He grasps the ski mask beside him with trembling fingers. He looks down at his outfit, too, to make sure, again, that he’s dressed in nondescript clothes he’s never worn to class. He wants to look like an everyday thug, and he thinks he’s managed it. Or close enough. He pulls the ski mask on over his face, checks himself in the mirror—looking like a disturbed and disturbing stranger—and feels a spike of shame. Disgust, even. What the hell is he doing?It’s just a lark, he tells himself.Giving her a much-needed, much-deserved nudge, remember?Still, he pulls off the mask but holds it as he gets out of the car. He doesn’t pass anyone on the dark street but waits to put on the mask until he’s in the dimly lit garage, watching Charlie from a distance as she opens her car door and collects her coat and purse. He creeps closer, ducking behind each car as he goes. But when he gets near enough, almost, to reach out and grab the long rope of her dark, shiny hair, his nerve fails him. He finds he can’t move from his crouch behind the long back end of an Oldsmobile, so Charlie gets away, walking languidly to the door. Humming the song that was playing on the radio, something he doesn’t recognize. She’s confident, unafraid—and why shouldn’t she be? She’s the same as she always is in class, and Paul is the same, too: he folds, he fails.
When another car pulls into the garage, Paul stays put. He yanks off his ski mask and stays there, fuming, crouched on his aching legs for several minutes after the other residents have slammed their car doors and gone inside.
At home, he drinks and stands smoking at his window, glaring at the neighboring building’s brick wall. He isn’t mad at Charlie—he’s mad at himself. For being weak and afraid, for letting his chance slip away. But as the minutes pass and the smoke and booze start to lull him, quiet him a little, he begins to forgive himself, bit by bit. This wasn’t a failure but a successful practice run, he decides. Now he knows what time she comes home from work, and he knows her parking spot, too: number 35. He’ll go back again tomorrow night, and tomorrow night he’ll rise from his crouch and come up behind her and…scare her. Scare the living hell out of her.
37.
Everything is easier the second night; he’s steadier and his mind is calm. He knows where to park for the best view of the garage, and he’s even packed a sandwich this time. He’s fairly certain she’ll be home after eight, but he arrives at six to begin his watch, and at 7:40 he leaves the car, ski mask in hand, to crouch quietly in a shadowed spot close to her parking space. If anyone happens to see him, he’ll pretend to be looking for a lost key. He’ll give a sheepish grin:I know it’s here somewhere, I heard it drop.But no one spots him, and soon enough, after his legs have tired and his heart has jumped multiple times at the sound of cars arriving, Charlie drives past. He watches her red taillights drift by and pulls the ski mask down over his face; he doesn’t feel silly now or obscene, but focused, purposeful. Like an expert, too, as if he’s been doing this for months, or even years.
He crawls to the edge of the Chrysler he’s been hiding behind and waits for the sound of her car door creaking open, Charlie stepping out. When she does, he coughs once, loudly. He watches through the car window beside him as she pauses, peers around, looks for the man who’s made the sound. When she doesn’t see anyone—a friendly neighbor’s face, or at least someone she knows—she slams the car door and starts walking quickly toward the building.
He didn’t plan to do things this way but decides it’s fun—to frighten her by doing so little, while staying out of sight. He coughs again, louderthis time, and now she’s running for the door. He wants to yellBitchso badly, but he won’t risk her recognizing his voice. He doesn’t need to yell anything, though—the simple sounds he made have done their job. When Charlie reaches the entrance, she turns, looking wildly behind her, before walking through and slamming the door shut.
The sight of her terrified, beautiful face does something to him. It sings to him. He’s wanted her to look that way in class so many times: after she’s insulted him, or asked him a probing, inappropriate question about Judith, orlaughed in his face. He drinks in the sight like nectar and lets the image imprint in his mind. Long after she’s gone, after she’s taken the elevator or stairs to her snug apartment and locked the door and leaned against it, breathing hard, after she’s called a friend and cried a little over a glass of wine that she holds in a trembling hand, he savors the image he’s made—of Charlie, terrorized.
