Angela looked at her curiously. “What do you know about this?”
So Jessie told them all about her meeting with the realtor and her encounters with the Pear-shaped Man. Angela giggled once or twice, and Donald slipped into his wise-shrink face. “Tell me, Jessie,” he said when she had finished, “don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit here?”
“No,” Jessie said curtly.
“You’re stonewalling,” Donald said. “Really now, try and look at your actions objectively. What has this man done to you?”
“Nothing, and I intend to keep it that way,” Jessie snapped. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“You don’t have to ask,” Donald said. “We’re friends, aren’t we? I hate to see you getting upset over nothing. It sounds to me as though you’re developing some kind of phobia about a harmless neighborhood character.”
Angela giggled. “He’s just got a crush on you, that’s all. You’re such a heartbreaker.”
Jessie was getting annoyed. “You wouldn’t think it was funny if he was leaving Cheez Doodles for you,” she said angrily. “There’s something…well, something wrong there. I can feel it.”
Donald spread his hands. “Something wrong? Most definitely. The man is obviously very poorly socialized. He’s unattractive, sloppy, he doesn’t conform to normal standards of dress or personal hygiene, he has unusual eating habits and a great deal of difficulty relating to others. He’s probably a very lonely person and no doubt deeply neurotic as well. But none of this makes him a killer or a rapist, does it? Why are you becoming so obsessed with him?”
“I am not becoming obsessed with him.”
“Obviously you are,” Donald said.
“She’s in love,” Angela teased.
Jessie stood up. “I am not becoming obsessed with him!” she shouted, “and this discussion has just ended.”
THAT NIGHT, IN HER DREAM, JESSIE SAW INSIDE FOR THE FIRST TIME. HE drew her in, and she found she was too weak to resist. The lights were very bright inside, and it was warm and oh so humid, and the air seemed to move as if she had entered the mouth of some great beast, and the walls were orange and flaky and had a strange, sweet smell, and there were empty plastic Coke bottles everywhere and bowls of half-eaten Cheez Doodles, too, and the Pear-shaped Man said, “You can see my things, you can have my things,” and he began to undress, unbuttoning his short-sleeved shirt, pulling it off, revealing dead, white, hairless flesh and two floppy breasts, and the right breast was stained with blue ink from his leaking pens, and he was smiling, smiling, and he undid his thin belt, and then pulled down the fly on his brown polyester pants, and Jessie woke screaming.
ON MONDAY MORNING, JESSIE PACKED UP HER COVER PAINTING, phoned a messenger service, and had them take it down to Pirouette for her. She wasn’t up to another trip downtown. Adrian would want to chat, and Jess wasn’t in a very sociable mood. Angela kept needling her about the Pear-shaped Man, and it had left her in a foul temper. Nobody seemed to understand. There was something wrong with the Pear-shaped Man, something serious, something horrible. He was no joke. He was frightening. Somehow she had to prove it. She had to learn his name, had to find out what he was hiding.
She could hire a detective, except detectives were expensive. There had to be something she could do on her own. She could try his mailbox again. She’d be better off if she waited until the day the gas and electric bills came, though. He had lights in his apartment, so the electric company would know his name. The only problem was that the electric bill wasn’t due for another couple of weeks.
The living room windows were wide open, Jessie noticed suddenly. Even the drapes had been drawn all the way back. Angela must have done it that morning before taking off for work. Jessie hesitated and then went to the window. She closed it, locked it, moved to the next, closed it, locked it. It made her feel safer. She told herself she wouldn’t look out. It would be better if she didn’t look out.
How could she not look out? She looked out. He was there, standing on the sidewalk below her, looking up. “You could see my things,” he said in his high, thin voice. “I knew when I saw you that you’d want my things. You’d like them. We could have food.” He reached into a bulgy pocket, brought out a single Cheez Doodle, held it up to her. His mouth moved silently.
“Get away from here, or I’ll call the police!” Jessie shouted.
“I have something for you. Come to my house and you can have it. It’s in my pocket. I’ll give it to you.”
