This remark is so irritable, so annoyed, as if a fly were buzzing overhead, I am shocked into silence.

  Baring my heart to speak of Hadrian Johnson, and this man’s response is to be annoyed.

  “It’s some kind of obsession—‘race’ obsession. Some of us are frankly tired of.”

  Waiting for me to continue but no. Not just now.

  IN A QUASI-PUBLIC PLACE HE KISSED HER. THIS WAS NOT LIKE HIM, for he did not want to be seen in public with her (usually). And yet, it was beginning to be like him, for since the disappointment of the daughter, and since she’d lied to him about the dog, though he had no way (of course) of knowing that she’d lied, he was behaving differently, and there had come the realization, belated, abashed, that it was no longer appropriate to say that he was behaving differently because now he was behaving as (almost) she expected him to behave, even in a quasi-public place like the parking lot behind the Warburton Hotel where patrons returning to their cars beneath tall flood lights might glance in the direction of the sleek black Jaguar whose driver seemed to be leaning over, hunching over, a smaller trapped female figure gripped in a headlock.

  Kissed her. Except it was not a exactly “kiss”—rather, an assault with his mouth. And his tongue, protruding belligerently into her mouth.

  She felt panic, that she would suffocate. Trying not to gag.

  But she could not shake herself free—he was gripping her head in his both hands. Crude mimicry of sexual intercourse, the female mouth the receptacle, helpless to resist the male.

  Then, when at last he released her, as if it had been mere passion that had overcome him, or some obscure invitation of her own exacerbated by alcohol, she tried to take some initiative, kissing the man in little butterfly flurries, to indicate affection, playfulness. A sort of sexual giddiness. Not serious.

  A girl’s kisses, or a child’s. She had kissed men like this often, in the past—this one had seemed to like it. He had seemed to like her.

  Now, it wasn’t clear that this one liked her. Not much.

  Leaning away from her, laughing, as if the assault had been merely playful, already forgotten, or soon to be.

  “Where were we going?—oh yes: home.”

  THOSE NIGHTS HE INSISTED THAT SHE REMAIN WITH HIM, IN THE apartment.

  In the master bedroom, in the bed. Gripping her tight, tight as death.

  So that she thought, marveling—He loves me! This is love, this need.

  So lonely. In his life so lonely. He had no one but her, now. But he would have her.

  He slept naked, his body oozed sweat. On his feet he towered over her, in bed his body was like something fallen, inert. Running his hands over her eagerly telling her, he would never hurt her. Everyone else had turned against him. Everyone he’d ever trusted. His wife had turned their daughter against him. His wife had become a bitter crazy person to spite him. She’d been beautiful, she had ruined her beauty to spite him. If she killed herself as she was threatening to do, it would be to spite him.

  A man in such distress, you must comfort him. Console him.

  You must not contradict him.

  Asking suddenly as if he’d just thought of it, was she sleeping with someone else? While she was sleeping with him?

  Was she sleeping with black men?

  He wouldn’t be angry, he said. He promised.

  If she would tell him the truth, that was all he wanted. If she felt that she could trust him, if she trusted him with her life, that was all he wanted . . .

  Sinking into sleep as a man sinks into a bog. Sinking sinking until nothing remained not even the outline of the sunken body and so she was not required to answer, this time she had been spared.

  MAYBE INSTEAD OF MARRYING HER HE WILL MURDER HER.

  Fuck her, in a way that (seriously) hurts. And another time that way, or two or three, until it’s stale to him, and the sight of her and the smell of her and the sound of the female pretending to moan with passion is revolting to him, almost by accident he snuffs out her life.

  Christ! Didn’t know what I was doing.

  A moth the size of a butterfly hitting the glass lampshade, batting its wings, the most beautiful moth I’d ever seen but the sound of it made me grab it in my fist not knowing what I meant to do and then it was—well, crushed, dead . . . And turned out to be the girl in the bed with me, that I hadn’t even remembered was there, that was crushed. Dead.

  RETURNED FROM WALKING THE LITTLE BULLDOG ON HIS COMICALLY foreshortened legs. And there was Orlando Metti glaring at me in disgust. A look in his face as if he’d like to give the little dog quivering in fear of him a good kick to confirm the reasonableness of the fear.

