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  "Thank you."

  "Don't ever be ashamed of what God gave you, you hear me?" 47

  I nodded.

  He drew one sketch, then another, then another. We didn't talk as he worked his way through one pad, quickly replacing it with a new one. He wiped sweat from his brow.

  "I'm hot," he said. "I'm going to take off my shirt."

  I shrugged. He worked bare-chested. His body was hard and developed, but not overdone. Not an anabolics user. Too much chest hair, and he was more sinewy than inflated. I remembered Bull Anderson parading around the halls in his swimming trunks one day after school, his oiled, hairless barrel chest reddened by patches of acne.

  Chris stood back and fingered his crucifix, his eyes on my face. "Your color's back. You must be feeling better."

  I nodded.

  "Good."

  I said, "You used the past tense when you spoke about your uncle's mistress. What happened to her?"

  "She died."

  "Did he kill her?"

  Chris jerked his head up. "In a sense, I guess he did."

  I waited for more, but he didn't explain. He sketched furiously. "You can take your panties off now."

  I froze.

  Chris said, "If it's too hard for you, Teresa, we'll forget the whole thing. The purpose of this is to make us closer, not to put up walls."

  He spoke smoothly and soothingly, as if my feelings were his only concern. At that moment, I would probably have drunk poison for him. Instead, I slipped off my panties, keeping my knees up, legs soldered together.

  Chris walked over to me. Looming over my smallness, he must have sensed how insignificant I felt. He knelt down and spoke very softly. "Give me privilege, angel. I swear I won't ever let you down."

  I still couldn't move.

  "Let me help you."

  He put his hands on my knees and opened my legs, positioning them about two feet apart. His face was so close I could feel warmed air on my inner thighs. His skin was flushed, his eyes had dilated, and his breathing had become audible. He remained in the same position for what seemed like an interminable period.

  Finally, he let out a breathless laugh. "I swear to Jesus, I can't get up. I can't move. I'm ... too weak."

  I smiled.

  He closed his eyes, crossed himself, and finally stood up. He threw 48

  back his head and burst into unrestrained laughter. "Well, that was a first." Slowly, he made his way back to his sketch pad. "Just keep that position."

  He laughed again. It was infectious and I started to relax. After a while, my eyes traveled down his body, landing on the noticeable bulge in his crotch. I felt tingling below, wondered if he noticed. A moment later, he gave me a knowing smile.

  "You dirty girl, keep your eyes up and off my groin."

  "You can look, why can't I?"

  "I don't mind you looking," he clarified. "But I need to see your beautiful eyes."

  "You're not looking at my eyes, Christopher."

  Again Chris smiled. "You're nasty, Teresa. Of course I'm looking at your eyes." He flipped to a new piece of paper. "If you're that curious, I can take my pants off."

  "I'll pass. My heart's only good for a shock a day and I'm still dealing with your uncle's death threats."

  "Terry, nothing's going to happen to you." He studied me, then his drawing. "I'd ... kill myself before I'd let anything ever happen to you. You may be little in size, but you've got a six-four, one-hundred-eighty-pound killing machine at your service. More reliable than a pit bull and I don't have bad breath. Hold still."

  "Chris?"

  "What?"

  "How did your uncle's mistress die?"

  He didn't answer me. I didn't press it. He sketched in silence for half an hour. Finally, he set down his charcoal, put on his shirt, then picked up the comforter from the floor. He draped it across my shoulders.

  "She died of breast cancer. She had it for a long time, but was afraid to go to the doctors. She was afraid of losing her breast, disfiguring the body he loved so much. She just let it go until it was way too late. Stupid. He later told me the sexiest thing about her chest wasn't her breasts but her heartbeat."

  He traced my jawline with his finger.

  "You would have liked my mom. She was beautiful, but real down to earth. Just like you."

  "Your mom?" I looked at him, wide-eyed. "So your uncle Joey isn't really "

  "No. After my dad was murdered, my mom took a job at Joey's place as a housekeeper. He took an instant liking to her; they became lovers. Joey's wife the woman I call my aunt was always the re- 49

  fined lady. She just... looked the other way. After my mom died, she and my uncle adopted me. They never could have their own kids, so this seemed like a good solution."

  He stopped talking, his eyes far away.

  "My aunt got her revenge on my mother. She co-opted me. I never talked about my mom after she died. My aunt wouldn't have allowed it. I was no longer my mom's kid. I was my aunt's child. Only remnants of my former life are some scars and my name."

  "It must have made you angry."

  "More sad than anything. I knew what she was doing but was still grateful to her. Both she and my uncle could have sent me packing. Which would have meant five years in foster homes. After my mom died, I had nowhere to go."

  I said, "Now I understand why you agreed to marry Lorraine."

  His laugh was bitter. "I didn't agree to anything, Terry. I obeyed an order."

