As I Die Lying Read online

  "Did you ever tell anyone?" I hoped she hadn’t.

  "My mom, once. I told her Daddy was touching me in ways that made me feel strange. She said Daddy was just showing his love. She didn't want to know. She had garden clubs and church bazaars, appointments at the hairdresser, hospital fundraisers, local politics and stuff. She didn't want to be bothered with family problems.

  "At first, it was just once in a while, so far apart that I almost forgot about it. I guess it probably happened more than I remember, because sometimes I would come back to myself, as if I had been away. I'd be hurting down there and sticky, and I felt dizzy, like I'd been spinning too fast on a merry-go-round. And I'd see Daddy later, and he wouldn't look me in the eye. That's when I knew that we were doing a bad thing."

  "He was doing a bad thing. You weren't to blame." I couldn’t tell if that was me saying it, or if Loverboy was trying a sensitive route into her flesh. Maybe there was no difference.

  "He gave me ice cream, after."

  Ice cream. The moon had risen higher, a sick white smile among the leering stars. Virginia was a black silhouette against the weak blanket of light outside the car. I could see the quiescent angles of her profile now, her lips parted, words waiting in her mouth.

  "It's the little girl's voice that talks to me the most. She's always afraid. She doesn't want me to talk to people. She wants to play dolls."

  "Is she talking to you now?" Loverboy moved closer, until he could feel the stirring of her breath. I was helpless, watching this monster inside me stripmine her past, extracting nightmarish ore. Or maybe I was riding the coal car.

  Her voice became childish, sing-songy. "No. She goes away when men are around. She thinks men are bad."

  Headlights glared on the horizon, disembodied white eyes that grew in size as they approached. In their light, I saw Virginia's face. The dark circles of shadows around her eyes made her look like a cornered animal. Her skin was almost translucent, and for a fleeting moment, I was afraid she was going to slip from under my hands, turn to mist, and join the nightfog that hovered over the ground outside. But they weren't my hands, they were Loverboy's, and he wasn't ready to let go.

  The headlights swept onto us, flooding us in their searing brilliance. It was a battered pickup truck, the kind that every farmer in the country drove. It slowed a little as it passed. Perhaps the driver thought we had car trouble, that we had broken down here miles from anywhere. We were stranded, all right, but on a road from which there could be no rescue. The truck's tail lights brightened as the driver touched the brakes, and then the lights winked and hurried off into the distance, red eyes that marked the evil twin of the white eyes.

  Leaving us to ourselves. All of our selves.

  "And there's a tough girl, older," Virginia said, her voice going deep and coarse. "She started when I was fourteen, when I finally started fighting back. She calls herself 'the Bitch.'

  "She stole this jacket off a barstool. She likes to make me go to biker bars and strip joints, dangerous places, so she can show what a badass she is. She gets me to drink until I black out. She's got me to shoot heroin, too. Huddled me down in a fucking alley in Des Moines littered with winos and big rats, kneeling in puddles of stale piss and gutter trash with a rubber tube around my arm. Some faceless dick with rotten breath melts down the shit in a spoon, with a couple of us strangers gathered round like cavemen at the first fire.

  "Then the dick, the voodoo-man, sticks the shiny tip of a needle in the liquid and draws it up, and I hold out my arm and he slides it in, a hundred bucks a hit, and it's warm gold, it's blue wax, it's a fucking lime-yellow cloud that changes into a horse with wings, floats down and carries me away. And I'm sweat and death and God and goddamned. And the bitch likes it, maybe she even lets the voodoo-man fuck her, maybe any of the strangers, too. But it's me lying there helpless, me with my back on wet newspapers and rags while they take turns.

  "Then they're gone, and it's just me, staring at the faraway streetlights, collecting my bones and putting them back together, fumbling for my clothes in the dark, getting up and walking back to the world I had flown out of. But you know what?"

  The night and Loverboy both waited for her to answer her own question.

  "The Bitch thought she was escaping. That out there, there would be no fucking problems. But it's only a bigger prison. It only goes so far. Well, fuck it all anyway."

  The edge left her voice and she sounded weary, defeated. "There's enough of me left to stay away long enough to not get hooked. Part of me worries that I'll get AIDS, that maybe the Bitch wants me to get AIDS. But that's not so bad. AIDS is normal. AIDS kills you safely. It's the other things I worry about."

