Toll Call Read online

  “And getting weirder. And now we’re even in the embarrassment department.”

  “No we’re not. Yours is over. Mine’s still going on.”

  We fell silent, breathing shadows, inhaling darkness and perfume. After a while Peggy turned to her side and with her free hand trailed her fingers across my naked chest. “Do you think we’ll actually do it after all these years?” she asked, her eyes wide, her voice disembodied, as though she read a script written in a language she didn’t understand.

  “Do what?” I said, my mind a captive of her fingers.

  “Have sex, you dope.”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  “I don’t know. I do know I feel very close to you right now.”

  “Good.”

  “And very sexy.”

  “Good.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. To both.”

  “I swore we never would, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then you know it’s not that I didn’t want to. That night you came to dinner on your birthday I toyed with the idea of decorating a box to look like a sponge cake and jumping out of it in my birthday suit, as sort of a special gift.”

  “That would have been nice. Since I wouldn’t have had to exchange it or anything. So why didn’t you?”

  “I was afraid things would have gotten out of hand.”

  “I’m afraid you were right to be afraid.”

  “Of course part of me wanted things to get out of hand.”

  “Of course.”

  “… Marsh?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Do you feel a little like a teenager right now? Like the first time you were alone with a girl?”

  “A little.”

  “It’s odd, isn’t it, how those feelings come back sometimes, no matter how old we are and how much we’ve seen and done since then. Some days I feel like I’m still only twelve years old, and all my wishes are going to be fulfilled. I sort of like it, you know? Feeling able to do anything I want with my life.”

  “You still can. Name something you want to do.”

  “Be a U.S. Senator.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Now I don’t. But I did. I wanted to be Margaret Chase Smith.”

  “Well, you could still …”

  Peggy laughed. “You don’t really believe that, do you? That everything in the world is still possible?”

  “I guess not. I guess I want to but I can’t.”

  “That’s what growing up means, Marsh. It means you can’t believe anything you can’t see and grab hold of and put in your purse.”

  “That’s a depressing thought.”

  “I know. God, don’t I know … Marsh?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “What do you want to do right now?”

  “Lick the polish off your toenails.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “No.”

  “Thank God … Marsh?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Would it be all right if I did this?”

  “Sure.”

  “How about this?”

  “Fine.”

  “Faster?”

  “No, that’s about right.”

  “You could do something if you want to.”

  “Okay. How about this?”

  “Yes.”

  “This?”

  “Yes, but not so hard. Wait. Let me get rid of that. Do you mind? Are you sure? Good. There. That’s perfect. Just keep doing it just that way.… Marsh?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Do you think this will change the way we are with each other?”

  “Probably.”

  “For better or worse?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does that mean you want to stop?”

  I said no, not unless she did, and we had fun with each other for several fevered minutes, until the face of Karen Whittle laid claim to the center of my mind and had the effrontery to remind me of her earlier admonition. As Peggy and I made a slipknot of our bodies, I considered the situation and my obligations in light of it. Five minutes later I decided to live up to what seemed like a reasonable definition of a wonderful guy.

  As I pulled away from our embrace, I sensed that Peggy was relieved. I began an awkward apology, but Peggy told me not to mind, that it was all right, that she understood. “It wasn’t working, anyway,” she added, and turned my heart from cake to stone.

  SEVENTEEN

  I was asleep when the phone rang, but I don’t think Peggy was. At least she didn’t sound sleepy when she snapped on the light, reached for the receiver, mumbled a garbled greeting, listened, then propped her pillow against the headboard and leaned against it with a resigned sigh and said, “Hello, John.”

  It took me a few seconds to realize what was going on. When I finally put it together I scrambled out of bed and hurried into the living room and curled up beside the second phone, pulling the abandoned afghan over my nakedness as I listened for sounds from the bedroom. When I heard the low drone of Peggy’s voice I eased the receiver off its cradle and put it to my ear.

  “Are you badly hurt, Margaret?” His voice was low, soothing, neutral. Not mad, not threatening, not obsessive, not easily distinguishable from a million other benignant voices.

  “I’m all right.” Peggy’s own voice was a match for his, gentle, almost reverent. “I don’t know why you did that to me, John,” she went on, now a trifle plaintive.

  The spider didn’t answer for a moment. When he did the words wafted through the wire in a condescending lilt. “You need not understand, Margaret. You need merely obey.”

  “But I don’t want it to happen again.”

  “Then you must do as I say, mustn’t you?”

  “But I have been.”

  “No, you haven’t. You’ve been seeking aid. You’ve been trying to identify me.”

  “No, I—”

  “Do not lie! You are not to lie to me. Haven’t I made that clear? Don’t you realize by now that I know the truth? That I am inside your body, inside your head, inside your soul? Don’t you know that you can’t be false to me, Margaret? About anything?”

