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  MARY ANN MITCHELL

  DRAWN TO THE GRAVE

  Prologue

  She looked out the window and saw her own reflection backgrounded by the moonless night. Her olive flesh was creaseless in the distorted reflection. She pulled her auburn hair back, then heaved her curls atop her head. For several seconds she stood with her elbows bent outward at ear level.

  Evan was quiet in the bedroom. He could sleep, but she couldn't. Beverly brought her arms down suddenly and watched her hair spew out into waves that rested finally upon her bare shoulders. Reflected in the window, her skin looked ephemeral, delicate, wispy. Age hadn't marred her beauty. Yet.

  She had cried while they had made love that evening.

  "What's wrong, Beverly?" he had asked. "Am I hurting you?"

  She shook her head, and so did her reflection.

  He had moved quickly to complete the act. He was obviously confused but didn't want to release her until he was finished. She had understood his needs but not her own.

  Beverly turned away from the window. The room was almost empty. She was a minimalist: Her cream leather sofa was framed only by two standing lamps and a small Parsons table. At the opposite end of the long room were a butcher-block table and two folding chairs. Dirty glasses, dishes, and silverware were scattered across the table's surface. Their dinner together had been quiet. She had sat watching each of his movements. Evan's blond curls had spilled down onto his clear brow. Not a wrinkle or a blemish on that soft white skin, she thought. Evan's blue irises floated in perfect white; no tinge of yellow or rude redness intruded.

  When she had first met Evan, she thought he looked too youthful to be at a late-night party. Underage. The wonder in his eyes as he observed the pretentiously chic people present in her apartment drew her to him.

  "Hi, I came with Bill. Hope you don't mind," he had said upon catching her in mid-stare.

  "No, of course not. Are you new in town?" she had inquired banally.

  "I look that green? I was trying to look sophisticated, like I've been around these parties before. But you caught me. Only been in town a month now, staying with Bill." His voice had been steadily rising to meet the noisy challenge of other conversations and music.

  She had nodded. Then she had drifted away from the cute little boy to talk with some grownups.

  Later she had discovered he wasn't underage but nineteen, as Bill had clarified during some casual party talk. Bill happened to be Evan's father and one of Beverly's ex-lovers. Bill, naturally, wandered home with a blonde the night of the party, leaving Evan behind.

  "I guess you can stay here. The couch isn't comfortable, but I do have a sleeping bag in the closet." Beverly had hurried away to fetch it. Upon returning to the living room, she had found no one.

  "Must have gone home after all," she had mused. "Just as well. I'm not going to feel like seeing anyone in the morning. I certainly don't want to baby-sit Bill's progeny." She was too tired that night to return the sleeping bag to the closet. Instead, Beverly had dropped it in the middle of the floor and had headed for her bedroom. When she had switched the light on, she had found the boy spread out on her favorite side of the bed. Beverly had shaken him, but he had muttered that he was too tired to get up.

  The sleeping bag still lay on the living-room floor, she had remembered, but why should she get evicted from her own bed? Besides, he was young, not yet a man; how dangerous could he be? Although they hadn't talked much, she had liked the youth and had liked lying beside him. She had pushed back his curls and had almost been tempted to kiss him on the forehead. Instead she had patted his head, had decided to remain in her clothes as he had remained in his, and had gone to sleep.

  The morning following the party, she had woken to the smell of coffee and bacon. As she had been orienting herself, Evan's head had appeared sideways in the doorway. At this point she had freaked and screamed.

  "Hey, it's me. I've got breakfast on the table, unless you'd rather have it in bed. But I didn't see any tray."

  "I never have breakfast in bed and I never expect to see plucky little boys taking over my home."

  "Gee, I'm sorry. I thought I'd do something nice for you, since you let me stay over last night."

  "I was going to let you sleep on my living-room floor, not on my bed."

  "You know, I was heading for the bathroom, and I guess I took a wrong turn. Ended up bumping into your bed and just kinda collapsed onto it."

  She had sighed then, and again now as she glanced at the remains of last night's dinner.

  Beverly moved across the living room toward the cluttered dinner table. She picked up the bottle of champagne from the floor. It still had about half a glass of brut in it. Beverly poured it into a clean water glass that she got from the kitchen. She decided to join Evan in bed but tripped over his Nikes as she started for the hall. The glass slipped easily from her hand and shattered near her feet. One of the slivers of glass lodged on the first joint of her big toe. She knelt on her undamaged leg and picked the glass out with her fingers. It was a large fragment of glass and left a long gouge. She limped into the bathroom. While Beverly washed her toe, her tears started to fall. Her eyes became so blurred with the salty wetness that she couldn't find the bandages. Angry, she knocked several bottles off a shelf in the medicine chest.

  She waited in silence. Had she woken him? She heard no stirring from the bedroom. Evan slept soundly.

