High Risk

Chapter 1 Beth Walsh watched her husband, Mark, eat. She found it hard to sit still. “How come you’re not having anything?” Mark lifted a forkful of eggs. “Not hungry yet.” Beth sipped her coffee. Black, scalding. “This is enough for now.” She wished he would hurry up and finish. Some divorcee would need him soon enough in his LaSalle Street office to write up a petition for an increase in child support or something like that. Didn’t he have lots of work to get to? Clients to see? Beth glanced at the clock above his neatly cut and combed blond hair: 9:15. “What’s up for today?” A tiny bit of coffee sloshed onto the newspaper’s Tempo section. The question startled her, made her heart pound just a little harder. It had been a week since the negative HIV test, a week since she had whispered her fevered promises and petitions to a God she’d hoped was listening. A week of no shopping. Beth needed to shop. Today. “Nothing much,” she said, hoping Mark didn’t notice how her voice came out a tad higher than normal. “I need to call about getting the living room rugs cleaned. Might stop by Nordstrom.” Beth managed a smile. “See what’s on sale.” “Life of Riley.” Mark smirked. Even at thirty-four, his face was still boyish. Why wasn’t he enough? Last night, the s*x had been vigorous, bordering on rough. Three orgasms for her, two for him. It was still good. Sweaty. Athletic. And now, sitting before her, adoring glances directed her way, the perfect “golden boy.” A young Robert Redford, slender and strong in a navy Brooks Brothers’ suit, crisp white shirt, red silk rep tie. So why did her stomach churn with impatience? Why did she want nothing more than to hear the close and latch of the front door of their graystone on Fullerton Avenue? Why did she need to see him get out now, so she could scrape the remains of his breakfast into the garbage disposal and hurry into her bedroom, to search through her private collection: the clothes she kept hidden at the back of her closet? Leather skirts, Manolo Blahnik stiletto heels, clinging print blouses, thongs, bustiers, and push-up bras…searching for the perfect bait for an adoring and so, so passionate man. How could she sit here with Mark and conjure up this perfect dark stranger, someone who would take her and hurt her, forcing her to serve, to set the stage for his darkest, most depraved fantasies? How could she sit here with the pureness of the sun streaming in through their kitchen window and picture herself in the grimy half-darkness of a cheap motel room with a stranger…locked and interwoven in lust and sweat? * * * * Mark finished his breakfast, and set his napkin on the table. He put his hand over Beth’s. There was something about the way the light hit her red hair, making it almost glow, the way it highlighted her cheekbones and the delicate skin, so pale and fragile that if he looked closely enough, he could see the tiny network of bluish veins just beneath the flawless skin. He wanted to take her in his arms and let her know, that even after four years, no one could ever take her place. But she already knew, surely. He could see that in her smile, as she returned his gaze. She put her other hand over his. “I hate to say it, sweetheart, but you better get a move-on. It’s almost 9:30.” “Trying to get rid of me?” He grinned, squeezed her hand, and stood. “Don’t be stupid. I just don’t want you to be late.” She was always thinking of him. * * * * Black. Strains of “Moon River,” somewhere far off. The music broadcast itself, cloaked in static, fading in and out. His mother’s voice, laughing, throaty (a joke he’ll never hear), the scrape of feet on creaking floorboards. Abbott tried to move, but a cocoon of warm white had enveloped him. The spider, huge and black, waited somewhere above him. He sensed its presence, smelled it. A chemical odor that made his mouth taste bad. Sickening sweet. When he attempted to move his arms, the viscous cocoon tightened, leaving him mute and terrified, aware of the spider lurking nearby, waiting to consume, its dark form a shadow. He saw it: covered in coarse hair, an amber hourglass marking its back. “Mama,” he whispered. Her voice: shrieking with laughter. Help me, he thought. But there was no one. The music swelled. His mother’s sighs grew louder, more rhythmic. The cocoon tightened, forcing his mouth open, sticky webbing rushing down his throat to fill him. Inside, the cocoon would give birth to a thousand spiders with hard bodies, swarming through his innards, searching for food and warmth… * * * * Abbott awakened from his dream, images half-remembered, yet leaving him damp with