The Education of a Young Gentleman

CONTENT WARNING: READER DISCRETION ADVISED

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air.

—from Plath, Sylvia. “Lady Lazarus.” 1962.

It was 1960. I was about nineteen, living at home with my parents.

“Charles!”

“Uh?”

“Richie has a flat.”

I rolled out of bed and stumbled after my mother into the kitchen. She thrust a receiver into my hand and lit a Chesterfield.

I grunted. “Richie?”

“Git your ass over here.”

The line went dead. My mother stiffened and clasped her robe.

I threw on my cleanest dirty shirt and hopped into the '52 Pontiac—a hunk of junk that cracked up Ollie, Richie’s father. An anxious excitement propelled me through the ghostly streets; I parked behind the dark shapes outside Richie’s and hurried into the suburban house using the passage way between the garage and the kitchen.

An atmosphere of blighted camaraderie prevailed in the tidy, Sears-chic living room. Larry, Richie’s older brother, was saddled with a welfare cheat and five kids in the projects: a quarterback's arm, a damn good Elvis, a fondness for women and obliging. Between Larry and two strangers was an individual whose boyish good looks and fine complexion hid a touch of cruelty behind an impish grin. His proclivity with young cooze earned him the nickname ‘Bunny’.

J. T. (Richie and Larry’s cousin) lit a thoughtful cigar-butt. Larry turned up the collar of his dress shirt, took a comb out of his back pocket and slicked his red duck tails. “We were drinkin' Blue Ribbons over in Prescott when Bunny sees this 18-karat chick puttin' away ol’-fashions. She had a blow-out with her old man and wouldn't go home, not to her kids neither.”

Bunny took up the story with a grin and a characteristic lisp. “The little dolly’s a party girl,” pointing at his feet in perfect sincerity, “grabbin’ dicks right here, in the middle of this fuck’n living room!”

I was unprepared for anything of this nature, to put it mildly. Getting even with her husband? Single for the night?

J. T. cut Hound Dog from the Philco and shoved a beer in my hand.

From the hall came the sound of a toilet and hard boots. Richie strolled in, sporting a bowling shirt and jeans. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and slumped onto the blue bouclé couch. He sniffed and cleared his throat, “She's yours, Charlie.”

“It’s gettin’ late,” said Larry.

Bunny took a swig and swung his beer towards Richie, “His room.”

My pulse quickened. 

J. T. rolled a beer between his hands and tipped his white Fedora. “Gwan, the bitch’ll make your tongue hard.”

The two scatty strangers laughed and nudged each other. I had no option but to flat-guzzle my beer and gravitate to the end of the hall. Richie's bedroom door was ajar. The Virgin Mary stared down at me from the wall. My hand was sweating the knob when I pushed the door open and stepped into the room where Larry had beguiled us with lurid tales of seduction. Warm, moist air hung heavy with stale perfume and semen. A low seraphic voice called out from the darkness, “Larry? Larry, is that you?”

My breath escaped. I leaned towards the small form in the bed and uttered, “Yes....”

I shut the door behind me and moved closer. The coverlet my mother had made lay on the floor alongside women’s things. I dropped my drawers. My hand trembled as I pulled back the sweaty bedclothes and gazed down at their source of pleasure. I was not in my right mind until she splayed open with her fingers—no need to lick or remove anything. I shut my eyes and sank into her unguent warmth. She arched and let out a moan.

*

By the time I released her slim ankles, I had lost all sense of time and place. I stumbled over a pair of shoes on my way out, her blood-warm clinging to my mind. Only Richie remained in the avocado-green living room; the two bounders were in the kitchen, the others had vanished. I crashed on the couch. Bishop Sheen's Way to Happiness lay on the coffee table beside a pair of yellow gloves and a few careless pieces of jewelry. Richie had opened the drapes (there was a moon) and moved to Ollie’s chair by the TV. “I thought Larry was in KC.”

“J. T. hauled his ass back.”

“Oh, yeah? I didn’t see the Olds. Where’s Rose and Ollie?”

“Up north—Hanson’s place.”

Richie tossed a half-eaten bag of potato chips at me and shook his head, “Don't go downstairs. It’s clean.”