  She paused. The silent dark was like a smooth onyx cliff face on which we were both grappling for purchase. Only I didn’t control my own fingers.

  "Like wanting to kill people," she said matter-of-factly. "Now do you think I'm crazy?"

  I wasn't one to judge. I had real blood, hot and red, on my hands. Not theoretical blood in some faraway future. And I had liked it. No, no, no, that had been Little Hitler. Or Mother. Anybody but me.

  I finally spoke, surprised I still had voice. "You said you had wanted to kill us in a car crash. But you didn't. You don't really even want to kill yourself."

  "Sure, I don't. But I'm weak, and I'm getting weaker. The Bitch has her way with me more and more often. And this new one. It really scares me."

  "New one?"

  "It came with the Bitch, but it doesn't do much. It just hangs around in the back of my head. But once in a while, it whispers. Nasty things. And it's bad. It wants to make me hurt people."

  Her voice had become the child's again, then just as quickly shifted back. I thought of Mrs. Ball, the high school counselor, and how she’d tried to trick me with Freudian horseshit. Sometimes a cigar was just a cigar, but sometimes it was a banana. Loverboy preferred the banana.

  "Hey, I know about Sybil, multiple personality disorder, and all that,” she said. “I thought about going to a shrink. But what good would that do? What could I say? 'Hey, Doc, I got too many birds in the lighthouse. Give me some ice cream and let's fuck.'"

  She laughed bitterly. "I know I'd end up in a rubber room somewhere, wasted on a dozen different tranquilizers, half the time pounding my head against the wall, the other half sucking my thumb and staring off into space. Hell, the Bitch might even like that. And the little girl, at least she'd be safe. But this other voice, it wouldn't like that at all. It says it has plans for me."

  "Plans?"

  "Its voice is cold, like it's been dead a long time, trapped under ice water. Why am I telling you this? I knew you wouldn't understand."

  How could I tell her about my Little People, the residents of the Bone House, a personal commune of confusion where no one ever did the laundry? I knew the courage it took for her to bare her soul like this, to expose herself to my scorn and ridicule. I was aware of the trust she was placing in me, the tiny crystal snowflake of her sanity she was exposing. But I could say nothing. Loverboy was feeding on her vulnerability, growing stronger. He took my mouth.

  Besides, anybody dumb enough to trust deserves whatever they get. You just lose all respect for them.

  "I understand," Loverboy said, and drew closer to her in the dark. "It's okay to be different. I like you for who you are."

  "Who the fuck am I?"

  "You're Virginia. Don't ever forget that. No matter what else, you've got yourself, even if the whole world is screwed up. And I'll be here for you."

  "Aren't you afraid of me? I just told you I wanted to kill you.

  "But you didn't kill me. Or yourself. You want to live."

  Loverboy held her with my arms, smelling her tension, raw and metallic. My strange Loverboy voice was soothing and artificial, a baritone of betrayal. "I'll help you, Virginia."

  "Richard..."

  "Shh. It's going to be okay."

  I pressed my face against her cheek, there under the distant Midwestern
moon. Outside the car, among the corn and sparse forest that surrounded us, night creatures scurried for food or shelter in an unending circle of death, mocked by the laughing wind. Miles away, people huddled in front of the blue campfires of television sets, frantic from having too much time and burdened with having to spend it all. Back in Ottaqua, Mother was probably passed out face down in her own filth.

  Virginia and I were alone. We were on an island beset by inky oceans, and the darkness extended into the heavens and beyond, behind the curtain of stars and galactic debris it had thrown up for illusion's sake. The true darkness that was behind everything.

  My lips met the delicate shell of her ear.

  "Daddy wants sugar," Loverboy whispered.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "What?" the chick said.

  Why the fuck did I say that? I'd better be careful, or I won't be peeling the old banana tonight. No monkey business. And, thanks, Richard, for letting me be the first-person, present-tense narrator here, because, let’s face it, you know how to write but you couldn’t fuck your way out of a soggy Hilton sister. Leave that part to me. "Uh—I said I wanted to kiss you."

  "I like you, Richard, maybe even love you, but right now I'm so screwed up, I can't trust my feelings. After all I've told you, I can't believe you haven't jumped out of the car and run into the cornfields."

