Too bad all the pets have been fed,” he said. He gestured toward the ignition and nodded. She started the engine. “Do you recall what you said when I last phoned you?”

She was afraid to answer. “I...I...don’t remember,” she lied.

“I’m sure you do remember. You told me you were absolved. You said, ‘It’s over, Mr. Stein.’ You said it twice then you hung up on me.” She could hear the anger in his voice. She moved to shift the car into gear, but he grabbed her wrist tightly. “That was a mistake, Mrs. Ryan, a bad mistake. No one ever speaks to me like that.” His grip tightened on her wrist. “It is just one more mistake to atone for, Mrs. Ryan.” A cold fear made her tremble. “Yes, Mrs. Ryan,” he let go of her, “your disrespect for Ezra Stein and your husband’s untimely death, two tragic mistakes. I should think you have much, very much, to atone for. You are far from being absolved. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Ryan? A heavy penance to be paid?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’m sorry Mr. Stein. Truly sorry.”

“But being sorry isn’t enough, is it, Mrs. Ryan? For you it is never enough.”

“That’s right, Mr. Stein. It is never enough,” she answered.

He smiled. “I’m glad to see that you agree. Now, let us drive slowly and carefully to my place. It is an old warehouse next to the abandoned mines out on route 519, a few miles south of Hawthorne.”