The Cave by Anne McLean Matthews

Author:Anne McLean Matthews [MATTHEWS, ANNE MCLEAN]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780446565318
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2009-10-31T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Into the Dark

They seemed to be dancing more smoothly together now. She allowed herself to think that progress might be possible at last. His abnormality expressed itself into every dimension of his being. The smooth, ambiguous body and strangely ageless face signaled deep physical dysfunction; the profundity of the psychological illness confirmed his status as a true freak. But a freak, not a madman.

So there would be no diagnosis and no cure. But could there not be something else, something more?

The tempo of the music increased. “ Our hopes are high 'cause we live on love,' “ a girl sang as a big band thrummed. They began dancing the swing, which she remembered only dimly, but which he obviously knew fairly well. He kept glancing up at her and looking more wicked every time he did.

The next song was the much slower “Memories of You.” Its forlorn verses drew her toward contemplation of the pointless end that awaited her. Even the order of the music might have been a careful choice. Certainly it told a story—her story—she feared.

The record finally stopped, and once again he gazed at her with his careful eyes. “We have some champagne.”

She smiled—not too horribly, she hoped. “What're we going to celebrate?”

He twitched the chain, and she found out that a pressured thumb is an astonishing bondage. The merest flick made her bite her lips to keep from crying out, the pain of the swelling that had quietly developed was so great.

He let her calm down, waiting with the patient indifference of a man at a bus stop. “It's time.”

Her blood told her, Make a break. But where was the opportunity? There just wasn't any!

“Time?” Her whisper was raw.

“To break it out.”

“Oh, the champagne!” Her heart went to clattering, and she shook uncontrollably.

He reached up and touched the tip of her nose. “You get red. Blushie blushie.”

She had to follow where he went; the chain was only three feet long. They entered the kitchen, and he got the bottle out of the refrigerator. The pop of the cork made her touch memories of good times. She'd last toasted the New Year with the kids. It was freezing, and you could look down from her Manhattan apartment and see windswept figures and hear, faintly, the revels of Times Square.

They drank out of wide champagne glasses from another era, sitting together at the kitchen table. If only she could somehow get the chain around his neck; but he was so watchful.

The champagne roiled in her stomach. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, and that had been just a few choking mouthfuls of cereal. She was thirsty again, too, and all of her wounds hurt like miserable hell, especially the poor dark red thumb. “Will you look at it!”

“What?”

She held it up.

He sipped from his glass. “It's not even ripe.”

”Ripe?”

“When they're ripe, they're black and shiny. That's just dark red.”

Being destroyed like this must be like watching the timer on a bomb: the progress was slow and fast at the same time.

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