38.
At home, after a celebratory jerk-off in the shower—still relishing the sight of Charlie’s twisted face—Paul towels off and stands, drained but exhilarated, drinking in the middle of his living room, swaying naked to Charles Mingus on the radio. That was much more fun, he decides, than even his ballsiest theft, which was probably the time he stole fifteen rare books at once, cramming them into his backpack and walking right past the snobbish, oblivious clerk. He has no physical reminders of the past night—like the books he has on his shelves to this day—but the high is more intense, and probably longer lasting.
To affect someone deeply, to snatch away their sense of wholeness and security. Especially someone like Charlie, so deserving of the fear. Much more gratifying than pilfering groceries or books.
Before long, Paul is staring drunkenly at the neighboring building’s brick wall, toasting each and every individual brick—the dark red brick; the light, chipped-away brick; the yellowish brick loose in its slot. “To Charlie!” he yells. “To my-goddamn-self!” And the last one: “To Judith!”
When he finally sits and begins smoking one cigarette after another, he quiets. The nicotine is clearing his head, dissolving his buzz. He begins to see the night differently, to doubt what he’s done—or hasn’t done. He really didn’t domuch, did he? All he did wascough, without even emerging from his hiding place. She didn’t scream, she didn’trun—shejogged, but she didn’t run. Was she really that scared? Her face conveyed fright, but was it enough, provoking her from such a distance? Has he taught her what it’s like to be hunted, to be harassed, to be made to feel miserable and insane, the way he has in recent days? He doesn’t think so. He thinks she’ll recover quickly, and return to her usual haughty, provocative self, with the memory of one night’s fear fading fast.
So: he has to go back, to leave a lasting impression. Just one more time, then he’ll be finished with Charlie.
—
After spending the nextmorning and part of the afternoon on the phone with Jahan and a journalist fromTheWashington Post, and with only two days before the gallery opening, Paul dresses carefully despite his speeding pulse and drives out to Charlie’s place at sunset. While he follows the now-familiar route, he dwells on how utterly estranged the two halves of his day are from one another. He doesn’t judge himself for any of it, but isn’t it weird? How he’s Paul Sorenson, rising curatorial star, and also Paul Sorenson, mask-wearing avenger. He chuckles a bit at this and pulls thoughtfully on his cigarette before tossing it out the window.
This time, when Charlie pulls in, she parks in a different spot, one closer to the building entrance. It throws Paul a little, but not enough to dampen his plan. He likes seeing her, through the eyeholes of his mask, hastily lock the car and look around. Like a scared little bug ready to scuttle to safety. As soon as she turns, he’s on her. He catches her by the shoulders and pulls her back, screaming, clamping a hand over her mouth and an arm around her neck. She tries but fails to bite his gloved hand.
He drags her into a shadowed corner by the door, letting nothing escape but the sound of his breath, hot and urgent in her ear. He doesn’t whisperbitch, like he’s tempted to do, or say her name to scare her—he’d be stupid to let her hear his voice. Instead, he pins her against himso she can feel his erection and wallow in a moment of paralyzing fear. After that, he’ll loosen his hold enough to let her go. But before he can, her hands flail up at him somehow, and something sharp comes slashing at his arms. A knife. He sees the blood darken his shirtsleeves before he feels any pain. But when the pain comes, it’s searing. He groans and loosens his hold. Charlie twists out of his arms, stumbles forward, and grabs for the door.
Another man might follow her, might chase her inside, up the stairs, might pull her back and put an end to things. But he isn’t that man—though he has to remind himself of that. The urge is strong to do it and the pain eggs him on buthe isn’t that man.
He drives off in his ski mask without giving his arms more than a glance. But before he gets on the highway, he pulls over and peels off his mask and shirt to examine the stinging wounds. There are quite a few slash marks, all bleeding profusely, but he doesn’t think they’re that bad. That knife of hers didn’t do so much.