  Peggy’s submission came in sirens of shallow breath. “I’m sorry, I …”

  In the next instant his voice was a caressing puff. “They cannot help you, you know. You are beyond the help of anyone but me.”

  “I know.”

  “It is fruitless to tell others about our relationship. No one can understand it. Only you and I know its depths and contours. We are locked in a special embrace, Margaret. And we will remain together until we die. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know there is no escape.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know that I am prepared to eliminate anything or anyone who comes between us.”

  “Yes.”

  “And to follow you to the end of the earth if you try to flee from me.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you will not defy me again, will you?”

  “No.”

  “And you will tell those you have asked for help that you no longer need them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is anyone with you now?”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “… There was someone here last night, but not tonight.”

  His voice hardened. “What would happen if I called this number?”

  He read off the digits of my own telephone number, the one in my apartment.

  Peggy’s gasp was audible to both of her auditors. “I don’t know what would happen,” she said.

  “There wouldn’t be an answer, would there?”

  “I don’t know. How could I know that?”

  The spider chuckled confidently. “Well, it doesn’t matter. If he is there beside you, if he is listening, so be it. He will see how fruitless it would be to interfere
. Fruitless, and perhaps dangerous. So I bid you welcome, Mr. Tanner. I hope you enjoy our session.”

  He allowed silence to build the moment. Although I was on the brink of an outburst I stayed mute, an impotent onlooker huddled beneath a colorful blanket that failed to remove my chill.

  “Shall I tell you what we’re going to talk about this evening, Margaret?” the spider continued after a moment.

  “All right.”

  “We’re going to talk about clothes.” He tittered. “Does that surprise you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so.” Peggy’s voice had a higher pitch, a thinner timber than the one I knew so well. She was even less than the teenager she had mentioned hours before, was now a naughty child, leery of punishment, anxious of fate.

  “You have a nice wardrobe, Margaret. Lovely things.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What I’m wondering is, whom do you dress for?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean when you cover your nakedness in the morning, whom do you want to impress? Whom do you want to excite?”

  “No one. I just want to look nice.”

  “Come now.”

  “No. Really.”

  The spider’s words were stern. “I see I must be specific. When you go out shopping, and you see one dress with a high neckline and another with a low-cut bodice, why do you choose the latter garment?”

  “But I don’t, always.”

  “Not always, perhaps. But when you do, what are you thinking? ‘How much of my bust shall I expose tonight? How much flesh will it take to excite them? How much trembling breast will make them want to touch me, feel me, kiss me, defile me?’ Isn’t that what’s in your mind when you buy such clothing? Driving men crazy with desire?”

  Peggy’s voice became the spider’s opposite, a timid whisper. “No. Nothing like that.”

  “You lie!”

  “No. Not this time.”

  The spider’s fury ebbed to a reasonable drone. “You know your purple dress? The knit sheath with white buttons and the white piping at the hem and neck?”

  Peggy knew it and I did too. “Yes.”

  “You must know what you look like when you wear that dress, Margaret. You do, don’t you? You look at yourself in the mirror, don’t you? Like all women?”

  “Yes. Sometimes.”

  “Then you know that you look like a strumpet, Margaret. A woman whose flesh is for sale to the highest bidder. A woman who wants to be handled like a common rag, passed around from man to man until she is filthy beyond description.”

  “No. It’s not like that. It’s just a dress.”

  “Ha. I tried to persuade myself that you wore it for my personal pleasure, you know. I tried very hard. But too many others shared the experience, Margaret. Too many others sought to know the rest of you, just as you hoped they would.”

  “No, I—”

  “Why else would you wear such things? You know men lust for women’s breasts. You know they will be looking at yours, and wanting to do more than look. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I don’t … some of them might. Not all.”

  “All men. All men, Margaret. All normal men want to suckle women’s breasts. It’s biological, genetic, a universal constant. Why do you deny it?”

  “It’s just clothes, John. Just a dress.”

  “But they make dresses that don’t display your bosom, do they not? They make dresses that camouflage your cleavage, that keep your charms a secret. And since that is the case, by choosing a design that does display them to the world you are confessing that you very badly want to display them. That is irrefutable, is it not?”

  “No. I …”

  “The question is why? Why do you expose yourself that way? Are you out to seduce a specific man? Or are you merely a vengeful harlot who seeks to frustrate men in every way she can? Which is it, Margaret?”

  “It’s nothing like that. I only want to look nice. I buy all kinds of dresses. Some with high necks, some with low. It’s just fashion, is all. Variety. A different look. It has nothing to do with men.”

  “No! You’re teasing us. Demeaning us. Forcing us to confront our private baseness. You want us to want you, and at the same time you want us to know we can never have you. You’re cruel, Margaret. You and the others who do as you do. Cruel and sadistic.”

