The parts she liked, and the parts that shamed her with their imperfection: lumpy thighs, pointy breasts, hips so narrow they belonged on a boy. He touched them, and she closed her eyes, and let him. Always, at this moment, she’d have pretended her delight, then distracted him away from her. This time, she stayed quiet. With nothing to lose, she decided to be honest.
She expected nothing. Silence. The night would be ruined, and he would know the extent of her betrayal. He’d leave in the morning, as he should. It had not been fair to ask him to come to Nebraska.
His hands worked slowly, and then fast. She lay back, and as he touched her, an unexpected thing happened. An unfamiliar release. Her first instinct was to roll away. Run into the bathroom and hide. But she stayed.
He was different than before. Less tentative. She wondered if, in her absence, he’d practiced with someone new. Something happened. A shiver inside her that grew. Unexpected and terrifying. “Stop,” she wanted to tell him, but she didn’t because she liked it.
Soon, they were both breathing fast. The shiver built up like a bubble that suddenly burst. She stifled herself, confused and panting, thinking it was over, but there was more. The bubble burst again. And again. She cried out, then laughed, then screamed.
Afterward, they lay like spoons, still never speaking a word. She’d missed the feeling of his skin, and his warmth, and the weight of him in the bed. They stayed like that for a long time. “Ummm,” she said, as if to tell him, wonderful.
She thought he’d fallen asleep, but then he whispered, his voice low and resigned, like something inside him had broken. “I can’t go through this with you anymore. It’s too hard.”
Her smile went slack. His words were familiar. She remembered that once, she’d said them, too. Only, not to him, but to Betty. “I understand.”
He squeezed her tight. And then, he let her go.
She woke the next morning to discover that he was gone. He did not leave behind the ring, a stray Snickers wrapper, or even a note.
23
Madhouses Always Have Broken Teeth
Saturday. Another day at Betty’s side. This time, alone. She listened for the sound of black wings flapping, unable to fly. Then wondered: are all people born with holes, or just God’s mistakes?
She opened the letter. It was written on unlined paper and short:
Lamb,
I’m sorry. I got tired. Remember Hinton and the ants, even if you don’t want to.
I Love you now and always,
Betty
She tore it up, along with the good doctor’s papers. They littered the floor like sloughed skin.
When she returned to the empty Super 8, she was too depressed to order dinner and instead took two Valium and a lithium, and crashed. Something squirmed in her stomach, and she dreamed of doors and crushed houses and black rain, only this time, they were soothing.
In the middle of the night, she sat up fast, and thought she saw the man from The Breviary in the corner of the room. A dark shadow without a body. “Come home, Audrey,” he said.
She didn’t bother seeing Burckhardt again. Didn’t sign any papers. Sunday morning, she ordered her ticket home. She cried during the long drive back from Lincoln to Omaha. Roads she’d traveled, so many times before.
Above was the wide-open Nebraska sky that sheltered sane people with families and children and car pools. Content people who knew how to calm the gnawing monsters inside them. As she drove, she understood that she didn’t belong here, and neither had Betty. They were too damaged. They’d never belonged here, in the country of God.
She returned the Camry early and beat the approaching hurricane back to New York by a few scant hours. She arrived back in John F. Kennedy Airport late Sunday night, a week to the day since she’d moved into The Breviary.
It was still dark when she collected her suitcase from the baggage carousel, then stood inside the plastic taxi-stand enclosure, while all around, rain pitter-pattered. She hesitated as she told her driver where to take her. Even as she said the words, she knew they were a mistake.
“One hundred tenth and Broadway. The Breviary.”
Part IV
The Spaces in Between (Holes)
Weekly Police Blotter
November 8, 1992
On Wednesday, November 3, at 5:30 P.M., Officer Raymond Passman was called to a mobile home parked at 621 Station Street on a noise violation. The home is currently occupied by Betty Lucas (39) and her daughter Audrey (16). Through the window,