“What were you doin’ before they showed up?”

“Sleepin,” said Richie.

“Anyone seen her before?”

“No, uh-uh. Hey, what do you have for an ID?”

“Bunny’s draft card.”

“Uh-huh. It’s Saturday. I gotta clean this place up later and get over to Belmont’s.”

“Hey, I’ll go. What about that Edina chick?”

“The ass on her! She says we should get together sometime.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Like maybe never.” We were still laughing when Richie went to reclaim his bed. I had a jaw-dropping yawn and settled on the sofa, Bishop Sheen in one hand, a beer in the other.

Quiet had descended over the house when she suddenly appeared from the shadows—little more than five foot, early thirties, a blue-dyed rag around her head and a high, womanly chest cosseted in Richie's rough flannel shirt. I shrank back and put the book down. She stopped to gaze at the fine rain falling on the scattered leaves, searched her purse for a match and lit a long cigarette. She closed the honey-colored drapes and lowered herself next to me with half-averted eyes. "It's me."

Yellowish light fell upon a face fixed with traces of care and thwarted sleep that had retained much of its girlish beauty. How pretty she’d be in a wide-brimmed hat! I took her scent and felt her breath—we were almost touching. She took a long drag and opened her mouth wide. An arabesque veil of smoke drifted into her cloudy, gray-green eyes. She straightened a tangle of dusky hair with her wedding finger, and bumped me with her toe. Her low, angelic voice was at my throat. “How old are you?”

A hot blush came to my cheek. “Nineteen.”

She blew a jet and forced a laugh before placing her nicotine-stained fingers over my eyes. “Do I look nineteen?” I tingled. Her playful whisper demanded an answer, but I had forgotten everything but her half-parted lips. My tongue paralyzed. “I—”

“Ssshhh.” She put a finger crosswise to my lips and stared at me from under dark lashes. What did she want? If the answer lay in her eyes, I could not find it. She placed my beer on the coffee table and bent forward, the mist smoke not yet gone from her mouth.

“Kiss me.”

She kissed back hard, tasting of tobacco and stale mint. I slid fingers to her white-velvet breasts and to her nipples; her nostrils flared, a tremor crossed her face. She took the top off her drink and led me downstairs.

I pressed the soft tip of my tongue on her c-section and in her low, sweet places. Painted nails dug into my back. She murmured, and a little silence fell. I ground slow and deep on the cold-hard floor until we passed out in a tangle next to our spilled drinks.

*

The sunlight filtering through the casements spread on the floor. I dressed silently and climbed the stairs in an unsteady haze. The restless one with horn-rimmed glasses and plaid shirt in the kitchen spoke first, with false familiarity, “You're Charlie aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Richie's friend.” I stuck out my hand; none was offered. “Who are you?”

“My name is Friday, I carry a badge.” I raised my eyebrows. He yawned and removed his glasses, revealing pair of small eyes fixed on a rectangular face. “I’m Roger. J. T. is married to my sister.”

“And the guy makin’ the coffee is Thursday?”

Roger winked at the short fellow in the white bucks and rounded shoulders. “You’re lookin’ at Johnny, the Accordion King, and you look like shit.”

I felt a flash of resentment. “What time is it?”

“After Ten.”

Roger took quick puffs of his cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray with a half-laugh. “She awake?”

“No, not yet. Is Richie in the bathroom?”

“He’s in the garage.”

Before I was done in the bathroom, Roger was down the stairs and back up in front of me, beady-faced and pop-eyed, barely able to talk. “She ain’t breathin'.”

I flinched. “Don’t joke.”

“She ain't movin' neither.”

“Are you sure?”

“You had her last.”

Perspiration broke out on my forehead. I ran to the garage. Richie was taking the chain off his ’48 Indian. “Geeze, Charlie, you look like you seen a ghost.”

“The chick, Richie.”

“What?”

“Somethin’s not right downstairs.”

Richie threw his rag across the floor, “I don't have time for this!”

“Don't go apeshit!”

He trailed me in through the breezeway, cursing through pursed lips, and padded down the stairs in his slippers. He returned to the kitchen flushed-faced. “Why the hell you sweatin’ her down there, Charlie? Stuff's all over the fuck’n floor. Rose’ll kill me.”