  “Y’know what, darling?—take him.”

  Smiling at Metti, for I had no idea what he meant.

  “‘Take’—where?”

  “Take him with you. When you leave here. Just—take the fucking dog out of here.”

  And now I knew, and wanted to think that Metti was joking.

  “But—Brindle is your daughter’s dog, Orlando.”

  Pausing, for the name Orlando feels strange on my tongue, like Szechuan pepper, a numbing sensation. “You can’t give away your daughter’s dog . . .”

  “Fuck this ‘daughter’ shit. She isn’t here, and you are.”

  “But—”

  “D’you want him, or not?”

  “I—I—I can’t—”

  “All right, then. Forget it.”

  Snatching the dog’s leash from my hand, yanking the little dog so that he cried out in pain and terror as Metti dragged him away to the back room.

  Stunned, for a moment paralyzed. No idea what to do, what to say that would not inflame the man more.

  Then, pleading: “Orlando? Please, wait—why don’t you call your daughter? Explain the circumstances here—”

  Metti shut the door on the little dog he’d shoved inside the room with his foot. So traumatized was Brindle, he wasn’t even whimpering.

  “I said, fuck the ‘daughter.’ Fuck the ‘circumstances.’ I asked you if you wanted the God-damned dog, and you said no. You’ve made your wishes known, darling. So shut up about the subject.”

  Soon there came a faint whimpering sound from beyond the door. I put my hand on the doorknob, and Metti shoved me away with a curse. Damn you. Fuck you.

  He has made a dinner reservation, we must both leave now. But the stricken look in my face annoys him, I want to spend a few minutes with Brindle to calm him, comfort him. But Metti says, we have to leave now. This minute. Now.

  Then, in an instant he has changed his mind. No dinner. Or, rather—he will go alone.

  “Just get out, Violet. That face of yours, the way you are looking at me, you’d better get out before I break it.”

  LATER, HE WILL CALL, APOLOGIZE. YOUR LOVER IS VERY SKILLED, practiced at apologizing.

  Calmly you listen. Calmly you tell him No thank you.

  You stay away from him. You have been forewarned. Next time he may break your face. You are determined—There will be no next time.

  NEXT TIME YOU STEP INTO METTI’S APARTMENT, THERE IS A NOTICEABLE quiet.

  No barking, no excited whining, whimpering. You are uneasy missing the sound of toenails clicking on the floor.

  Though the doggy-odor lingers. You wonder if Metti realizes.

  “My daughter showed up after all. She took the dog with her.”

  Metti pauses. Gauging your response.

  “He’s out of my life now. No more dogs.”

  Another pause. Metti is enjoying this, watching your face.

  It is three weeks, two days after he’d told you to leave. After he’d dragged the little bulldog into the back room, slammed the door.

  So frequently Metti has called in the interim, begging you to take him back, give him another chance. So frequently apologizing, he’s been under strain at the Institute, one of the major investors threatening to pull out, lost his temper about the damned dog but would never hurt you.

  Assuring you, he has cut back on his drinking. Seriously!

  Acknowledges it was a problem. Absolutely. Broke up his marriage, both him and his wife drinking too much except the wife, like most women, couldn’t handle it.

  But now, he’s all but stopped. A glass or two of wine at dinner. Weekdays. When he misses you most.

  And so, you’ve agreed to see him again. A few times. Hard to say no when the man gives you the most exquisite gifts—silk scarf with label YVES SAINT LAURENT, pair of gold-plated dangling earrings (to match the bracelet), fifty-dollar bills to help out, as he says, with your “education.”

  “You’ll miss Brindle, darling. I know. But he’s better off now—he always loved Leila best.”

  You wondered if any of this could be true. Smiling at Metti not quite meeting his eye. Not wanting to see a wink.

  Of course the damned little fucker is gone, and good riddance.

  But you could not think this. You could not accept this. You were feeling dazed, uncertain of even the guilt you should be feeling if there were cause for guilt.

  Weakly you said, “Well. Brindle won’t be so lonely now.”

  Metti laughed. “That’s right, darling. Brindle will never be lonely again.”