“No, you won’t. Get away, I warn you. Leave me alone.” She stepped back, closed the drapes. It was gloomy in here with the drapes pulled, but that was better than knowing that the Pear-shaped Man was looking in. Jessie turned on a light, picked up a paperback, and tried to read. She found herself turning pages rapidly and realized she didn’t have the vaguest idea of what the words meant. She slammed down the book, marched into the kitchen, made a tuna salad sandwich on whole wheat toast. She wanted something with it, but she wasn’t sure what. She took out a dill pickle and sliced it into quarters, arranged it neatly on her plate, searched through her cupboard for some potato chips. Then she poured a big fresh glass of milk and sat down to lunch.
She took one bite of the sandwich, made a face, and shoved it away. It tasted funny. Like the mayonnaise had gone bad or something. The pickle was too sour, and the chips seemed soggy and limp and much too salty. She didn’t want chips anyway. She wanted something else. Some of those little orange cheese curls. She could picture them in her head, almost taste them. Her mouth watered.
Then she realized what she was thinking and almost gagged. She got up and scraped her lunch into the garbage. She had to get out of here, she thought wildly. She’d go see a movie or something, forget all about the Pear-shaped Man for a few hours. Maybe she could go to a singles’ bar somewhere, pick someone up, get laid. At his place. Away from here. Away from the Pear-shaped Man. That was the ticket. A night away from the apartment would do her good.
She went to the window, pulled aside the drapes, peered out.
The Pear-shaped Man smiled, shifted from side to side. He had his misshapen briefcase under his arm. His pockets bulged. Jessie felt her skin crawl. He was revolting, she thought. But she wasn’t going to let him keep her prisoner.
She gathered her things together, slipped a little steak knife into her purse just in case, and marched outside. “Would you like to see what I have in my case?” the Pear-shaped Man asked her when she emerged. Jessie had decided to ignore him. If she did not reply at all, just pretended he wasn’t there, maybe he’d grow bored and leave her alone. She descended the steps briskly and set off down the street. The Pear-shaped Man followed close behind her. “They’re all around us,” he whispered. She could smell him hurrying a step or two behind her, puffing as he walked. “They are. They laugh at me. They don’t understand, but they want my things. I can show you proof. I have it down in my house. I know you want to come see.”
Jessie continued to ignore him. He followed her all the way to the bus stop.
THE MOVIE WAS A DUD. HAVING SKIPPED LUNCH, JESSIE WAS HUNGRY. She got a Coke and a tub of buttered popcorn from the candy counter. The Coke was three-quarters crushed ice, but it still tasted good. She couldn’t eat the popcorn. The fake butter they used had a vaguely rancid smell that reminded her of the Pear-shaped Man. She tried two kernels and felt sick.
Afterward, though, she did a little better. His name was Jack, he said. He was a sound man on a local TV news show, and he had an interesting face: an easy smile, Clark Gable ears, nice gray eyes with friendly little crinkles in the corners. He bought her a drink and touched her hand; but the way he did it was a little clumsy, like he was a bit shy about this whole scene, and Jessie liked that. They had a few drinks together, and then he suggested dinner back at his place. Nothing fancy, he said. He had some cold cuts in the fridge; he could whip up some jumbo sandwiches and show her his stereo system, which was some kind of special super setup he’d rigged himself. Tha
t all sounded fine to her.
His apartment was on the twenty-third floor of a midtown high-rise, and from his windows you could see sailboats tacking off on the horizon. Jack put the new Linda Ronstadt album on the stereo while he went to make the sandwiches. Jessie watched the sailboats. She was finally beginning to relax. “I have beer or ice tea,” Jack called from the kitchen. “What’ll be?”
“Coke,” she said absently.
“No Coke,” he called back. “Beer or ice tea.”
“Oh,” she said, somehow annoyed. “Ice tea, then.”
“You got it. Rye or wheat?”
“I don’t care,” she said. The boats were very graceful. She’d like to paint them someday. She could paint Jack, too. He looked like he had a nice body.
“Here we go,” he said, emerging from the kitchen carrying a tray. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Famished,” Jessie said, turning away from the window. She went over to where he was setting the table and froze.
