43
The motel room was hellishly dark. A thin strip of pale light generated from the “Mobile South” sign across the parking lot cut through the center of the wall by the door where the drapes didn’t quite meet. The cheap digital alarm clock beside the lamp read two forty-nine. In the room next door, the television droned and a couple was going at it, given the rhythm of the thumping on the wall. The familiar grunts and little squeals of delight. These people were enjoying it, all right.
Kate thought about Donald. He hadn’t touched her since the incident last July. The incident.
Don’t think about that. Don’t think about your screw-ups, not now not now there’s no time there’s no need. You’ve got a hell of a lot of other more important things to think about.
She bore her head down to her shoulder, trying to block out the sounds next door.
She remembered.
The last time she and Donald had had sex was in June, a good six months ago, a Sunday afternoon. Donnie was home from Heyden-Ricketts for two weeks, on the stipulation that he would be under his parents’ supervision the entire time. Kate didn’t know where Donnie was; Donald had let him take the Mercedes riding as long as Donnie promised not to get into any trouble and to be back by dinnertime. Of course, Donnie had promised. “Nothing to worry about, Dad,” he’d said. Kate was furious, had scolded Donald for playing so loosely with the rules and expecting things to turn out all right.
They had been in the kitchen, sunny it was that afternoon, with light pouring through the bay window and bouncing along Kate’s collection of copperware on the wall rack. Donald had brushed back Kate’s hair and tried to brush away her concerns. “He’ll be okay,” he’d whispered. “Don’t be anal, hon. Really.” He kissed her. He helped her down to the smooth, tiled floor and made love to her. Screwed her, whatever. She had watched out the window, watched the Queen Ann’s lace down in the field as it waved in a breeze, watched the goldfinches flutter amid the purple thistle and periwinkle chicory blossoms. She did not respond to Donald except to lift her rear when her hiked up sundress got uncomfortably bulky, but he hadn’t noticed.
They were done by the time Donnie returned – he had come back as promised, but two hours late and smelling of gasoline that he said he’d accidentally spilled on himself while topping off the Mercedes at the Exxon up the road. Kate detected an under-scent of pot, but said nothing. Donald didn’t seem to notice or didn’t want to say he’d been wrong.
It was then she knew she couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t let this man, who cared so little for her concerns, who had long ago forgotten what she was in light of what he wanted her to be, touch her anymore. Be intimate with her. She’d cried for hours that night, and told Donald it was because Donnie would take the bus back to Philadelphia the next day.
In early July, she came home from a grocery shopping trip to Emporia with a torn blouse and ripped hose. And a story. She had been raped. A man had forced himself into her car and made her drive into the countryside where he slapped her around and took advantage of her. She hadn’t resisted, but had not gone to a hospital and had not called the police. The moment she’d reached the McDolen house she’d showered to wash the man’s smell and touch away. Donald had been doting, but had not insisted she tell the police.
“We’ll deal with this,” he said as he tucked her into bed and kissed her nose. “We can get through this without having to bring the public into our private lives.”
The blouse was burned in the kitchen sink. Donald had brought Kate a snifter of burgundy and had fluffed the pillows.
It worked. Whenever Donald had even looked amorous, Kate had said, “I can’t. I just remember him, slapping me, touching me, I’m sorry, Donald,” and Donald would back off.
Next door, the couple giggled and thumped, bang, bang, bang, bang. Newlyweds, maybe, or an unmarried couple. A sound of unabashed joy, thwacking through the motel wall.
For a moment, Kate wished Donald was there. A rush of something, nostalgia perhaps, remembrance of his British Sterling and his warm shoulder.
She shook her head and turned her attention to the girl’s shallow, nocturnal breathing on the other bed. Maybe she would rupture, maybe hemorrhage to death. Kate could always hope. The maid would come in, then, and find them tied up. It could be over soon if the little bitch would just up and die.
She offered a prayer to that effect. And then prayed the couple next door would have an argument and stop the infernal fucking.
44
Tony woke at three-nineteen according to the motel room’s plastic clock, cramping and sweating. She felt her way into the bathroom and sat on the toilet, certain she had only a few minutes to live. But she couldn’t die there in a stupid Mobile motel, if she was going to die it would have to be in Texas.
She panted and tried to ride the waves of pain. It was worse than any flu she’d ever had. It was worse than the food poisoning she’d gotten after eating some of Mam’s spoiled Thanksgiving turkey. It was worse than any female pain she’d had before. She breathed deeply, slowly, the air hitching in her lungs.
The cramps subsided. She wiped the damp from between her legs but didn’t flush. She didn’t want to wake Baby Doll. That kid had been through a lot.
Not that Tony liked her or anything.