  Eyes stinging with tears. You could not allow the man to see, to gloat. Turning from him sick with hatred of him, and self-loathing, now it was too late.

  BUT I COULD NOT HAVE TAKEN HIM! NOT THEN.

  Could not—he belonged to the daughter . . .

  In my life, there is no room for a dog.

  My life as a rat.

  NOT THE SORROWFUL VIRGIN/MADONNA NOW. INSTEAD IT CAME to be bitch, slut.

  Something had been flung open. Wild winds, quickened pulses.

  His fingers probing, poking. Discovering you where you were moist and open. Yearning.

  Learn not to flinch. The most sensitive part of a woman’s body, raw nerves. Unbearable if wrongly touched. Not tenderly.

  Can’t help yourself, crying out. Oh.

  Hey. Sorry. That hurt?

  (You know it hurts, God damn you. Stop.)

  His excuse is, he gets carried away.

  So beautiful. You are so (fucking) beautiful.

  Lying very still. Eyes shut in a kind of prayer. That he will love you, as he has said. Protect you forever.

  Know what?—I think you need to be my wife, Vi-let.

  My little wifey-wife I will know where the fuck she is every minute.

  HAVE YOU HAD SEX WITH BLACK MEN?—HE ASKS.

  At last. At last he asks. Has wanted to ask this question for a long time (he admits).

  Several inches of Johnnie Walker splashed into a glass. Glint of merriment in the rogue male eye.

  You are not drinking whiskey. Not tonight. Too much risk.

  Yet, a drunken elation courses through your veins. Slyly hesitating just long enough (as if) not seeing how your lover is becoming excited.

  Shaking your head ambiguously. Reply could be no. Or, reply could be Not a question I will answer.

  OK, then. Give me an approximate number, please.

  So ridiculous! You want to laugh at him. But no, maybe not.

  Feeling reckless, brazen.

  Hear yourself tell him—Eleven.

  Eleven!—he is astonished, awed. Literally, his lower jaw drops a slow inch.

  Well. E-lev-en. And this was—beginning when?

  Eager to know. Dreading to know. Eyes fixed upon you, whiskey-colored.

  Now hearing yourself tell the man that you hadn’t been counting high school. Middle school. Too out of it, smoking dope in those years. You’d thought he meant actual men—adults . . .

  Whiskey glass lifted, clicking against his teeth. He regards you with something like loathing, fascination. Mild disbelief.

  In high school? Fucking middle school? So young? Jesus! How many?

  How many? We didn’t count.

  Laughing at him now, the look in his face. Who was counting?—you want to know.

  And this was—when? How old—? Like, sixteen? Fifteen?

  Around then. Or earlier. Eighth grade? Seventh? White girls, I mean. Girls who fucked black boys. Who weren’t afraid.

  You—weren’t afraid?

  Why’d we be afraid? Black boys were the best.

  I—I think—that must be—amazing . . . How many?

  Why’d we count? Nobody counted. That’s a crude question.

  Possibly now you’ve gone too far. Crude is not a word one would ordinarily apply to Orlando Metti.

  But you are laughing. First time ever, maybe. In such circumstances.

  You’re lying, aren’t you? Laughing at me.

  Laughing at you? Why would you think that, Orlando.

  Frowning to show how God-damned serious you are. But the laughter bubbles up again, like bile.

  Are you?

  Am I—what?

  Lying. Laughing at me.

  Shaking your head, could be no. Could be yes.

  Measuring the distance required for you to flee, to get out of the way of his fist.

  As for the men, not boys but black men, there’ve been eleven.

  Is that including now? The present time?

  N-No. . . . Not right now.

  But you have hesitated, he has seen. Not so drunk he can’t see. Asking you the crucial question. Perceiving how you take it.

  When was the last one, then? The last black fuck?

  Not meaning to provoke the man. But yes, meaning to provoke the man: making a show of counting on your fingers as if calculating how long you’ve known Orlando Metti.

  Well. I guess—seven months ago. Approximately.

  Here in Catamount Falls?

  Of course! At the university.

  Is he—are you—now?

  Told you no. Not now.

  Were you ever seriously involved with any of them? Like—in love . . .