  The room fell quiet.

  "Only thing I ever bucked Joey on was school," Chris continued. "He wanted me to marry Lorenza as soon "

  "Lorenza?"

  "Lorenza's her given name. He wanted me to marry her as soon as I turned eighteen. I told him it made more sense for me to finish up my schooling out here, then go back east and get married. He finally gave in, but he wasn't happy about it. He won't be happy until I'm tied for life with a couple of sons under my belt... common grandchildren."

  He kissed my hand and brought it to his cheek.

  "Can we do this again next Friday night? Make it our special evening?"

  I told him yes.

  "Thank you." He kissed my hand again, then let it go. "Terry, listen to me. Everything we've said is very private. We go back to school on Monday, it's like before. You stay with your friends, I stay with mine. You understand why?"

  "You don't want your uncle to find out about me."

  "Yes. Also I've done stuff in the past a couple of drug convictions and some B and Es. Stuff I did to prove myself to my uncle. All I got for my efforts was beatings. But I didn't care. I wanted my uncle to see me as tough."

  "I understand."

  "Joey spent lots of money on me, Terry. He bribed the right people. Now I've got a clean record. Matter of fact, that's why he sent 50

  me out here in the first place. A fresh start. But I'm still known as Joey Donatti's kid. If my uncle ever goes down, I drown with him. It's better if people think you're only my tutor. It's late. Get dressed and I'll follow you home. Make sure you get in all right."

  "You don't have to do that."

  "Yes, I do," Chris whispered. "You have a treasure, you guard it with your life." 51

  And it was exactly like before. Chris stayed in his group, Cheryl Diggs giving him neck rubs, outwardly oblivious to my distant longing stares. Nothing passed between us, even when we were alone. I simply tutored him. As if he had locked up his feelings for me and put them in cold storage.

  His apathy confused me, then angered me. In the end, he had cut me to the quick. I felt embarrassed and ashamed by what I had done for him, for falling for his glib talk and sweet words. By Friday, I decided that I didn't want to see him anymore. When I came to his place that evening, he threw open the door, pulled me inside, then shut it with a slam.

  He was short of breath and paced his living room. "I'm running a little late. My uncle. Effing pain in the ass, excuse my language. Gotta put everything on hold whenever Joey calls. Jerk was in a panic. He's always in a p
anic. And me, his effing errand boy. God, I hate that man."

  He suddenly stopped moving and faced me. "I'm almost done setting up. I made coffee. Have a cup while I finish up."

  I stared at him. "Setting up what?"

  His eyes went wide, then he smiled. "You're putting me on, right?"

  I shook my head no.

  "Terry, c'mon." His smile lost some wattage. "This is our night, remember?" 52

  "Ah," I said. "I see. I get Friday while Cheryl Diggs gets Saturday through Thursday. Thank you, but I'll pass."

  His face fell. "What are you talking about?"

  The best defense was an offense. I wasn't about to be taken in. "Chris, I don't feel well. I'll see you Monday. Oh, good going on your math test. Farrell told me you did well."

  I turned to leave, but he came over and gripped my arm. I averted my eyes but didn't resist his hold.

  "Terry," Chris whispered. "Cheryl means nothing "

  "Oh, please!" I interrupted. "Cheryl means nothing, Lorraine means nothing. What do you do? Surround yourself with girls who mean nothing to you? So what does that say about me, Chris? And let go of my arm."

  Slowly, he dropped his hold on me. Without looking at him, I told him I'd see him later.

  "I wrote a composition for you," he blurted out.

  How convenient. I turned around and looked at him as best I could. Because my eyes were in the back of my head from rolling them.

  "No, really. I'm not lying." He held up a finger, indicating that I should wait. Then he went inside his hall closet and returned holding a sheaf of paper. He handed it to me.

  My eyes slipped down to the title page.

  A poem for Teresa

  With special gratitude to Our Lord Jesus Christ, thanking

  Him for giving me a true spiritual love. May God forever

  protect her and keep her from harm's way.

  In the left-hand corner was a small drawing that could have been lifted from a fourteenth-century wood-panel painting. A young girl in a red dress, the crown of her head illuminated in gold pen by the spirit of God. Long chestnut hair, eyes closed, her hands folded in prayer, head bent modestly toward her breast.

  The face was mine.

  My eyes went moist as I scanned the pages. Six sheets of musical notation with lots of cross-outs. Chris took the music from me. "It's done but it isn't refined yet. But with the mood you're in... I figured I'd better bring out the heavy artillery."

  I laughed through my tears. He lifted my chin until my eyes met his. "Let me play what I have so far, okay?" 53

  I nodded. His smile was brilliant. "Okay, sit down." He led me to his couch. "Okay. Sit. Wait."

