The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [106]
“No! It's fine where it is. For now.” Agitated, she's making no sense at all.
“You're upset with me. Why?” He's trying to be patient, but it's hard. She's hiding something, he can tell. “Why?” he demands, but too harshly. Her head snaps back, her eyes widen. He can't help smiling. Good, exactly what she needs. Shake her up a little, give him the upper hand instead of walking on eggshells all the time. “What the hell've I done to deserve this? I've been a good friend. A damn good friend, and you know I have, right? Right?” he asks, his face so close he inhales the stale coffee from her shallow breath.
When she nods, he clenches her wrist, not to hurt her, but to keep from hurting her.
“So why're we fighting like this?” His voice breaks. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“People lie. You know that. You know they do.”
Again, she nods, tries to back away. “You're bleeding.” She lifts her hand. On her wrist, a bracelet of blood, his. He laughs. Her face is a mask. Part of her allure, her plan, but he's on to her, and now, she knows he is.
“We're the same, aren't we?”
“The bandage. I can fix that.”
Even her kindness is sensual, born of desire, caring so she'll be cared for, wanting as much as she gives. He watches from the kitchen table while she washes her hands, scrubbing hard at her wrist, which only amuses him. His eyes are heavy, waiting. He imagines pressing against her round, perfect ass, though his yearning is less for sex than relief from this pressure in his skull, throbbing behind his eyeballs, needing her cries of pain, agony, fear, begging him to stop, to let her go.
She cuts a strip of adhesive tape. “There.” She presses it over the loose gauze, then darts to the back door, opens it. He has to leave, she says from outside, but he doesn't budge. So, it was just a ruse, a way to get herself, then him, out of the house. Her mother will be here soon, any minute, she says. And then he understands. All right. Okay. That's why. The old bitch, always on Robin's case for something, dusty table-tops, clutter on the stairs, piles of laundry, unpaid bills, dirty litter boxes, broken window blinds. Him.
“Thank you,” he says, grazing past her shoulder when every bone in his body aches to hold her.
It is with studious deliberation that he moves from set to set. Takes his time. Squints, backs off, peering from different angles. Price tags don't matter, he assures the Best Buy salesman, it's quality he's after, the best picture, simple as that. Then he wants a plasma, he's told. This one here, the forty-inch SONY Yeah, plasma, because that's what this surge in his veins is, a transfusion, pure, new blood rousing him as he counts out the bills. Still plenty left. Always been careful with money. Never was that important, not like it is for the rest of the world. His frugality used to amuse Helen, the old bitch. Cheapo, she called him. But it was always about getting by with the basics, the little he needed. The less he wanted, the more she bought for him. Now, it's the same with Robin. Only in reverse. Pleasing her is all that matters.
With every bump and turn the box teeters. The television takes up the whole backseat. He drives slowly, easing down on the brake. It wasn't just to save on the delivery charge but seeing her open it. The thought of her pleasure fills him with excitement. Knowing how the simplest things delight her, he imagines her squeal when she sees it.
“Damn.” Yellow Volkswagen in the driveway. Her mother's. “Bitch.” He keeps driving. Struggles to stay calm: no rush, he's got all the time in the world. A half hour later, she's finally gone. He pulls in, close to the house. He eases the cumbersome box from the car, shuffles onto the porch, leans an elbow into the bell.
“Surprise!” he says with the opening door.
Clay balances on one crutch. His left foot is in a cast. “My mother's not here.” Before he can close the door, Eddie manages to wedge a corner of the box into the opening. When's she coming back? The boy