  Licking his lips for this is not easy. Love has a clinical sound in the man’s mouth. But has to ask, has to know. Burning to know. Excitement, not knowing what the answer will be.

  Again that vague inclination of the head, maybe no. Or—yes.

  And did you—do you—compare?—a black lover, white lovers . . . ?

  “Compare”—how? You mean the size of the male penis? Black male, white male?

  How blunt you are, how unexpected: uttering the word penis to confound the man staring at you in disbelief.

  For not previously in his knowledge of you have you been so frank. Drawn to the sorrowful virgin/Madonna discovered asleep in his bed Orlando Metti is finding this revelation hard to comprehend.

  Matter-of-factly you tell the amazed man that it is true, exactly as white men fear, the black penis is larger.

  Even a relatively small black male, you continue, with the air of one imparting a reluctant truth, yet a truth that must be uttered, will have a proportionately larger penis than a white male.

  Really! Is that so.

  Smiling, a ghastly insincere smile. As if the (white) man’s fear has been confirmed. All that he’d dreaded, turning out to be an open secret.

  You begin laughing, suddenly. A snort of laughter though this exchange is (possibly) not funny at all but dangerous.

  Which is why it is funny—danger.

  Time now to explain to the astonished (white) man that it has all been a joke. Keep that fist from flying wild. Striking you in the face. But does a joke not-funny qualify as a joke?

  Having to go through the motions of the joke as you’d gone through the motions of lovemaking how many times.

  You would tell him—Actually, I have not slept with any black man. I have not slept with eleven men. I have never known eleven men.

  But no, you don’t say this. Like hell you will say this, to undo the spell.

  Suddenly Metti is livid. Saying, Why don’t you shut up, Violet.

  Still you are laughing. You are thinking, Kill me, strangle me. Go ahead, you bastard.

  Shut up, shut up, shut up.

  Looming over you. The bully shaking you. Saying crude things to you. If there’d been a leash around your neck he would have dragged you as he’d dragged the little bulldog. Thrown you into a room, locked the door.

  Still you can’t seem to get serious, your face is melting. So funny!—outrage of the white male.

  Should strangle you, Violet. You fucking cunt. That would stop you laughing at me.

  No. It wouldn’t stop me.

  Wild laughter as he lunges for you, but you are no longer where you’d been.

  Scrambling to your feet. Grabbing at clothes. Not shoes, you’ve forgotten shoes. Fuck shoes.

  Wanting to flatten you on the bed. Smelly trodden bed. His heavy body weighing yours down, helpless. Shoving himself inside you deep as he can for your words have excited him as nothing has excited him recently. He would tear off what remains of your clothing, raging rogue male. No matter that this rogue male is middle-aged, fattish at the waist, jawline loose-jowled, breath coming fast and shallow as his heart thumps desperately in his chest. No matter he no longer recalls who you are, which one of them you are who has disappointed him, betrayed him, escaped him. You are the fucking cunt, the cunt-to-be-fucked until you scream in pain, to his ears the most delicious pain; until you are bleeding, the male rogue has thrust himself inside you like a samurai sword piercing your guts.

  But too quick for him! Not-drunk but all of your senses alert you slip from his clumsy hands, slip beneath his hands, quicksilver as a roused fox. In your fingers a pewter candlestick holder, must’ve been seeing this on a nearby table for the past several minutes without registering its meaning. Out of nowhere you’ve grabbed the pewter object to swing at the enraged face, jubilantly you strike the face between the eyes, not a hard blow but stunning to the man who has never been struck in such a way, by one he’d imagined he might easily subdue. This gives you time to swing the weapon a second time, and much harder. Almost, you imagine hearing the eye socket crack, the cartilage of the nose crushed, you see the panting man losing his balance, falling. Hard.

  Splattering of blood. Whimpering, moaning. But you have no mercy, without a backward glance you are ecstatic in flight descending seventeen vertiginous floors to the ground and running shoeless out into the harsh cold air—Running for my life.

  AND EACH TIME YOU THINK OF ORLANDO METTI, WICKED LAUGHTER bubbles up like bile.

  And each time you think of Orlando Metti, you feel a rush of something like contrition, a kind of remorse, regret, not for what you’d done but for the fact that you have done it, and Metti will not forgive you, and will not forget.