“What’s wrong?” Jack said. He was holding out a white stoneware plate. On top of it was a truly gargantuan ham-and-Swiss sandwich on fresh deli rye, lavishly slathered with mustard, and next to it, filling up the rest of the plate, was a pile of puffy orange cheese curls. They seemed to writhe and move, to edge toward the sandwich, toward her. “Jessie?” Jack said.
She gave a choked, inarticulate cry and pushed the plate away wildly. Jack lost his grip; ham, Swiss cheese, bread, and Cheez Doodles scattered in all directions. A Cheez Doodle brushed against Jessie’s leg. She whirled and ran from the apartment.
JESSIE SPENT THE NIGHT ALONE AT A HOTEL AND SLEPT POORLY. EVEN here, miles from the apartment, she could not escape the dream. It was the same as before, the same, but each night it seemed to grow longer, each night it went a little further. She was on the stoop, waiting, afraid. The door opened, and he drew her inside, the orange warm, the air like fetid breath, the Pear-shaped Man smiling. “You can see my things,” he said, “you can have my things,” and then he was undressing, his shirt first, his skin so white, dead flesh, heavy breasts with a blue ink stain, his belt, his pants falling, polyester puddling around his ankles, all the trash in his pockets scattering on the floor, and he really was pear-shaped, it wasn’t just the way he dressed, and then the boxer shorts last of all, and Jessie looked down despite herself and there was no hair and it was small and wormy and kind of yellow, like a cheese curl, and it moved slightly and the Pear-shaped Man was saying, “I want your things now, give them to me, let me see your things,” and why couldn’t she run, her feet wouldn’t move, but her hands did, her hands, and she began to undress.
The hotel detective woke her, pounding on her door, demanding to know what the problem was and why she was screaming.
SHE TIMED HER RETURN HOME SO THAT THE PEAR-SHAPED MAN WOULD be away on his morning run to Santino’s Market when she arrived. The house was empty. Angela had already gone to work, leaving the living room windows open again. Jessie closed them, locked them, and pulled the drapes. With luck, the Pear-shaped Man would never know that she’d come home.
Already the day outside was swelteringly hot. It was going to be a real scorcher. Jessie felt sweaty and soiled. She stripped, dumped her clothing into the wicker hamper in her bedroom, and immersed herself in a long, cold shower. The icy water hurt, but it was a good clean kind of hurting, and it left her feeling invigorated. She dried her hair and wrapped herself in a huge, fluffy blue towel, then padded back to her bedroom, leaving wet footprints on the bare wood floors.
A halter top and a pair of cutoffs would be all she’d need in this heat, Jessie decided. She had a plan for the day firmly in mind. She’d get dressed, do a little work in her studio, and after that she could read or watch some soaps or something. She wouldn’t go outside; she wouldn’t even look out the window. If the Pear-shaped Man was at his vigil, it would be a long, hot, boring afternoon for him.
Jessie laid out her cutoffs and a white halter top on the bed, draped the wet towel over a bedpost, and went to her dresser for a fresh pair of panties. She ought to do laundry soon, she thought absently as she snatched up a pair of pink bikini briefs.
A Cheez Doodle fell out.
Jessie recoiled, shuddering. It had been inside, she thought wildly, it had been inside the briefs. The powdery cheese had left a yellow stain on the fabric. The Cheez Doodle lay where it had fallen, in the open drawer on top of her underwear. Something like terror took hold of her. She balled the bikini briefs up in her fist and tossed them away with revulsion. She grabbed another pair of panties, shook them, and another Cheez Doodle leapt out. And then another. Another. She began to make a thin, hysterical sound, but she kept on. Five pairs, six, nine, that was all, but that was enough. Someone had opened her drawer and taken out every pair of panties and carefully wrapped a Cheez Doodle in each and put them all back.
It was a ghastly joke, she thought. Angela, it had to be Angela who’d done it, maybe she and Donald together. They thought this whole thing about the Pear-shaped Man was a big laugh, so they decided to see if they could really freak her out.
Except it hadn’t been Angela. She knew it hadn’t been Angela.
Jessie began to sob uncontrollably. She threw her balled-up panties to the floor and ran from the room, crushing Cheez Doodles into the carpet.
