She tried several times to stop his talk. His talk disturbed her, it was so blatantly a device to get her into bed. She was always amazed at how men of mature years, who should have learned better, continued to say the same stupid things, the same obvious lies, as the men of her youth.
‘I’ve been looking for a serious romance,’ he said, leaning forward to stub out his cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table. He straightened, turning so as to come around facing her, and took her in his arms. When he kissed her, she was repelled by the taste and smell of tobacco. Then he squeezed her breast and pushed his tongue into her mouth.
She began to feel a little heat. His hand went to her knee, then under her skirt. Good, good, because he had stopped talking.
He reached her crotch and she wanted to place her hand on the bulge in his trousers. But she had never been able to do that without the man moving her hand for her.
He began talking again. ‘When a man and a woman feel for each other, sweetheart, they don’t have to wait a long time to . . . consummate, you understand?’
What sort of an idiot did he think she was? What sort of idiot species did he think women were?
‘Your intelligence, your beauty . . .’ He was rising, drawing her up with him, babbling on. ‘. . . will turn my bedroom into a flowery bridal chamber . . .’
They were in a short hallway when she pulled free and turned back. ‘Would you drive me home?’
He stood there, staring, as she opened the front closet and got into her lightweight-wool short coat. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘I have to get up very early for a pre-class tennis game.’
‘The hell you do!’ It was a shout, and she shrank within herself.
‘Rita . . .’ He waved his hands. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t just rush away.’
His voice was calmer, and he had waved hands, not fists. She said, carefully, ‘I wasn’t rushing away, Vincent. I was asking you to drive me home. Though it’s close enough to walk . . .’
‘Nonsense.’ He had her arm and was drawing her to the kitchen. ‘We’ll have a liqueur. Or a cream sherry. Then I’ll drive you.’
‘Well, perhaps a sherry.’
But in the kitchen he suddenly grabbed her, one hand clutching her bottom, and panted in her ear, ‘It could be love . . . a lifetime . . . we’re both so alone . . .’
She shoved him hard and sent him stumbling backward. ‘Act your age,’ she said and turned to leave. She would walk or take a cab.
He was grabbing her again, from the back this time, fumbling for her breasts, saying things, ugly things about her being a ‘cock-teasing bitch’ and he would act his age, all right, ‘and so will you!’ His voice raged and she tried to conquer fear by telling herself that if she simply persisted in going toward the door, this small stout man with almost no hair would give up. After all, how many sixty-year-old rapists were there?
The thought and her extreme nervousness made her laugh shrilly, even as she fought to free herself from the arms encircling her body.
The laugh was a mistake. ‘Cunt!’ he shouted, and spun her around and flung her back toward the sink.
And now his hands were fists and he was raging and advancing on her, and she choked on her terror and was unable to say she would stay the night if only he wouldn’t rage at her, wouldn’t hit her. And why did men act this way with her anyway? Why did these things happen to her, she who had loved Daddy and Will?
She turned her back on him and bent over the sink, unable to face the fearsome sight. And saw the dishes where he had hurriedly placed them, the scraps of meat still there and the forks and the steak knives . . .
The terror was too much. He would begin hitting her soon.
She turned, raising the knife, and hacked down at his chest. She felt the blade scrape bone before sliding in up to the haft. She also felt hot liquid spray her knuckles.
She cried out.
He also cried out, a strangling, choking sound.
He was staring down at the knife sticking into the lower centre of his chest and at the brilliant red stain spreading rapidly over his white shirt. He shook his head and stumbled backward. She jerked the knife out and followed, stabbing and sobbing, feeling the hot liquid spray her face. She slashed too high once and sliced open his cheek and said, ‘No, no!’
But it was always that way with knives and, while she was sickened, she wasn’t surprised as she had been the first time. It was a butcher’s shop with knives and if she’d had a choice, if it didn’t always happen so fast, if she had been able to plan it, she would have used something else, anything else. How the TV shows irritated her with their bloodless stabbings, shootings, beatings! Bad for the children to think it was so neat, so easy . . .
She almost tripped over him when he collapsed, first into a sitting position, then onto his left side. His arms and legs moved convulsively, briefly, and were still.
There was a puddle of blood on the floor, growing larger by the second. She turned to the sink and ran the water until it was hot. She washed her hands and face; washed the knife thoroughly; washed the other dishes and utensils.
She dried everything, found where they belonged and put them away, holding them with the towel. She remembered the coffee cups in the living room, and soon they too were washed and put away.
She stepped carefully up to Vincent, avoiding the puddle of blood, and bent and fingered his neck, trying to find a pulse in the carotid artery as she taught her first-aid class; then tried the right wrist. Nothing.
She went to the little toilet off the entry hall and checked herself in the mirror. Her cheek was faintly stained, as if with rouge. She washed thoroughly and returned to the kitchen and dried herself with the dish towel, which she planned to take with her.
She thought about what she might have touched. She wiped everything she could think of with the dish towel, including doorknobs. She tried to remember what else she should worry about, from the Agatha Christie mysteries she had once been addicted to. But that was when she’d been married. Since then she had not enjoyed murder mysteries. On the other hand, since then she had become far more experienced in murder than Miss Marple . . . which brought a wan smile to her lips.
She went to the living room and fluffed up the couch cushions and wiped the coffee table with the dish towel. Still holding the towel, she went to the front door, opened it a crack and looked out. She stepped into the hall, closed the door, wiped the knob and put the towel in her coat pocket.
Later, at home, she felt that the long walk had done her good, had relaxed her. She piled her clothes, including pantyhose and shoes, in the centre of the kitchen so as not to forget to take them to a trash bin behind a shopping centre far from the one she used. She hated to lose the coat, and the shoes were almost new, but traces of blood could have splattered onto them. For that same reason she showered, scrubbing herself, soaping her hair three times.
In bed at last, she was amazed that she was so calm, so free of guilt or fear. It was increasingly this way, each time it happened.
Vanessa felt his penis going soft in her mouth, and told herself it didn’t mean that he felt less for her. Personal problems. Business problems. Perhaps health problems. He’d lashed out at Jitzler, hadn’t he? He’d even lashed out at Christmas! So this was just another symptom of a general problem.
He said, ‘I’m sorry.’
She began to lie down beside him, but he got up and went to the chair for his robe.
‘Can’t we talk about it?’ she asked.
He walked to the bathroom. ‘What’s there to say?’