Hanging Time

14

Camille hummed a little to calm down as she tried to get dressed. Milicia had called today and said she was coming. That made Bouck mad. He was sure Camille got worse when Milicia came because Milicia kept telling Camille she was sick and needed medicine.

“Milicia should mind her own fucking business,” Bouck said. Bouck wore a pistol in his boot, and another one in his shoulder holster. More than once he threatened to shoot Milicia if she ever tried to take Camille away from him. Milicia said Bouck was crazy. She didn’t know enough to be afraid of him.

So far Camille had managed to get her bra and panties on. Bouck liked black, with lots of lace, so that’s what they were. She pulled on one of the stockings he had bought for her and attached a garter. On her right, way in the corner, Bouck sat in the semi-darkness, watching her. His face and upper body were obscured in a deep shadow. Only his legs and the bottoms of the black boots showed clearly. She never knew which boot had the pistol.

His legs stuck out a long way because the chair was too small for him. This was the first time he tried this particular chair, and he was pretty sure it was the right one. Camille couldn’t remember whether it was the fifth or sixth he had tested. The others all had something wrong with them, even though he bought them for a lot of money. Too high or low off the ground. The seat wasn’t the right shape once he got it home and sat in it. The wood wasn’t the right shade in the dark. Something.

The chair he wanted had to be a bergère, more than a hundred years old. The kind of upholstery didn’t matter absolutely, but he felt he needed the blue medallion, preferably in the original. He wouldn’t reupholster the chair. He wanted it to be worn so thin, it looked like a spiderweb in places.

The chair he was sitting in was a signed piece nearly two hundred years old, with the faded blue medallion silk so thin the pattern could barely be recognized. Camille had seen it at an antique show. The dealer was using it himself and didn’t want to part with it.

Slowly she drew on the other stocking. Bouck made a sound. She tried not to listen to his sounds. She was turned to the dressing table and couldn’t see him because the lights surrounding the mirror on the dressing table lit only her face and not what was around her.

He made another sound. Her heart started beating faster and she could feel the panic rise. There were different kinds of panic that made her do different kinds of things. That much she had figured out. But they all started as pressure, and she never knew, when the pressure began, where it would take her. She concentrated on the dressing table. It was from a later period than the chair. Art deco, inlaid all over with ivory and ebony. It was the best one she had ever seen. She had examined the dressing table carefully for flaws before she allowed Bouck to buy it. He had a thick wad of thousand-dollar bills and paid for it in cash.

These days he gave her only hundreds. Bigger bills were too hard to cash, and when she tried to save them, she forgot where she put them. Bouck had lots of money, but neither the money nor the guns made her feel absolutely safe all the time. The risk was always there. It was there now in Bouck’s heavy breathing, there in the colored glass perfume bottles on her tray. Some were art-deco period and some new. Sometimes she broke them and tried to stab herself with the pieces. Bouck didn’t like it when she did that. Bouck couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

Camille cocked her head and peered at herself in the mirror. Sometimes this was all right to do, and sometimes it wasn’t. She could hear Bouck making the sounds that terrified her.

They were trying it again.

Her face was white, bleached with terror, as she reached for the new comb. It was plastic with the teeth set wide apart. Her hair was getting very long now, and hard to manage. It was thick hair with enough curl in it so it didn’t just hang down straight. It fanned out from her head like hair from a Botticelli. Bouck wouldn’t let her cut her hair. It was red-blond, like the hair of Venus on the scallop shell. Puppy liked to jump up and play with it. Puppy was apricot. Puppy thought Camille’s hair was hers to tangle. Camille raised the comb but could not pull it through her hair. She heard the zipper.

She heard Bouck breathing hard. Her stockings were white. So was her skin because she didn’t like the sun to tan her face. Camille had a degree in art history and was an interior designer when she could work. Now she worked only for Bouck. She had come into his store on Lexington Avenue one day, looking for a crystal chandelier.

He was sitting behind an English desk in the back, a big man with a smooth, round, wrinkle-free baby face and benign blue eyes. His pale hair sat limp and lifeless on his head.

“I don’t have a Botticelli,” he said, looking up at her with surprise.

“Who does?” she replied. She was having a good day that day, was wearing a printed silk dress, teal blue with a graceful skirt, and a hat with a brim.

“You do. You’re a Botticelli. I’m going to keep you.”

She shook her head. Above her, sixty crystal chandeliers fragmented light into thousands of brilliant, winking pinpoints. The diamond sky blinded her. The words and the pinpoints of light stopped her cold. She went into one of her states and froze under his gaze for more than an hour, would not move or answer or blink her eyes.

Bouck wasn’t upset though. He sat there behind the desk, watching her be a statue, and was enchanted. Wanted her even more. She was a work of art, a walking painting. He said he’d pay her anything to have her.

“I can’t be touched,” she said in her first lucid moment.

“Neither could Beatrice.”

He understood. He embraced the idea of becoming Dante, making Camille his Beatrice, the adored one he would follow forever and never quite attain. He couldn’t believe his luck. He wanted to guard Camille, do battle with her devils, and rescue her.

But the relationship made Milicia furious. Milicia told Camille that Bouck was about as bad for her health as anything could be. She was sure Bouck drugged Camille and did sick things to her, touched her where no one should touch her, and hurt her so bad she might never recover.

Camille thought of Milicia and tried to function. She had to comb her hair, put on her clothes because Milicia said she had to. Until Bouck, Camille always did exactly what Milicia told her. Now she was stuck in the middle. Every day she felt more stressed as Milicia tried harder to separate her from Bouck.

Camille did not want to listen to the sounds Bouck made when he watched her. Even though she couldn’t see Bouck in the mirror, and he promised he wouldn’t ever get up and do those things to her, Camille was terrified by the sounds he made. Sometimes she got so upset and crazed, he had to give her a pill to calm her down.

Camille never knew what happened after the pill put her to sleep. But when she woke up, sometimes more than twenty-four hours later, there were many bruises on her body. She was sore in strange places and couldn’t speak for a long time. Sometimes it was a full week before she could speak again.

Her brain broke down at the thought of touch. Bouck promised he would never, never touch her. If she asked about the bruises, he always told her she’d tried to hurt herself again. She’d gotten out of control, and he had to save her. Bouck said only he could save her, and she wanted to believe him. He was the one who gave her money to go shopping, and he was the one with the guns.

But even with his protections and his promise not ever to let Milicia take her back, Camille was afraid nearly all the time. She felt crushed between heavy weights like the stones that killed the Salem witches. Bouck and Milicia were fighting for her. Bouck told Camille the only way she’d really be safe from Milicia would be to marry him.

And that sent Milicia up the wall. The idea of Camille married to Bouck, at his mercy, unable to stop him from doing whatever he wanted with her, was more than Milicia could take.

“Bouck is a predator, like a shark or a lion. He’ll eat you alive, Cammy,” Milicia told her. “Is that what you want?” Milicia got so upset, she cried real tears.

The tears made Camille feel guilty. All Camille wanted was to keep the furies back and hold on to what was left of her mind. She heard the doorbell ring. Bouck’s sounds stopped. He hadn’t finished. Camille’s terror receded, even though she knew he’d make her do it again later. Trembling, she reached for her dress.