It was he who’d done much. He’d terrified her. Touched her. Physically attacked her where she lives. And even though she struck back, like a little mouse with its claws, he knows she’ll be the one to suffer, to carry that night for a long, long time. It will scar and subdue her. And Paul? He’s on his way home, where he’ll shower and tend to his injuries, knowing he’s finally secured Charlie’s silence, that he’ll never be bothered by her hateful letters or calls or insolent harassment again.
He’s run an obstacle course, really, from the moment he stood on Tom Stanley’s front porch all those months ago to lobby him for Judith’s pictures. He is bone-tired and weary—but energized, too. He’s done it, he’s cleared his path of every obstacle at last. He’s free now to shine all night at the opening, to step through the doorway to his bright newworld.
39.
By 7 o’clock the next night, the opening is in full swing, the din in the rooms nearly deafening. Enthusiastic viewers move slowly in a line along the walls, and in the middle of each room, groups stand chatting loudly with champagne glasses and cigarettes in hand. Paul has been caught and circulated like the miniature crab cakes from one lively, elite group to the next—and he’s been happy to be so praised, politely questioned, and consumed. He’s seen the eyes of every single person light up when he’s recognized or introduced:Paul Sorenson, the man who made Judith Stanley. His name alone is powerful in this milieu, and it’s thrilling to see its effect on the myriad art leaders in attendance—like Brian Ellis, owner of the world-renowned B. Ellis Gallery, or Artie McElvoy, art critic forThe New York Times.Now and then he might glimpse a hint of disdain on someone’s face, but it’s a passing, trivial thing, overwhelmed and demolished by the praise he’s won from the likes of Dorian Murphy, legendary street photographer, who tells him he has “quite the eye” for recognizing Judith’s genius.
Everything is going beautifully, Jahan says—not with words but with a glance he and Paul share across the overheated, boisterous room full of images of Judith’s face.
Paul, inhabiting his role seamlessly, tells everyone he meets “how it happened,” how he recognized Judith’s genius the first time she showedhim her pictures. As the evening wears on, his voice grows hoarse. His jaws ache from smiling.
“I thought she was just a bored housewife, trying to pass the time by taking a photography class,” he begins, laughing along with his listeners for the hundredth time. “I wasn’t that interested when she asked if I’d look at her work, but it’s my job, so I said I would. When I slid them out of the envelope, they took my head right off.” Here he makes an exploding gesture with his hand at the top of his head, and his listeners respond with murmurs and exclamations of wonder—and once, even a round of applause. He tells themParade Girlwas the first one he really fell for, he couldn’t look away from the stark pain and beauty of it.
“Of course, knowing what we know now about Judith’s…troubles, it’s easy to see howParade Girlreflects her own damage, her…mental distress,” a teacherly Paul says to one small group of solemn, sympathetic faces. They pepper him with questions:When did you first suspect Judith had killed herself? Do you really believe it’s true? Do you think she knowingly staged it to look like murder?He’s certain they’ve heard him answer these questions in interviews, but they still clamor for the live version.
With a grimly set face that’s something of an act by the end of the first hour, Paul tells them he hates to say it, but yes, he truly believes she killed herself. He walks them through his evidence and reasoning, reminds them he confirmed his suspicions with a psychologist, and thinks gleefully of Malcolm, who would hate to hear him airing his professional opinion to everyone in sight. He thought Malcolm might pop back up to berate him when the first television show aired, or when subsequent interviews aired, but he never did. His silence and absence are damning, Paul supposes, and their long friendship is over, but so what? Here he is, after all, making new connections, new friends, left and right and all around. His pockets bulge with business cards.
When he’s finished telling his version of Judith’s story, the women make tutting noises; the men sigh—and then eventually they shake his hand and move on to other groups, where they share what he’s said, andPaul is left, drained yet elated, to face a new threesome or foursome of eager listeners.
