Stranglehold. Part 2

Wolfeboro, New Hampshire May 1971 "Come on, Lyd. You know you want to."

"I don't want to."

"Sure you do."

"I don't. Don't touch me."

"Look, you just wrap your hands around it. Hold it like this. Then you squeeze ..."

The sound was deafening. The Budweiser can seemed to leap off the stump.

"G.o.d, Martin!"

"Is that something? Is that cool or what? As soon as my dad saw this movie he had to have one. Bet it could stop an elephant. Here. Try it."

"I don't want to stop an elephant."

"My dad wouldn't mind."

"Your dad would mind. And you know it."

"So? Who's gonna tell?"

"Couldn't we just go inside? I'm cold."

It wasn't true. The wind was blowing hard off the field but it wasn't a cold wind. In fact it was the first sunny day they'd had after a winter that seemed to go on and on, simply devouring the spring.

"Not till you try."

She didn't like the gun. Dirty Harry gun, he said. It was smooth and beautiful in the way that bright new polished silver was beautiful but she didn't like the smell of it or the enormous sound it made or the way it had bucked in his hands like something alive over which you could have only a limited, conditional control.

She didn't trust the gun.

He fired again. Missed this time. There was an explosion of sawdust at the base of the stump and the impact of the bullet toppled two cans and rattled all the rest. Not even the protective gear could keep her ears from ringing.

"I'm telling you. You'll love it."

She doubted that.

He handed it over.

She held it and admitted its attractions. Balance, substance, smoothness, weight.

"Hold it like this. Both hands. You gotta spread your legs wide and balance your weight, okay?"

He was standing in back of her now, his arms around her, his hands cupped firmly over her hands.

That part at least felt nice.

"Okay, now line up the target to the sight and squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it. And keep your elbows bent. She recoils like h.e.l.l."

"She?"

He laughed. "Yeah. Kicks back at you. Like you do."

She did as she was told, aimed and squeezed. The gun was heavy for her and hard to hold steady. The trigger seemed to melt steadily, slowly toward her. Then the blast and the shock that traveled up her arms all the way to her shoulders.

On the stump nothing moved.

"High," he said. "You shot high."

How high? she wondered. She imagined the bullet traversing some infinite distance, going on forever across the field and the forest to the road and whatever was beyond it. She could not imagine so much power simply dropping from the sky out of sheer inertia.

Her bullet could kill someone the next town over.

She really didn't care for this at all. He wanted it. And here she was again, going along.

He stepped up behind her again, took both her hands in his and extended her arms.

"Take it farther out, Lyd," he said. "Just a slight bend to the elbows. You'll steady her better."

He pressed her tight. She could feel his p.e.n.i.s against her b.u.t.tocks.

It made her a little uncomfortable. So that she was sort of glad when he moved away. She knew he didn't particularly want to move away but it was part of the game, making her aware of him yet going no further. Not quite yet.

She knew that game.

And knowing it made her feel scared and suddenly a little angry.

She aimed the gun, squeezed and fired. A beer can danced and tumbled sparkling in the sunshine.

"Hey! I knew you could do it! Terrific!"

She turned and smiled for him.

"Can we quit now?"

He laughed. "Sure. Come on inside."

They walked up the hill and through the gla.s.sed-in porch, down the hall to the living room. She thought again how the house was not at all the kind of place you'd expect from the president of a bank. Its furnishings were Spartan and inexpensive. Cheap, to be truthful. They made her aware of her mother's quiet good taste in these things, which had continued even after her father's death-when many women, she guessed, would have just stopped caring. It was clear that Martin's mother, who had a husband, a live one, had no interest.

"You want a beer?"

He was across the room putting on a record-the Beatles' Rubber Soul. Music-wise it was as adventurous as Martin got.

"A beer?"

"Sure. They're not gonna miss a couple."

"Uh-uh. No thanks."

First we have guns and now we have beer.

As far as she was concerned, this wasn't going well at all. She wondered how well she really knew this boy.

