Pleading Guilty (1993) by Turow Scott - Kindle County 03

Author:Turow, Scott - Kindle County 03 [03, Turow, Scott - Kindle County]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-12-26T00:41:51.280000+00:00

Chapter XVI. INVESTIGATION

APPROACHES CLIMAX , INVESTIGATOR GOES FURTHER

My afternoon with Brushy left me in a state. Longing--real longing--took me as a walloping surprise. I reeled around in an adolescent fit, captured in transported recollections of the impressive qualities of Brushy's person, her pleasant scent of light perfume and body cream, and the pure transmission of some as yet unnamed form of human-emitted electromagnetic sensation which continued to grip my thorax and my loins. From my house that night I called her at home, reaching only her machine. I told myself that she was in the office, a number I did not have the bravery to dial.

I had called her doctor, who'd prescribed a salve, and I went to the john to give myself another treatment. In my sensuous thrall, I soon found myself otherwise engaged. Unspeakable activities. I sweated in my bathroom, imagining wild amours with a woman who'd been naked in my arms a few hours before, and wondered about my life.

I had just reholstered when I noticed the catarrh of an engine idling outside. I was stabbed at once by the kind of probing guilt my mother would have cheered, chilled by the thought that Lyle and his pals might have seen my filmy shape through the wobbled glass blocks of the bathroom window. I would have made quite a sight, backlit, bending and swaying as I squeezed the sound from my own sax. I heard the front door bang and gave some thought to remaining locked up there. But that was not my approach with Lyle. In any circumstance, I felt committed to staring him down.

I encountered him as he galloped up the stairs. In his various rangy parts, he looked a little more organized than usual; I suspected he was with a girl. His spume of hair was combed and he had on a Kindle County Unified Police Force leather jacket, not mine but one he'd purchased from the cop supply house on Murphy Street and which he wore in unspoken comment on the time when I had what he judged a more authentic life. He stomped past me, muttering something I did not catch at first. "Mom's downstairs," he repeated.

"Mom?"

"Remember her? Nora? It's boys' night out." I wondered if it meant anything positive that he was treating his parents' foibles with humor rather than undiluted contempt. We were in the dim interior hallway between the upstairs bedrooms, and after a few steps he turned back to me with a smirk. "Hey, man, what the hell were you doing just now? In the john? We were like taking bets."

"You and your mother?" I asked. I summoned all my courtroom dignity and told him I was blowing my nose. Frankly, he could not have cared less, but when he walked off down the dark corridor, I felt so hollowed by shame I thought I might stumble. Often humiliated and seldom saved. Is it just a Catholic thought that sex will always get you in trouble? God, I thought.

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