Justice

I told them I hadn’t.

How about the birthday cards and presents?

Not them, either.

I told them I would write. I told them I would send pictures. I told them I would call whenever I got the chance. If they wanted to send anything or write back, I told them to address the letters in care of Chris, then gave them his address. After forty-five minutes of nonstop dialogue, I finally relinquished the line to a dial tone.

I was so exhausted, I sprawled out on Chris’s leather couch and closed my eyes. He came back ten minutes later. His face looked drawn, his eyes looked dead.

I stood up. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He brushed hair out of his eyes. “How’d it go?”

I smiled. “Great … it went …” The tears came back. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you.” I moved toward him, then stopped.

He laughed. “Come here.”

I ran to him and hugged him tightly. It was like embracing granite. His arms wrapped around me, his fingers in my hair. He kissed my forehead. “I’m glad it went well.”

I burrowed myself deeper into his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. After a few moments, I became aware of something hard pressing into my hipbone. I adjusted my position in his arms, then went warm with embarrassment when I realized what it was. I giggled out of nervousness.

Chris whispered, “Yes, I have an erection.”

“At least I know you like me.”

“I like you very much.”

My eyes found his. “Then why—”

“Not now, Terry. Please.” He broke away and took off his jacket. Poured himself a shot of Scotch and drank it in a single gulp. “We’re going to have to forgo the lesson. I have a gig lined up. I have to pack.”

His voice was calm but his posture was tense.

I clapped my hands once. “If you need help, I’m a really good packer. I do all of my stepmom’s packing whenever she goes out of town.”

He smiled but it lacked warmth. “I’m fine.”

“Okay.” I shrugged. “Thanks again. I’m going to owe you money for a very long phone conver—”

“Forget it.”

“I also told them to write to me in care of you. I gave them your address. I hope that’s okay—”

“It’s fine, Terry.”

He was very anxious for me to leave. But I couldn’t get my feet to move. “When will you be back?”

“Don’t know. Maybe Thursday or Friday.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back east.”

The room turned quiet. I said, “Are you going to be seeing your fiancée?”

Chris raised his brow. “You really like to torture yourself, don’t you?”

“I feel very comfortable on a cross.”

“Yes, I’ll probably be seeing her.”

“You’ll be seeing Lorraine?”

“Probably. It’s getting late.”

Actually, it wasn’t, but he wanted me out. I said, “I’ll leave now. Thanks again.”

“Take my books.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to fall behind and you’ll need to prepare lessons to catch me up.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out three fifties. Showed them to me. “For the week I’m gone. I’ll deposit them in your bank account.”

“Christopher, it won’t take me ten hours to prepare your lessons.”

“Think of it as a retainer.” He brushed my nose with the corner of the bills, then pocketed the money. “You’re now in my employ.”

“You say that with such glee.” I laughed softly. “Must be nice to be rich.”

“I wouldn’t know. I work for every dime I have.”

I turned hot, glanced at him, then averted my eyes. “God, that was an awful thing to say. Of course you do. I’m very sorry.” I picked up the books. “Thanks for everything, Chris.”

He held my arm. “Terry, look at me.”

Quickly, my eyes swept over his face.

“Nuh-uh,” he persisted. “Look at me.”

I managed to meet his eyes.

Chris said, “You didn’t offend me. I knew what you meant.”

“You don’t need to pay me—”

“Terry—”

“All I’m saying is, I’d tutor you for free.” I felt my eyes get wet and looked away.

“I know you would, Terry. And that means a lot to me. But it’s not necessary.” He kissed my forehead. “Go home.”

A very good idea. He’d been full of them this evening. Quietly, I shut the door behind me. I thought my grandmother had taken away all my tears. But I was wrong.

5

The trips had become so routine, he wondered why he didn’t keep a prepacked valise. Same inventory every time. Two white shirts, two black shirts, two pairs of black pants, couple of ties, underwear, socks, shoes, and a suit in case he decided to see Lorraine. Her daddy liked things nice and formal. Proper. He didn’t want things to get out of hand before the wedding. Not a problem for him. But daughter had undergone a severe case of hot pants over the past year.