She'd only been dating him for about three and a half months, though she'd known him for years through his family. Her father'd worked for his father. Martin's little brother was in the same cla.s.s as Lydia's sister Barbara.

They had all come to her father's funeral.

In fact it was at Russell McCloud's funeral that Martin first seemed to notice her. At the reception afterwards they'd talked and talked. She did most of the talking and he seemed willing to let her. He seemed like a pretty good listener. She'd vented like crazy.

Though she hadn't told him everything.

"You sure you don't want one? Absolutely positively sure?"

"I hate beer. A Pepsi, though."

"Comin' atcha." He went to the kitchen.

Paul was singing "I've Just Seen a Face." The music is up too loud, she thought. Or else my ears are still sensitive from the gunfire.

She got up off the couch and walked over to turn the music down. They had a brand-new, state-of-the-art Magnavox amplifier/receiver and she couldn't find the volume at first amid all these other dials so Paul continued to blare sweetly at her. She found it just as the song ended and John started on "Norwegian Wood."

She turned and there was Martin right in front of her. Beer in one hand and Pepsi in the other. She came to a quick decision.

"I'll make you a deal," she said.

"What's that?"

She put her arms around his waist and hugged him. "You forget about the beer and we can ... um, you know."

"Oh yeah? What's you know?" He was laughing.

She slapped his shoulder. "Don't be a smarta.s.s."

It was easy to make a deal like that. It was natural. There were girls her age who smoked dope and girls who drank and girls who had s.e.x with their boyfriends. She had interest in only one of these.

She loved the feel of his body. And she hated beer. There had always been beer on her father's breath at night when he came to her.

When he came to her he had always been drinking.

And it was drinking-that and being dumb enough to be driving too fast on a dark country road that had killed him-and left her alone with her nasty little secret.

"You got it," he said. "Whatever you say. No beer."

He put the bottles down on the coffee table and kissed her.

Her father had never kissed her.

He hadn't done that at least.

But she'd thought she would never want a boy to touch her after what he'd done, that at sixteen she was through with s.e.x forever. So she was surprised at how quickly and how much she'd wanted Martin.

She thought he was beautiful to look at and even more beautiful to touch. He was hard and warm and smooth everywhere. And if he got a little pushy sometimes like he had about the gun and was just a little too full of himself sometimes it didn't matter because men were like that. And the first time, in the backseat of his father's Cadillac, that he'd brought her to o.r.g.a.s.m-she didn't really think it was possible for girls to have an o.r.g.a.s.m despite what everybody was saying-she felt like she'd gotten her virginity back just to lose it all over again.

It was only afterwards that she felt like the same old damaged goods.

She always did. It was as though s.e.x were some sort of drug that cured all the loneliness and guilt and unhappiness but was also, for her, a deadly poison.

She tried never to think about what it would be like afterwards.

She wouldn't now.

He unb.u.t.toned her blouse and pushed the bra up out of the way and cupped her breast. Her nipple rose beneath his palm and sluiced sudden magic through her body. He could make her have an o.r.g.a.s.m sometimes just by stroking one of her nipples. He didn't know that.

He didn't know a lot of things about her. n.o.body did. "Come upstairs," he said and took her hand.

She followed.

It was the first time he was ever rough with her.

She didn't know why. She wondered if it had anything to do with the gun. Some aggression thing.

Her nipples ached where he'd squeezed them. She ached inside too and there'd be bruises on her upper arms tomorrow.

She'd had no o.r.g.a.s.m. Not this time.

When he dropped her off it was clear she was mad at him. She hadn't said a word but she knew he knew. The silence itself was enough to tell him.

What he didn't know was that she was probably just as mad at herself. For not stopping him.

She'd never even tried to stop him.

She'd just let him.

"I'll call you," he said. He sounded a little remorseful. Not remorseful enough.

She slammed the car door and didn't look back.

She wouldn't be taking any calls from Martin, she thought. Not for a good long while and maybe never. There were other boys.

You just don't do that to people, she thought.

You just don't hurt them for no reason. Just because you want to and somebody lets you.