  Beverly bent down to pick up the unbroken bottles from the floor but ended up sitting on the floor. It felt good to have the cold tiles against her warm flesh. She leaned back toward the tub, but suddenly jerked forward when she made contact. Gradually Beverly forced her back to accept the austere chill of the porcelain. She pulled her knees to her chest and gave way to her sobs.

  "Hey, I don't mind you teaching my son a few tricks," Bill had told her that morning. "But remember, he's nineteen and you're thirty-five. Don't get any ideas about having him move in with you. The weekends are okay; it frees up my time. Just don't look at this as any long-term thing. I don't want my Evan getting confused.'' There had been a pause.

  "I bet he takes after his old man in bed, huh?"

  She hadn't answered Bill's question. She had been embarrassed. How could she have thought that no one knew? Evan had claimed to have told Bill that he stayed at a friend's house. Beverly wondered if they had shared stories about her.

  Bill had chuckled when she didn't answer. Then she had laid the receiver back on the cradle. Stunned. That was the only way she could describe what she had felt immediately after their conversation.

  Beverly reached for the toilet paper on the near wall and pulled several times until her hand held a large clump, then she ripped the paper off the roll. First she blew her nose into the paper to make her breathing easier. Next she used the dry parts to blot her cheeks. Her head rolled back and rested on the edge of the tub. When she heard her sigh, it surprised her. She hadn't planned the sigh. She also hadn't planned on feeling this way about her affair with Evan.

  She recalled her first breakfast with Evan. He had talked about his childhood.

  "I've lived in Thailand for ten years. My mom moved there after her marriage to Bill ended. She was real hurt, so she turned to religion.

  Mom works as a missionary. Initially, the job got her mind off the mess she had left behind in the States, but now she does it to save souls," Evan had confided.

  In future conversations Evan would expatiate on his travels. His knowledge of Asia and his naïveté intrigued her. Evan had never heard of certain movies, television shows, and public figures that were common topics among her crowd. Was it her age or cultural
differences? Anyway, he was certainly a better conversationalist than Bill.

  "I've always called my old man Bill," Evan had stated curtly.

  "But why?" she had asked. "Isn't he your natural father, or is it a coincidence that you look so much like him?"

  "He's my father. My mother's never been with any other man. She married him after her high-school graduation. Bill was a few years older and already on his way to becoming a successful lawyer. But Bill never knew how to treat a woman. He flitted from one bed to another, sometimes three times in one night. Whenever my mother said anything, he would blacken her eye."

  "But you don't call him Dad."

  "I don't respect him."

  Later, Beverly would learn that the only reason Evan was staying with his father was financial. Evan was to start classes at Columbia University in the fall. His mother didn't have the cash to rent him an apartment, and his father refused to pay.

  "He wanted me to come live with him. Said I needed to be near a man, thinks I've been coddled. Bill thinks I should learn to be aggressive," Evan had muttered.

  Beverly smiled up at the bathroom ceiling. Aggressive. Honey, you have no problem in that area, at least not with women, she thought. She recalled the first night they had made love. Evan had acted especially boyish during the early part of the evening. She had giggled at his pranks. He had been irresistible as he leaned closer to show her a card trick. His white cotton shirt had touched her naked forearm. She had pressed her arm into his shirt to feel the warmth of his flesh. His heat on her skin had ignited her stomach and made her breathing shallow. He knew his timing and the signals. He had kissed her gently, dropped the cards, and had caressed the softness of her unfettered breasts through the pale, silk blouse.

  Beverly stretched her legs out across the bathroom tile and looked down at her nude body. "You still look pretty decent, kid." While saying this she ran her palms down her slender thighs. Perhaps there was a tiny bulge at the top that hadn't existed ten years before, but all in all she was pleased with herself.

  Tomorrow she would call her editor and let him know that she would be leaving town soon to work on her new novel. He had left many messages requesting a date for completion. It had already been several months since he had approved her proposal. The trip to the country had been postponed more than once, because she hadn't thought it was the right time: Either her work required her presence in New York, or her love life was going too well to leave. But now she knew that the time was right.

  The hallway floor squeaked. She looked up at the doorway and saw Evan.

  "What are you doing in here?" he asked.

  "Picking up bottles."

  While returning the bottles to the shelf, she glanced in the mirror and saw Evan watching her. Her nakedness smarted.

  "But, Bev, your toe . . ."

  "I was careless with a glass. The toe just needs some antiseptic." She also reached for gauze and tape.

  "Skin like yours is too beautiful to mar." He knelt and kissed the bridge of her foot. After which, his tongue licked down toward her injured toe. Beverly pulled away.

  "Let me doctor it up for you, Bev."

  "No!"

  Evan's eyes darkened.

  "I'm a baby when it comes to my own blood. I never allow others to dress my wounds when I'm still capable of doing so. Otherwise, I keep waiting for the other person to make a misstep and hurt me. I'll take care of it."