“If she’s lookin’ for her purse, it’s up here.”

He rocked back and forth, wiping his nose as we stared at him from around the table. Then, in a hard little voice, “No. She’s dead.”

A dull pain entered my brain. Johnny looked up from the counter, “Did you touch her eye? If it doesn’t blink—”

Richie made fists. “What do you think—I can’t tell a stiff? I said she's a stiff.” He pulled up a chair, sat down beside me, spun the sugar bowl and practically whispered, “Jesus, Charlie. Were you out of your mind?”

I had no answer.

“You did nothing wrong. There’s no case. It’s an accident. Definitely not murder,” said Johnny. “I know a guy who knows the court district. Tell em’.”

“Tell ‘em what, exactly?” replied Roger, with a touch of insolence.

“Tell ‘em what happened,” said Johnny.

“Yeah, that we fucked her to death? I can’t wait to hear a jury on that,” said Roger, putting his glasses back on and twitching my shoulder. “Hold on, now—what are we gonna do with our lil’ sis down there?”

“Do wha—?”

Roger snapped his fingers, “The body, stupid. The stupid body.”

Johnny nodded and poured the coffee.

“Dig a hole.”

“Off a bridge.”

“No, dipshit. The swamp. By the airport.”

“Feed her to the pigs.”

“They don’t eat teeth.”

Roger stroked his chin. “Larry's gonna blow his stack.”

“Hey, fucker. Keep my brother outta this,” Richie shot back.

Johnny took out milk and Rice Krispies. I detected a slight tremble in his hands. “Her spirit is in the throne room of God.”

The air came out of the room. The only thing I heard was snap-crackle-pop, the beating of my heart and the dull whir of the refrigerator. I swallowed a mouthful of coffee. Johnny dropped his eyes to the floor. “Is there any wool?”

“What?” said Richie. Roger looked at Johnny quizzically.

Johnny raised his head sheepishly, “Cotton wool to close her rectum.”

Richie struggled to control himself and took a short breath. His eyes raced around the table. “I’ve heard enough shit. Nobody touch her. Larry’s supposed to take her back. Nobody says nothing. Nobody calls nobody. Not the cops neither! An' nobody fuck'n leave. Nowhere.”

Roger finished the end of his cigarette and lit another. “Who’s this bimbo anyway?”

“She’s a person, a human being,” Richie said softly. “Somebody get her purse.”

I stood up, eyes fixed on Roger, and scrambled to locate her black leather purse. I laid it on the table in front of Richie and sank back into my seat. Richie picked through the contents. He set pictures on the table. “The boy’s like Corky. A little girl, too,” I said, filled with guilt.

Roger cracked his knuckles. “Jesus. Are you writin’ a fuck’n book?”

“Quit lookin’ at me.”

“Corine Whitney, 1236 Quail Circle, Hudson, Wisconsin. Birthday yesterday. Thirty-one.” Richie flipped the license and the billfold to Roger. “She don’t look it.”

Roger took out a Tupperware check. Johnny cleared the saliva from his mouth. “Tupperware?” Roger jabbed Johnny with his elbow. “Cut the gas.” Next thing, he held up was a pill bottle. “Red devils!” “Stupid bitch!” exclaimed Richie.

Johnny started to say something and changed his mind. I got up and looked out the window. “It’s half-past ten. I don’t see Larry.” Roger leaned back and gritted his teeth. “She’ll be the end of us, man. Gotta get her—”

Richie was up on his feet, shouting with a bitterness I'll never forget: “Who’s talking to you! Nothing happened here!”

Clink!

The sound came from below. My feet stuck to the floor; Richie flew down the stairs. A moment later he was back in the kitchen grinning. “She's up!”

We drew a long breath with the air of those relieved of an intolerable burden, and gave her the Royale with cheese: free reign of the bathroom. A sidelong glance through the bathroom mirror from the curved figure in black—spike heels, cigarette in one hand, eye-liner in the other—was the last I saw.

*

“You look upset,” said my mother when I got home. “Maybe you don’t want to talk.”