Out in the living room, she didn’t know where to turn. She couldn’t go back to her bedroom, couldn’t, not just now, not until Angela got back, and she didn’t want to go to the windows, even with the drapes closed. He was out there, Jessie could feel it, could feel him staring up at the windows. She grew suddenly aware of her nakedness and covered herself with her hands. She backed away from the windows, step by uncertain step, and retreated to her studio.
Inside she found a big square package leaning up against the door, with a note from Angela taped to it. “Jess, this came for you last evening,” signed with Angie’s big winged A. Jessie stared at the package, uncomprehending. It was from Pirouette. It was her painting, the cover she’d rushed to redo for them. Adrian had sent it back. Why?
She didn’t want to know. She had to know.
Wildly, Jessie ripped at the brown paper wrappings, tore them away in long, ragged strips, baring the cover she’d painted. Adrian had written on the mat; she recognized his hand. “Not funny, kid,” he’d scrawled. “Forget it.”
“No,” Jessie whimpered, backing off.
There it was, her painting, the familiar background, the trite embrace, the period costumes researched so carefully, but no, she hadn’t done that, someone had changed it, it wasn’t her work, the woman was her, her, her, slender and strong with sandy blond hair and green eyes full of rapture, and he was crushing her to him, to him, the wet lips and white skin, and he had a blue ink stain on his ruffled lace shirtfront and dandruff on his velvet jacket and his head was pointed and his hair was greasy and the fingers wrapped in her locks were stained yellow, and he was smiling thinly and pulling her to him and her mouth was open and her eyes half closed and it was him and it was her, and there was her own signature, there, down at the bottom.
“No,” she said again. She backed away, tripped over an easel, and fell. She curled up into a little ball on the floor and lay there sobbing, and that was how Angela found her, hours later.
ANGELA LAID HER OUT ON THE COUCH AND MADE A COLD COMPRESS and pressed it to her forehead. Donald stood in the doorway between the living room and the studio, frowning, glancing first at Jessie and then in at the painting and then at Jessie again. Angela said soothing things and held Jessie’s hand and got her a cup of tea; little by little her hysteria began to ebb. Donald crossed his arms and scowled. Finally, when Jessie had dried the last of her tears, he said, “This obsession of yours has gone too far.”
“Don, don’t,” Angela said. “She’s terrified.”
“I can see that,” Donald said. “That’s why something has to be done. She’s doing it to herself, honey.”
Jessie had a hot cup of Morning Thund
er halfway to her mouth. She stopped dead still. “I’m doing it to myself?” she repeated incredulously.
“Certainly,” Donald said.
The complacency in his tone made Jessie suddenly, blazingly angry. “You stupid, ignorant, callous son of a bitch,” she roared. “I’m doing it to myself, I’m doing it, I’m doing it, how dare you say that I’m doing it.” She flung the teacup across the room, aiming for his fat head. Donald ducked; the cup shattered and the tea sent three long brown fingers running down the off-white wall.
“Go on, let out your anger,” he said. “I know you’re upset. When you calm down, we can discuss this rationally, maybe get to the root of your problem.”
Angela took her arm, but Jessie shook off the grip and stood, her hands balled into fists. “Go into my bedroom, you jerk, go in there right now and look around and come back and tell me what you see.”
“If you’d like,” Donald said. He walked over to the bedroom door, vanished, reemerged several moments later. “All right,” he said patiently.
“Well?” Jessie demanded.
Donald shrugged. “It’s a mess,” he said. “Underpants all over the floor, lots of crushed cheese curls. Tell me what you think it means.”
“He broke in here!” Jessie said.
“The Pear-shaped Man?” Donald queried pleasantly.
“Of course it was the Pear-shaped Man,” Jessie screamed. “He snuck in here while we were all gone and he went into my bedroom and pawed through all my things and put Cheez Doodles in my underwear. He was here! He was touching my stuff.”
Donald wore an expression of patient, compassionate wisdom. “Jessie, dear, I want you to think about what you just told us.”
“There’s nothing to think about!”
“Of course there is,” he said. “Let’s think it through together. The Pear-shaped Man was here, you think?”