She had detested him when they were first introduced. And she had taken every opportunity to tell him so. He was immature, ugly, stupid, unmannered (that was a lie)—and worst of worst, he was a mick. It had been an insult to her intelligence that her father had ever agreed to the arrangement. She’d go through with it because she knew she had to. But he shouldn’t ever, ever, expect anything!

Her words had stung his cheeks like a blustery day. But eventually he had learned to tune them out, just like everything else. His apathy to her had been so complete, it took him months before he realized her change of attitude.

At first, he had wondered why. He hadn’t changed. He was the same person. Until he looked in the mirror one day for a self-portrait. His cheeks had been thick with grizzle, toughening the flawless skin that had once been speckled with teenage blemishes. His eyes had deepened in color and in intensity; his mouth had turned sensual and hungry. His body had hardened from pumping iron. His forearms were developed from hours of cello playing. Suddenly he realized what had happened. Hormones and genetics had finally worked in his favor. They had turned him into a man.

A vengeful person might have reacted with hostility. But since emotions weren’t part of his equation, he reacted as he always did. With control and calculation.

He regarded himself through her eyes. It must have been hard for a rich, spoiled Italian princess to accept a gawky fourteen-year-old mongrel three years her junior. Her former boyfriends had been older than she—nineteen or even in their early twenties, with deep voices and developed muscles. He must have looked like a worm in comparison.

So he decided to be gracious with her. Kind but never attentive, closed but not cold. Physical affection, of course, but only the obligatory kind if you please—a peck on the cheek, his hand on her arm as they strolled through the family’s vast country acreage.

She knew something was off, but she couldn’t call him on it. Because he behaved like the perfect gentleman that Daddy had ordered. They played tennis together. He always won, but not by too many points. They went to the symphony together. He knew the pieces by heart, could have conducted them if push came to shove. She had a hard time staying awake. He teased her about her strong New York accent, but it was always in good humor. They went to Mass together. He prayed fervently as she sneaked him sidelong glances, her leg rubbing against his thigh.

He jerked her around like a rag doll, kept her off balance. After the official engagement had been announced, she waited … and waited and waited. Finally, she came to him. To his amazement, she was still a virgin. So he’d been gentle with her. Gentle but dispassionate. Their first nighttime tryst, which she had arranged to cement their relationship, had only served to increase her anxiety.

What was wrong?

Nothing, it was fine.

What could she do to please him more?

Nothing, he was fine.

What could she do to make herself better?

Nothing, she was fine.

He had finally gained the upper hand.

He pulled a suitcase down from his bedroom closet. He didn’t feel like packing, so instead he lit a cigarette.

What he really wanted was another drink.

But that was the wrong thing to do.

It was time to use logic, analyze why he wanted the drink so bad.

Was it the gigs? After all these years was he finally getting performance anxiety?

No, he never was anxious about anything.

Was he worried about failure?

No, he was a pro.

Was the thrill gone?

He sucked on his smoke.

That was part of it. Just wasn’t as thrilling as it used to be. Truth be told, he was just going through the motions. So what? That was life, buddy. Everybody had to earn their keep. Besides, he needed the bread now more than ever because he was doling out so much of it to her.

Her.

Still the same thrill every time he thought about her. At least that much hadn’t changed. How she’d slipped by him in orchestra was still beyond his comprehension. He chalked it up to the way he was. He never went after girls. They had always come to him.

Just like Cheryl.

Not that he hadn’t noticed Cheryl. How could he not have noticed Cheryl? And yeah, he had wanted her. But Cheryl had been business as usual. He’d sent her “the vibes” and she had responded quickly … satisfyingly …

Terry had been different. He hadn’t noticed her because she’d been buried in the back of the second violin section. They’d been playing Rossini’s William Tell Overture. The beginning of the piece, Hedding purposely dragging the tempo, milking the cello solo—his solo, of course. Then Hedding had stopped the orchestra. Apparently, someone had been making loud snoring noises in the background.

Lack of sleep, Miss McLaughlin, or do you have a problem with the tempo?

Lots of giggling now … at least, two or three girls.

No, sir. Sorry, sir.