  He went to his bedroom and came out carting his cello and stool. "Okay." He sat down directly across from me and placed the instrument between his knees, burying the spike in his white carpet. "You never heard my Rowland Ross. It is one bitchen instrument. Okay. Okay. Now you gotta remember that it isn't polished yet, all right?"

  I smiled. "All right?"

  "And I may make a few mistakes. I don't have it all down yet. So cut me slack, all right."

  "No, I'm going to critique you," I said, wiping my tears.

  "So you're happy now?"

  "Yes. I'm happy now."

  "Good. 'Cause I'll do better if you're happy."

  "I'm delirious with joy. Play it already."

  His smile was edible. Then he closed his eyes a moment, started to breathe slowly. When his bow made contact with the strings, I closed my eyes.

  The room filled with a sound so pure and sacred, it brought an ache to my heart, chills. Because he wasn't playing music. He was praying. Soft, plaintive pleas of repentance answered by the all-encompassing embrace of God's mercy. When he had finished, I couldn't see, I couldn't talk, I couldn't move. Emotion had paralyzed me.

  "Do you like it?" he asked me.

  I opened my eyes and swallowed dryly. "It's ..." Tears had been running down my cheeks. "It's positively ... sublime."

  "Like you."

  "Hardly."

  "Look at me, Terry."

  I did.

  He said, "What Beethoven did for Elise, that's what I want to do for you. I want to immortalize you."

  My heart stood still. I couldn't answer him.

  "That's why I wrote this for you; that's why I draw you." He placed his cello on its side rib and came over to me. His lips brushed my forehead, his touch as gentle and spiritual as baptismal waters. "You are holy to me. Our relationship is holy to me. Do you understand?"

  He handed me the title page. "Keep it. And whenever you doubt me, look at this. Because it's the way I really feel. I love you, Teresa. More than you ever could know." He paused. "Will you let me draw you tonight? Completely?"

  I dried my eyes and nodded yes.

  He whispered, "Go into my bedroom, take off your clothes, and put on one of my robes. I'll be there in a minute, all right?"

  I got up and did what he asked of me. He came back in, set up for around five minutes, then turned to look at me. I regarded his eyes. I was looking for a window to his soul. All I got was leaded glass. I cleared my throat. "You want me to take the robe off now?"

  He nodded yes.

  Slowly I untied the belt and let the garment fall from my shoulders. "Should I sit the same as last time?"

  He shook his head no. "I want something different tonight."

  "Different?"

  "I want to tie you up."

  Involuntarily, my fingers wrapped around my throat. "What?"

  "I want to tie you up."

  The room went silent. I started shivering. "Why?"

  He extended his arms out from his shoulders and slumped his head to the side. "You are my artistic vision of Our Lord Jesus on the cross. I can't crucify you. So this is the next best thing."

  I was too stunned to talk.

  "Say no if you're squeamish."

  "Chris, I'm not squeamish "

  "So do it." He came over to the bed and draped his robe around my shoulders. "Please, please, Terry. It's very important to me."

  I looked at the ceiling. "You are absolutely the most wonderful, but weirdest boy I have ever met in my entire life."

  He smiled sheepishly. "Call it artistic temperament." His eyes met mine. He lowered his head and kissed my feet. "I'm begging you. Please!"

  I fell backward onto his mattress. "I must be crazy "

  "You'll do it?"

  "Yes, I'll do it."

  Without ceremony, Chris got up from the bed, went to his closet, and pulled out a dozen neckties. I felt my heart beating wildly. I stuttered out, "You've done this before?"

  "Just swear to me that you're not a serial killer."

  "I'm not a serial killer. Lie down." He waited, I waited. Gently, he pushed down on my shoulders. "Please."

  As I lay on his bed, he pulled off the robe, took my right arm, and secured it to his headboard with one of his ties. Then he did the left. I felt as powerless as a deboned chicken. I wiggled my fingers.

  "Too tight?" he asked.

  "No ... I have circulation .. . barely."

  "Your limbs start to tingle, let me know. I don't want to hurt you."

  "Well, that's comforting."

  His face became flat. "Terry, I could snap your neck as easily as taking a breath. I don't want to do nasty things to you. I draw you as an expression of my love for you. Do you believe me?"

  "Of course, but "

  "Good. Then cross your ankles."

  "You're tying my feet, too?"

  "Jesus was bound and constrained when he died. Cross your ankles."

  I crossed my ankles. He tied them together, then took another tie and bound me to his footboard. Completely immobilized, I started to shiver. He threw the blanket over my body and started arranging my hair.

  "You want to paste a false beard on me?"

  He didn't answer, smoothing out loose strands of hair. He moved my head to one side, then to the other. He told me to look up, look down, close my e
yes, open my eyes, smile, frown, then look beatific. Finally, he stood and removed the blanket from my body. Chris studied me for a long time.