sweat, feeling queasy. He was already at odds with the day, which had risen, too sunny, outside his studio apartment window. He rose, crossed the gritty floor, and looked outside. Aberdeen Street hadn’t changed much in all the years he’d lived there (except Mama no longer lived up the street; Mama no longer lived). St. Philomena’s school was still across the street, asphalt playground imprisoned in chain link. Abbott ran a hand through his black hair, pushing it off his forehead. After crossing to the refrigerator, he rummaged inside, got a can of Old Style, and cracked it open. No work today. He’d worked until two at Bennie’s, the yuppie bar on Clark Street he detested, along with everyone in it. They, with their cell phones and palm pilots. Their Cosmos and their dirty martinis…his spit could make a martini really dirty. But the tips were good. Smile at the sluts and they gave you money. Then went home with someone else. Spreading their legs for a different guy every night. Way of the world. Abbott chugged the beer, then let the can drop from his fingers to the warped linoleum floor. He chanced a look at himself in the mirror. A diagonal split in the glass bisected him. He still saw his strength, muscles big and hard from free weights, construction work when he could get it. The women were always telling him how gorgeous he was, bandying about words like “stud” and “hunk.” The currency of the w***e. Some of them even did stupid s**t like leaving him matchbook covers with their phone numbers written inside. One time, one had even left him two Trojans and a note with her room number at the Michigan Avenue Hilton. He turned away from the mirror, a mirthless grin creeping across his features. He should have paid that one a visit. Should have showed her what she could do with those rubbers. Whore. Abbott opened another beer, along with his throat, admitting its icy coldness. It did nothing to alleviate the pain. Already, his head was pounding, an ice pick buried behind his eyes. The headaches were getting worse. Sometimes, even the sunlight coming in through the windows made his head pound, his eyes tear, and his stomach go queasy. It was the world. The world he’d been forced to endure. No good left. * * * * It took Beth no more than an hour after she heard Mark leave to get herself dressed, in the car, and heading east on Fullerton toward Lake Shore Drive. She had pulled her hair into a chignon, outlined her green eyes in black, making the irises paler, more intense. She wore a forest-green mini skirt, white raw-silk vest and an oversized black-and-green print blazer. She had slid off the spike heels to drive. This was what was in her purse: a comb, lipstick (cinnamon), a small bottle of Chanel No. 5, an American Express card, a few crumpled bills, and a handful of Lifestyle condoms. As Beth merged into the traffic heading south on the Drive, she noticed the sunlight glinting off Lake Michigan, the blueness of the October sky, and felt a nauseating pang of guilt. The guilt twisted her innards, made her consider getting off at the LaSalle/North Avenue exit and return home, where she could stow the clothes once again in the back of her closet and start making something special for dinner…for Mark. After all, she thought as she pressed down on the accelerator, feeling helpless, it had been only a week since her appointment with Dr. Callesi. She had sat in the sterile beige examination room, legs dangling over the edge of a table, its starchy covering rustling below her, listening to the doctor. “Nothing to worry about, dear. Your test came back negative.” Dr. Callesi, an older Italian woman, had smiled, but Beth was certain she could see the unspoken question in her brown eyes: why are you here? There she was, shrugging into her raincoat, soft music playing over the reception room speakers (something jazzy, Oscar Peterson, maybe?). It was good to be in that room, where most of the eyes were firmly affixed to magazines and not on her. She had been relieved. Reprieved. And, in the elevator, she had promised she would make good on her promise to God that she would never engage in this kind of behavior again, if only He would let her test come back negative. Now, Beth signaled and cut across two lanes to get into the left lane, where she could speed. Had God heard? Beth glanced in the rearview mirror. A guy in a red Mustang, with the look of a younger Russell Crowe, gave her the finger. Beth must have cut him off. But he was cute. Beth let out a mirthless laugh. Who had time for a more telling observation? She was already at Michigan Avenue. Who would she find today? * * * * Abbott turned again to look over his shoulder as he headed north on Michigan Avenue. The man he’d just passed whipped around his head again to get another look. f**k! What’s that make now? Three times? Screw that faggot. Abbott frowned at him, trying to look surly, mean. But that only caused the fag to slow. Finally, he turned so that he was walking backward, watching, waiting for a signal from Abbott. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? The fag stopped near a cross street, leaned against a loading zone sign, his gaze intense. What did he want? Did he really think Abbott would come back to him? Abbott gave a limp-wristed wave. The guy grinned, then reddened. He turned and began heading in the other direction, fast. Abbott shook his head. So what if he was good looking? Why couldn’t people just leave him alone? Even when he worked construction, some of the secretaries on their lunch hours ogled him worse than the guys on the site ogled them. What did he have to do? Scar himself? He turned off Michigan to head toward Marshall’s, the discount outlet, where he could buy himself a reasonably priced pair of jeans. But even in the store, the women stared. Two of them, folding sweaters for a display, leaned close, whispering and giggling like kids when he walked by. Staring at him. He wanted nothing to do with any of them. Not the fags, who at least could be stopped by a curt “f**k you.” Not the women, who seemed to think his lack of interest was a game, one they were only too willing to play. Why couldn’t they simply accept that what they had between their legs repulsed him? And that trying to force it on him only made the bile, anger, and hatred, like white heat, rise. Nice girls let the gentleman pursue them. They let you buy them flowers, candy, open doors for them. Take care of them. There were no more nice girls. Please, Abbott thought as he entered the men’s department, just let me pick out a pair of jeans and get out of here. He just wanted to be home, alone, away from their stares, their coy smiles, all of these people expecting something from him. He stopped at a table of sweatshirts on sale, pawed briefly through them, watching out of the corner of his eye. He wanted nothing to do with women. With fags. With anyone. Not today. Not ever. Abbott Lowery had learned early that s*x only brought pain. * * * * Beth slid out of her Kharmann Ghia, reveling in the stares of the garage attendants. She let her green leather skirt ride up as she got out, exposing enough thigh to allow them all to see the black garter holding up her stockings. Nordstrom was just a block away from the parking garage, but Beth took her time walking down Michigan, expecting and getting stares from everyone from teenage boys in AF clothing to navy-suited business types. She stopped once to check out her reflection in the window of Hugo Boss and to try and quell the voice inside, telling her that nothing had happened yet and that it wasn’t too late to turn around and return home. But the other voice, the one that told her how good her reflection looked in the plate glass, won out with a convincing argument about how her effort, and her youth, needed to be appreciated. If they weren’t, it was, well, a waste. And besides, even though she really loved Mark (completely, and even in her state of agitation she realized that her current mission had little to do with her love for her husband), she needed that appreciation. After four years, Mark didn’t really notice her, not in the way he had at the beginning, not the way the businessmen did, or the tourists in their T-shirts and jeans, not in the way any of her anonymous daytime lovers did. It was the passion to which she—Beth had to admit it—was addicted. When she got to the corner of Ohio and Michigan, she saw him. Just a quick glimpse, but enough to let her know that she needed to follow, even if it was into a discount store she would never frequent on her own. But a glimpse was enough to know that this was the one. See, the more beautiful the man, the more desirable Beth felt by his attention. And this one, even in the briefest of glances, was a true stunner. She walked into the building that housed Marshalls on one level, a house wares store on another. She followed him down the escalator, drinking him in: the blue-black hair, the broad shoulders and chest, tapering down to a small, firm waist. Tall. Strong. Beth could already see him naked; the lean stomach, rippling; cobblestones beneath taut flesh. The pecs, dusted with curly black hair. All that definition accentuated by a light sheen of sweat. Sweat she would bring out.