The voice had been sultry. He had craned his neck, but hadn’t been able to make out the person.

Perhaps you’d like to come up and conduct the piece at a tempo more to your liking.

By then the entire orchestra had gotten into the act. Egging her on. Red-faced, she stood up. But she did it. Conducted the entire piece. Did a pretty good job of it, too.

All he had remembered was his heart pounding out of his chest. Good thing he was such a natural, because he hadn’t known what he’d been playing. His mind racing, his thoughts a jumbled mess.

Where the fuck had she been hiding?

So mind-boggling gorgeous, and best of all, she didn’t even know it.

Immediately, he started sending her “the vibes.” But they hadn’t worked and he figured out why. She was a good girl. Well, that wasn’t so bad. Because he knew all about good girls. They weren’t hard to catch, but you had to do it indirectly. Then she walked by one day, and Bull made some lech comment. They had all laughed about it. Bull also mentioned that she’d been his tutor.

The opening he’d been waiting for.

But it wasn’t working out as planned. She was supposed to be a blow and go. Instead, something got messed up in his head.

He closed his eyes, allowing his brain to flash up her image. He studied the purity of her oval face, the arch of her cheekbones, the liquid in her exotic, amber eyes, the sweep of her long, auburn hair.

Though he tried to fight it, he knew he was going under.

He was falling in love.

His groin ached. He realized he was rock hard.

So that’s why he had wanted to drink. He had wanted to suppress his arousal. God, he wanted her.

But that was out of the question.

He grabbed his rubbers, a handful of old neckties, and headed for the streets.

6

Rina realized the bed was empty. Not an infrequent occurrence of late. Ever since Peter had returned home from New York, he’d been hit with bouts of insomnia. The nightstand clock read two A.M. Stomach still awash in sleep-laden nausea, Rina rose slowly from the bed, donned her robe, and slipped her feet into mules. Moving slowly through the darkened house, she found Peter seated at the kitchen table, fingers running through his mop of red hair, his shoulders hunched over the Formica top.

“What are you doing?”

Startled, Decker pivoted around to face her. “I didn’t hear you get up.”

She sat next to him. Immediately, Decker began stacking papers in front of him. Once they were piled up, he covered them with his elbows, hiding them from Rina’s eyes as if she were trying to cheat off him.

“Peter, what are you doing?”

“Just going over loose ends.”

“What loose ends?”

“Just business stuff. Not important.” He scooped up the papers and stood. “Come on. We’ll both go back to bed.”

Rina pointed to his chair. Decker sat back down. “Tell me the truth. Are you working on the shopping-bag rapist?”

Decker didn’t answer.

“Peter, just what do you hope to accomplish from three thousand miles away?”

“So what should I do? Sit by while this asshole picks off women? He got another one—”

“I’m aware of that—”

“Rina, I sat with my daughter and her friends for two friggin days. Hearing them cry … they may be women on the outside but inside they’re frightened little children. I spoke to Cindy this afternoon. This time, she wants to come home.”

“So she’s coming home?”

“I told her no.” Decker began to pace. “I told her, give it a little more time. Because if she comes home, the bastard wins. And what will that do to her psyche? Chased away by a phantom. Know what, Rina? He is winning!”

“It’s wretched, but—”

Decker blurted out, “You ask me what I can do three thousand miles away? The sad truth is nothing. But if it makes me feel better reading some detective’s case notes, then indulge me!”

Abruptly, he threw the papers across the room and looked at Rina.

“Do you think I did wrong by telling her to stay?” Decker began to pace again. “As her father, I really want her home. But I don’t want her to leave because someone is chasing her away. I raised her to feel she was strong enough to conquer the world. Now this SOB …” He sank back in his chair and rubbed his face. “I think I’m going nuts!”

Slowly Rina got up and began assembling the papers. She set them in front of her husband, then placed a kettle of water on the stove. “Do the police have any ideas?”

“They think it’s someone on the inside because he knows the secluded areas of the campus. College! Perfect breeding grounds for weirdos and perverts. You’ve got hyper-hormoned kids with poor judgment thrown together unsupervised. Bastard rapist. He knows they’re easy fodder.”

“Cindy’s twenty-one.”