  Richard? Oh, yeah, what's-his-face, the one who went away. I feel him back there somewhere, watching from the dark. Such a spaghetti dick. Let him stay back there. Let's see, what would he say next?

  "Hey, Virginia, it'll be all right." And it'll be even more all right when I get into those hot little pants, girl. Come on, give it up to the man. Let Loverboy rock you. Hey, don't push my hand away. You know you want it.

  "I don't know. I'm just so confused right now. I'm not even sure why I wanted to go out with you. Maybe I sensed you weren't like the others, that maybe you'd listen instead of going for an easy lay. Because I've never told anybody else about this. I just feel so naked right now, like all the layers of my soul have been stripped away. I'm afraid."

  Yeah, easy lay, naked, riding bareback, that's the idea here. Take it all off, baby, uh-huh, strip those reservations right now and quit pretending to act vulnerable. Because first we have to go through this fucked-up game where I have to pretend to give a damn. But, hey, the end justifies the means. And your end is pretty fucking worthy of justification, babe.

  So think, think, think. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I won't let anything hurt you."

  "That's fine for out here, in the real world. But what about in my head? Are you going to go in there and protect me?"

  "Trust me." Yeah. “Trust,” that’s what that limp-wristed Richard would say. Now I'll just reach out here ever so slowly for your knee—what's this? Oh, the goddamned gearshift. Whoever invented foreign cars didn’t know shit about getting laid.

  Ah, there, nice, soft skin. Well, pants, anyway, but I can feel the heat underneath. I can get them off in time, no problemo, my man. Just be easy right now. I don't care if the old six-inch submarine's ready to plow through dry dock and go deep. Patience is the key. Time it just right, and I'll do more skindiving than Jacques-fucking-Costeau.

  "I want to trust somebody, Richard. I just don't want to be alone."

  "I won't let you be alone, Virginia. I like being close to you, I like spending time with you. I don't care what kind of problems you have, I know we can work them out." Maybe you and that Richard-fuck back there can. Just let me have what I want and you can have that codpopper all to yourself. The two of you can sit and talk about relationships over coffee and whole-wheat bagels tomorrow morning. Maybe he'll even get you to buy. But I need some tonight. I need a bite of that sweet honey bun.

  "I know you wouldn't hurt me on purpose, but the way things are, you're bound to get tired of me after a while."

  Hey, turn off the waterworks, baby. Damn. I thought I was making progress. I wish that "bitch" would come out, the one she said liked to get laid. She'd be on her back right now, with those big buttery bagel thighs spread open and—hell, I better work with what I've got. She'll like it if I brush her tears away. Yeah, she'll think I'm sensitive. "Hey, I won't get tired of you. I'm just now getting to know you. And I like what I see so far."

  Ah, there we go. Her skin's so soft. She's got fine curves. Breasts like—think romantically, now, be creative, damn it—breasts like firm loaves of fresh-baked pumpernickel. Hmm, a little weak. I guess Cheese Crotch is the poet, not me.

  "Promise you won't ever hate me?"

  Hate you? Hell, no, I'm a lover, sweetmeat, and now that you've got me on this pastry kick, I want to lick the frosting right off your little love doughnut. Come on, Richie, feed me some fucking one-liners here. I’m doing this for both of us. "Hate you? How could anybody ever hate you?"

  "Daddy must have."

  Dear old Daddy. Broke it in early, huh? Well, don't hold that shit against me. On second thought, hold it against me. All of it, until it squishes. “He's got his own problems. The important thing is to remember that it's not your fault."

  "Richard, you're so nice to me."

  Yeah, but nice won't drill you. You need it hard and hot, make you feel like a real woman, make you feel whole again. Yeah, a hole, that's right, you're a hole, waiting to be filled. And I've got the John Deere front-end loader right here to do the job. And old Richie-wuss back there can watch. See how a real Bob the Builder operates. "I just want you to feel like it's okay to be different. I like you the way you are."

  "Even with my voices?"

  Voices? What a bunch of crap. Everybody's got voices, don't they? Look at old Richie here. But he's not saying anything, is he? Cat must have his tongue. And this little pussycat here is going to have my tongue. "The Virginia I know is warm, friendly, and human, with a great sense of humor. She's special, and she makes me feel good. She wears fashionable fish-hearts."