  Finished, she walked past him. He followed, but then turned back.

  She got into bed and pulled the lace-trimmed sheet over her. A few of the blue hyacinths that Evan had brought her lay atop the pastel peach bed linen. Some had been crushed under the weight of the lovers' bodies. The rest lay upon the wood floor. Their scent still permeated the bedroom, competing with the odor of sex. The perfume of love.

  She started to make a mental checklist of all the things she was going to do the next day. Evan and she were finished. No one could hold on to youth, although this boy had allowed her a brief fantasy.

  Evan slid back into bed, into her arms, and she indulged herself like an alcoholic on her last bottle of booze.

  1 - The Drawing

  Beverly adjusted the jalousie on the living-room window in order to view Carl. Among his blond strands stood some conspicuous grays. The gray hairs were coarser, sturdier than the blond wisps that had carried him through his fifty years. He swept his callused hand through his locks and settled into his wicker chair.

  "Carl, do you want something to drink?"

  Carl waited for Beverly to come to the porch door, then shook his head. Beverly, dressed only in her underwear, walked out onto the porch and sat at his feet. The cold wooden planks touched her thighs and caused her shoulders to shiver.

  "Night's creeping up on us," she said.

  "I've got to go home."

  "Stay, Carl, please. I'll make bouillabaisse and fresh garlic bread."

  Carl shook his head. She knew he could see the river peeking out from behind the trees. His rowboat would be by the bank of the river. If he started rowing upstream now, he would be home before dark. He rubbed his hands together, then stretched his arms out wide. As he brought his hands down to his knees to rise, Beverly grabbed one hand.

  "Do you love me?" she asked.

  He looked at her without expression. With his free hand he reached into the pocket of his white trousers and pulled out a piece of paper. It was folded into a small square. Uninvited, she took the paper from his hand and unfolded it. There was her body, sketched out in pencil: her long legs, the slightly domed tummy with the pubic hair rising almost to her navel, the funnel-like breasts peaking in dark swirls, and the slender nape reaching up behind the earlobes. But it was the perfection of the facial features that gave her the confidence to smile up at him. He stood.

  "Tomorrow?" she asked.

  Carl shrugged and moved down the steps to the gravel path. She waved, but he never turned to see it. He would probably listen to some Mahler, she thought, finish the Nietzsche book that they had discussed earlier that day, and have a light supper.

  Most of the next day Beverly pecked at letters on her computer keyboard, forming words that ran into sentences. The drawing lay to the right of the keyboard. She was sorry she hadn't asked him to sign it, "Love, Carl." Maybe tonight.

  Beverly had dinner late that night. She didn't know whether to make it for one or two. Eventually she put single portions on the stove. At bedtime she plumped up some pillows along his side of the bed and threw her left leg across the bottom pillow.

  The pillow was still buried between her thighs when she felt a hand slide up her buttocks. She looked at the clock. Seven A.M. The hand felt rough against her. It coursed over her flesh like sandpaper leveling a rough board. His full lips touched her shoulder blades. Then she felt the hair of his chest rest softly against her back. She could feel her wetness spreading across the pillowcase as her pelvis pushed into it.

  Later, at breakfast, she noticed how dark Carl's skin was, as if he had been working outdoors all the previous day. His blond hair had been whitened by the sun, almost camouflaging the grays. His hands were raw. Many calluses had broken open into wounds.

  "You must have worked hard yesterday."

  He didn't say anything.

  "By the way, I'd like you to sign the drawing."

  He looked at her and shook his head. His handsome features were pensive. She saw a cruelty that had never been there before.

  "Why not?"

  "I shouldn't have given it to you. I should have kept it for myself."

  She smiled.

  "I'm sure you can duplicate it." She started to remove her bathrobe. "I'll even pose for it."

  Beverly dropped the robe over the back of her chair and stood.

  "Let's go back to the bedroom and see if we can manage a repeat performance."

  A few hours later, there were a blank paper and a pencil on the nightstand. On the bed Carl and Beverly lay entwined. She was awakened by the jolting movement
of his body. Carl was trying to reach for the drawing material. Beverly moaned. Carl gave up his attempt and instead lay still beneath her. His breath halted a second or two and then slowly gained its rhythm. She waited. Ten minutes, a half hour, a day later, she didn't know which, then she suckled his teat. Beverly spread her legs across his hips and sat atop his body; she smiled, satisfied but hungry. He picked up the pencil and paper. Immediately she stood on the mattress and heaved her auburn hair up across her forearms. He sketched.

  The drawing was not as perfect as the first. His hand was shaky, and the lines were not following her body contours. This seemed to anger him.

  "I think it's good." She pecked him on the cheek and got up to prepare lunch. As she left the bedroom, she turned to look at Carl. His hands obviously ached, for he grimaced as he opened and closed his fists. He stopped only to shred the paper and let the bits fall onto the stained sheet.