“When she cries in my arms, she’s a kid. I can’t stand this. Screw it! I’m sending her a plane ticket tomorrow—”

“Peter, you did the right thing by telling her to stay. You can’t protect her forever.”

“So I’ll protect her as long as I can.”

“If the monster strikes again, then you and she can reevaluate. In the meantime, if she can stick it out until he’s caught … handling this situation will give her a sense of mastery. That this maniac didn’t scare her away. Believe me, I know what it’s like to live in fear.”

The kettle began to boil. Rina brought out two mugs and made tea. Decker was quiet, remembering how they’d met. Rina had been a witness to a rape, Decker had been the cop assigned to the crime. During the course of the investigation, they had found out that Rina had been the intended victim. Even with that knowledge, Rina had held firm, refused to be scared away by a madman’s perversions. In the end, she had come away the better for it.

But this was his daughter.

“So you think I did the right thing?” Decker asked.

Rina placed a cup of ginger tea in front of her husband. “I think so, yes. Drink.”

“Okay, you’re a smart person.” Decker sipped boiling tea. “I’ll trust you.”

“Thank you.”

“I trust you, you trust me. Isn’t that what this whole thing’s about?”

“You mean love?”

“Yeah, love and the whole nine yards.”

“The whole nine yards?”

“You know what I mean. Love, marriage, kids, dogs, mortgages, responsibility, life—”

“Poor Peter. You’re feeling so burdened.”

“I’m not feeling burdened, I am burdened.”

Rina took his hand. “You want to go out to New York again?”

Decker shook his head no. “What does that say to Cindy? That every time there’s a crisis, Daddy’ll come to rescue her? No, I’ve got to let her deal with it and just pray for the best.” He looked at the kitchen clock. “Is it too early to say Shacharit?”

Rina thought a moment. There were entire sections of Talmud written about the permissible times to say the morning prayers. Rina looked at the kitchen clock. A little before three A.M.

“It’s never too early or too late to pray. And Peter, add your own private wishes at the beginning of Shemonah Esreh. Ask Hashem specifically to look after Cindy, to watch over her and keep her safe. Make your requests as detailed as you want.”

Decker smiled. “I can do that?”

Rina smiled back. “You can do that.”

7

In the dead of night, I wrote letters to my grandparents, all the while growing even more aloof from my father and stepmother. Jean tried to cut through my secrecy with insipid stabs into my personal life. It became clear that she thought I was sequestering a boyfriend. I answered her politely, but revealed nothing. My father never even picked up on my change of attitude. To him, I was a house pet. As long as I was healthy and didn’t pee on the carpet, I was left to benign neglect.

The school week rocketed by. With Chris gone, I was back to walking home. On Tuesday, Bull—né Steve—Anderson met me at my locker after school and offered me a ride. The school’s star halfback, as did Chris, ran in the fast lane of booze, drugs, and sex. Steve was handsome and buffed with a con-man smile. He’d been cordial to me the year I’d tutored him. But beyond that, he had never given me a second glance.

On the lift home, I sensed a change—the wolfish way he looked at me. I sat rigidly in the passenger seat of his Camaro, showing scant interest in his conversation. When he parked in front of my house, he told me I needed to loosen up and have some fun. He invited me to a party that night. I declined, citing schoolwork. When I closed the door to my house, I turned the deadbolt.

The next day, when Steve saw me in the halls, he acknowledged me with the barest of courtesy. I was relieved.

Chris called me up the following Friday morning. Hearing his voice sent ripples of pleasure down my spine. He wasn’t coming to school but he told me to come to his place tonight at the usual time.

I was weak-kneed when he answered the door that evening. He wore a black silk jacket over a black tee and faded jeans. His hair had been stepped in back, but it was long and loose in front. A gold crucifix hung from his neck. He took the lead-filled backpacks I was carrying.

“Welcome back,” I said.

“Thank you.” He hefted the book bags onto his kitchen counter. “These are heavy. Next time, just leave them in the car and I’ll get them for you.”

He poured me a cup of coffee and told me to take a seat. I pulled up a stool. “How’d your gig go?”