  “I am not. You may react that way when you see a woman in a scooped neck, but that doesn’t mean she wants you to react that way. Women can attract men without baring their breasts, John.”

  “But that’s the point, isn’t it? They don’t want to attract. Not really. They only want to tease. In reality women want to be sex objects, because as such you have us where you want us, as helpless, craven fools. ‘Eat your heart out.’ That’s the phrase, isn’t it? That’s what you want us to do, eat our hearts out until we choke on the horrible refuse of our desire.”

  The spider’s voice was raw and wounded. Peggy seemed startled by his outburst, and hesitated until he had time to recover his composure. When she went on it was in a comforting contralto. “You’re wrong, John. If other women have teased you, I’m sorry. But I haven’t. You know that.”

  “How about underclothes?” he demanded roughly.

  “What?”

  “Your underwear. What do you wear underneath? A garter?”

  “No. Not usually.”

  “Then what?”

  “Panty hose. A bra. A slip sometimes.”

  “Girdle?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Panties?”

  “If I’m not wearing panty hose.”

  “What kind of panties?”

  “Various kinds. You don’t want to know this, John.”

  “Don’t tell me what I want! I know what I want. Your function is to give it to me. Or do we have to review what will happen if you don’t?”

  “No. No review. Please.”

  “Very well. Are your panties those little bikini types?”

  “Yes. Some of them.”

  “Lace?”

  “Some.”

  “Black?”

  “A few.”

  “What other colors?”

  “White. Yellow. Blue.”

  “Dark blue?”

  “Light.”

  “Has anyone ever ripped them off you?”

  “My panties?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Never.”

  “That’s too bad. Do you wish they would?”

  “No.”

  “Ha. You lie, but it doesn’t matter. Your brassieres.”

  “What about them?”

  “What size?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “What else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bra size. There’s more than a number, isn’t there?”

  “I don’t … oh, the cup. I wear a C cup.”

  “Good. What color?”

  “Black or white. Blue. And beige, sometimes.”

  “You mean flesh color.”

  “Yes.”

  “Strapless?”

  “One or two.”

  “Those kind that force them up? So you look more voluptuous than you are? So there is more for men to see?”

  “No. None of those.”

  “Padded?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Do you have the kind with holes in them? So only the nipples peek through?”

  “No. What do you think I am?”

  “Oh, by now we both know what you are, Margaret. Would you buy one with holes if I asked you to?”

  “I …”

  “I might want you to start dressing up for me, you see. I might want you to wear enticing things, and tell me about them when I call. How they look. How they feel. Yes. I think I just might. I might even buy them for you, would you like that? If I bought some things and sent them to you? Then I would be the only one to know what gossamer garments are caressing your flesh. Then you’ll be exactly the way I want you to be
.”

  “Please don’t do that, John. It would make me feel … It would change it all. I don’t think I could do that, no matter what you do.”

  When he spoke again he seemed annoyed. “If you wear a low-cut dress does it mean you’re not wearing a bra?”

  “Not always. There are low-cut bras.”

  “Do you wear nothing underneath sometimes?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “In the fall, is all. Just when it’s terribly hot. Just a few days a year.”

  “Do you feel sexier then? When you’re wearing nothing underneath?”

  “Only cooler.”

  “You lie again. Why? What’s the point?”

  “Okay. I feel sexier.”

  “Do you do anything about it?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t flirt? Or pick up a man? You don’t seduce someone on hot nights, so they can make that void at your center go away? That void we talked about last week? Or do you merely masturbate? Relieve yourself with your own devices? Tell me which.”

  “None of those things. I just go home and try to cool off.”

  “I doubt that. I doubt it very much. That pilot you were seeing. One night when it was beastly hot I saw you put your hand in his pocket. And he placed his hand on your breast, right there in public, right there on Montgomery Street. You were like two farm animals, rutting in the sun. I was disgusted. I want you to know that. I was very disgusted with you. I was glad when he died. Oh, you didn’t know I knew about that, did you? Yes, I was very pleased when he died, Margaret. It was the best thing for us.”

  Peggy was stunned to silence, and my mind kicked into a higher gear, one that explored the likelihood that the spider had killed Peggy’s former lover, had tampered with his ultralight somehow, had gotten rid of an irritant that tainted his alabaster fantasy. I thought Peggy had begun to cry but I wasn’t sure.

  “I’ve decided I want something from you, Margaret,” the spider said stiffly.

  “I’ve already given you everything I have.” Peggy’s words were a murmur of collapse, but the spider was heedless of her misery.

  “Oh, you can give much more. For example, I want some of your underthings. A bra. Panties. A slip. One of each. Ones you have worn but have not yet washed. In fact, I insist on it. I want those things.”

  “No. Please.”

  “I want them and I will have them. Won’t I? Won’t I, Margaret?”