  "Oh, Richard."

  Hey. Laughter. That's good. Get away from that sentimental, morbid stuff and get her relaxed. Now, if I can just—yeah, there we go. These damned bucket seats weren't made for the old boybone bootscoot, that's for sure. And this bulky leather jacket of hers, that's a pain to work through. Hey, she may be into leather, but I want to get her out of leather.

  Loverboy, you're a fucking riot, even if I do say so myself, and there’s nobody around to shut me up. Right, Richie? Man, her hair smells good. And her breath on my neck. Yeah, that tingles, all the way down to there. "You know something?"

  "What?"

  "I've been admiring you for a long time. Remember all those times you caught me looking at you in Biology class?" Yeah, Richie, I was there, even if you didn't know it. I'm a sneaky little bastard.

  "Of course I caught you. You were sitting there all bug-eyed with your tongue hanging out, looking like one of those pickled-assed bullfrogs we cut up. But lots of guys look at me like that."

  "Well, I was imagining that you were a great sculpture, maybe a Greek goddess fashioned in creamy marble, placed high on a hill where all the citizens could pay tribute. Because such beauty deserves to be worshipped." Hey, that was pretty good. And she's laughing again. She's flattered. She's probably heard a thousand come-on lines, but nothing like this. Let's work this angle a little. You're on a roll, Loverboy.

  "Richard, where do you come up with this stuff?"

  I wonder that myself. "And the beauty without is only a pale shadow of the beauty within."

  Heh, this poetic horseshit works. Richie never would have thought of anything like this. Goddamn, I'm good. Now, let me get close to those lips again. Maybe this time I'll get a little sugar for the soul. Yeah, closer, closer, she's not backing away, yes, yes, YES.

  "Mmmmm. Richard."

  Soft, tasty lips. She's murmuring now, practically purring. Loverboy, she's putty in your hands, wet dough, roll her, feel her biscuity shapes, yeah, go down her back a little, not too fast...there, she's willing, she's getting there. Okay...

  Go
ddammit, what the hell? Here comes a damn car. Out here in the middle of fucking nowhere in the dead of night and some cornfed yokel's got to hoof it down the only road in this Godforsaken corner of the county. I'd better ease off a little so they don't think somebody's getting raped or something.

  Shit.

  They didn't even slow down. Probably thought we were a couple of homicidal maniacs out for a night's hunt, just waiting for some fuckwit to stop. Crazy old world these days. Now, back to business. Ah, she's nice and toasty, nothing like cuddling on a chilly spring night like this. That's good, just play around the lips a little, I think she's ready for me to slip her a little tongue, yeah, open up just a little. Whoa, she's not buying it. Man, she's one long slow drink. Damn.

  "Richard?"

  "What, honey?" Is calling her "honey" being too forward? But hey, she's the one who asked me out tonight. She's the one who drove me out to the asshole-end of Iowa and pulled over in Deadsville. She must have at least suspected I'd want to slip her the old sesame stick. And she must have wanted it a little bit herself. We could have fucking talked back in the Ottaqua Waffle Shop. Damn, there I go with the food again. I must be hungry. But man don’t get bred by bread alone. Heh, heh.

  Wait, that was Mister Milktoast, that other little squishy dude hanging back there with Richie. He needs to just shut his ass up if he knows what’s good for him.

  "I don't think we're ready for this."

  Not ready for this? Hell, your yeast is rising. That oven's not going to get any warmer. And I've got the rolling pin right here in my pants. "Not ready for this? But it feels so natural."

  "I laid my heart out for you, all my secrets. And I really do appreciate you listening. And caring. But I still feel as if I hardly know you."

  What's there to know? I've got a long hard French loaf with your name on it. Don't make it complicated. Who cares if old Richie-kins went away, the one you like so much? I look the same, wear the same clothes, I've got his brown hair and goddamned myopic eyes. Even this voice is the same, though it's a little too squeaky for a stud like me. Much as I hate it, our dicks are the same size. I must admit, though, I'm just a little bit harder than Richie could ever be. And besides, I thought all us swinging dicks were just alike to you chicks. "What you see is what you get. I'm not that hard to figure out. So I'm a little bit weird on the outside, but inside, I'm just like everybody else."