“Without a hitch,” he said. “I never have any problem with work. How’ve you been?”

“Fine. A little nervous actually.”

“Why’s that?”

“Mr. Hedding announced an orchestra test this Monday.”

“Which piece?”

“Brandenburg Number Two. I’m embarrassed to play in front of you.”

“Why?” He poured himself a shot of Scotch. “I’ve heard you play before.”

“Yeah, but now it’s different. I know you.”

“You see me struggling in my studies all the time. I’m not embarrassed. You shouldn’t be either.”

“But this is different.”

“Why?”

I leaned on my elbows. “Because my bad playing is so … visceral. It’s so … out there … public.”

“You never cared before.”

“Because I never had to look you in the eye afterward.”

Chris held a finger in the air, disappeared, then came back a moment later with a violin case. He took out the instrument, tuned it, then motioned me up from the stool.

“Play for me.”

He offered me the fiddle. I regarded it as if it were an evil talisman. “I don’t have the sheet music.”

He sat on his leather couch and sipped his drink. “Play what you know by heart.”

“I don’t know anything by heart.”

“So just draw the bow across the strings. Get a sound from it, all right?”

I sighed. I got As in orchestra only because I showed up on time and took all the tests. It was no reflection of my skill as a musician. Red-faced, I started bowing open strings. My hands were shaking. I made sounds akin to a strangling cat’s. I stopped and giggled, but Chris kept his expression flat.

“Keep going.”

“I know how sensitive your ear is. How can you stand it?”

“Keep going.”

I played the test piece as best I could by heart. I made mistakes. I sounded terrible. I was almost in tears. I kept waiting for him to grimace, but he sat stoically.

“Play it again.”

“Chris—”

“Play it again.”

“This is torture—”

“Play it again.”

I did. I sounded a bit better and Chris gave me a compliment to that effect. “Can I please stop now?” I asked.

Chris got up from the couch, took the violin.

“It’s a beautiful-sounding instrument,” I said. “I wish I could do it more justice. Why don’t you play the piece?”

He shrugged, tucked the violin under his chin, and came up with a concerto that was note-perfect as well as sound-perfect. I told him I hated him.

He smiled, put the violin away, then patted his jacket pockets. “Where’d I put … ah, here we go.” He pulled out a small wrapped package. “Maybe this’ll make you hate me less.” He handed it to me.

I looked at it, then at him.

“For me?”

“Yes, for you. Open it.”

I ripped open the paper. The box held a set of pearl studs for pierced ears. My eyes went from him, to the earrings, then back to him. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you is fine. Try them on.”

I replaced my gold hoops with milk-white orbs. “How do they look?”

“They look beautiful. Rather, you look beautiful in them.”

“I don’t understand …” I lowered my eyes, then raised them to his face.

“What can I say, Terry?” Chris spoke softly. “You know I’m engaged to someone else. But the heart has a mind of its own.” He walked over to me and slipped his arms around my waist. “Do you love me, Terry?”

Without hesitation, I told him I did.

“I love you, too. So now what do we do?”

I leaned against his breast, soothed by his heartbeat. “I don’t know.”

He said, “Usually, when two people love each other, they express their love in intimate ways. But I can’t ask you to sleep with me. Because I’m going to marry someone else.”

“Do you want me to tell you that it’s okay?”

He held me tightly. “Is it okay?”

I didn’t answer him. He said, “Since we last saw each other, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind. And that’s saying a lot. Because I’m usually very good at compartmentalizing. I don’t want to sleep with you because it will hurt you in the end. But there are other ways we can be intimate with each other.”

I lifted my head and met his eyes. He read my confusion.

“Let me draw you,” he said. “Completely.”

Completely. As in the nude. My heart started racing. I closed my eyes and buried myself in his embrace.

“Look at me, Terry,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

I opened my eyes but said nothing.

“Do you?” he repeated.

I smiled weakly. He picked up my hands and kissed my fingers. “Terry, I know what they’ve taught you, so I know what you’re feeling.” He placed my hand on his cheek. “Embarrassment, shame—”

“I’m not that pious anymore, Chris.” I pulled my hand away. “I haven’t been to confession in over six months.”