“Go get ’em Maggie!” a drummer named Frankie Constantini yelled at me. “You're the best.”
Somehow, I made it to the piano. I even managed to sit down without fainting, or having a major coronary.
I am considered tall at five feet eight inches, and Barry said I was “striking” that night, but I just felt gawky—the same way I'd felt as a teenager. I'd let my hair grow very long, and it cascaded down my back. At least I liked my hair. If nothing else, my hair was cool.
“I was living in West Point,” I managed to say, speaking in a low voice into the gleaming silver microphone. “I was living in West Point, near the military academy there. I was a housewife and a mother named Mrs. Bradford. I loved to sit in the attic, I remember. There was a squirrel there named Smooch, and before my daughter, Jennie, was born, he was my friend. I loved to sit in the attic because there I was safe. There I wasn't afraid that my husband might come and hit me. There I began to write songs.”
My mind felt as though it had exploded. Phillip was in it, as vivid as when he was alive. I could hear his footsteps on the stairs in our old house, the menace in his voice: You can't hide from me! My hand was trembling.
I willed my fingers to strike the piano keys. I sang with all my heart, everything inside of me:
I used to be a housewife
A new wife
A midwife
I used to live the good life
High in the storm king mountains.
I used to give him haircuts
Fix cold cuts
Mend shirt cuffs
My name was Mrs. Bradford
And I thought I was going to die.
Battery
He hit me!
This can't be me
This can't be me
Battery
I used to be a housewife
A new wife
A midwife
He hit me!
How can he say he loves me
When I think I'm going to die?
The applause grew louder, and then unbelievably louder. People began to stamp their feet in rhythm to the beat. The noise was like a physical presence rising out of the stadium. It carried me higher than I had ever been in my life.
It told me that all these people believed in me. They believed my story.
It was like nothing I had ever experienced, not even in dreams, and I have to confess, I never wanted it to stop.
Hooo boy, hooo boy, hooo boy.
CHAPTER 16
THAT WAS THEN; and this is now.
I could never have imagined being where I am right now, in prison in New York.
It seems so inconceivable, so impossible. I couldn't conceive of any set of circumstances that would have gotten me here.
This week they brought a top, well-respected psychiatrist to see me, a woman named Deborah Green.
I guess I couldn't blame anyone for thinking that I might be crazy.
The husband killer. That's what I'm called in the newspapers.
The black widow of Bedford.
I visited with Dr. Green in a small conference room beside the chapel, which made me smile at least.
I was pleased to learn that Dr. Green specialized in physical-abuse cases, rather than homicides.
She made it easy for me. She told me about herself, and why she had been chosen, and that if she wasn't right for me, she'd leave. She was my age, soft-spoken, unassuming.
I guess I liked her well enough. Trust? Well, that might come later.
“How's this?” I said to her. “I'll make this easy. I'll tell you everything that's on my mind. I don't see the point in the two of us having secrets.”
I was facing Dr. Green, rather than lying on the cot that had been provided. She nodded, then she smiled. She was good at this, getting people to talk.
Of course, I wasn't being truthful with her—there was one important secret I wasn't telling her, or anyone else.
Ironically, it was what might have saved me.
“However you want to do this, Maggie,” she said. “If you want to unload a lot of junk, go ahead.”
I laughed. “It is junk, isn't it?”
Yes, I wanted to unload.
So, in those first few sessions, I told Dr. Green everything that all the newspapers and TV stations wanted to know, and couldn't get out of me for any amount of money.
I told Dr. Green what made me anxious, ashamed, and also, very angry.
Like about my father, and how he'd left my mother in 1965. Just walked out and left us as though we were some motel he'd visited going cross-country.
Like my terrible stuttering from around age four to thirteen. How it had hurt so much when kids made fun of me; how it had made me feel worthless and small; how I had beat it by myself, with no help from anyone.
Like writing songs in my head, to escape from the negative voices in my childhood world.
Like Phillip, who everybody thought was this nice, quiet college professor—but he wasn't, really. He had his black Corvette that he used to back out of the drive at about forty miles an hour; he had his gun collection; he had his rules to be followed at every waking moment, and probably while I was sleeping too.
I talked for about two hours at a clip, and Dr. Green rarely stopped me.
Finally, though, I was talked out during our third or fourth session.
“I do think you left something out,” she finally said.
“What's that?” I asked her.
“Well, what about Will Shepherd? Remember him?”
Oh yes, Will.
The man I was in here for killing.
“I've been working up to Will,” I said. “Will is in his own special class.”
CHAPTER 17
WILL HAD LEARNED to put on a good act in school, and to get by with it. He was already being touted as the best young football player in London. And he was very popular—with the girls anyway. He still didn't have a good friend though.
Early in the summer following his fourteenth birthday, he came down with the Asian flu. Chills and fever possessed him. He actually was afraid he might die, and go join his father.
His Aunt Vannie nursed him through the high fever. She was there for him. This was unusual, for until now, anytime Will got sick, it was Aunt Eleanor who brought him his food and comforted him. Indeed, sick or well, Vannie was a remote figure in his life. She went out almost every night, often on dates with men who squired her for a few evenings, and then disappeared to be replaced by others.
Mostly, Will and Vannie played chess, and they chatted. She was an avid player, but he learned the game rapidly, and by the end of the week they were able to play competitively. He found himself looking forward to the games with increasing excitement.
Chess enabled him to study his aunt up close. He and his brother, Palmer, had conducted countless, sworn-secret, late-night conversations about her. They wondered about Vannie's men, about her occasional trips to Bournemouth or the South of France. And now, as she studied the board, he was able to stare at her, watch her every move.
He examined her breasts whenever her eyes were occupied with the game board. He imagined kissing them, gently sucking on the soft nipples, which taunted him under every blouse and dress she wore. He imagined biting each nipple clean off.
“You can't fool me the way you do all the others,” Vannie told him during one of their tensest games. “I know that you're very clever, Will, and I know that you don't want us to know. But I know. I even know what you're thinking, dear boy.”
After six days, Will woke feeling a little bad about feeling so much better. He would have to get up, he knew, and the prospect of being able to play football again delighted him. But the times with Vannie would be over.
There was a knock on his door around nine-thirty that morning. Palmer was already gone—Eleanor was taking him to the Regent's Park Zoo—and Will decided he would pretend to be sicker than he actually felt. He liked to pretend, to act, to see how good he was.
“I'm awa
ke,” he said in a weak voice like Tiny Tim's in A Christmas Carol. “Come in, please.”
Vannie opened the door. She was wearing a gingham dress, cut tightly across her breasts. He noticed her breasts right away—every time.
“I'm going to make eggs,” she said. “Scrambled eggs. Could you assist in the eating thereof, Master Will?”
“A little,” he said, still playing Tiny Tim, acting his heart out. “Maybe a half portion.”
“I don't know if I'm up to cooking that much.” She winked.
Which finally got him to smile.
Vannie called his smile scampish. He knew that she liked it. So he smiled for her. More acting on his part.
“Just lie there. I'll bring breakfast to you, Master Will.”
Trembling, he watched her leave. She returned in a half hour, bearing scrambled eggs and mashed potatoes for them both, and sat on the bed next to him. Now that was extremely nice.
Will felt as though he hadn't eaten properly in a month, but her nearness took away his appetite for food.
“Still not hungry?” she asked, finishing her own portion. “Then how about one last game. For the championship of Fulham? You look recovered enough to play.”
“You're on. For the championship.”
“And what shall we play for, Vannie? What is our championship worth?”
I think I know what you want to play for. I think I know.
CHAPTER 18
VANNIE QUICKLY CLEARED away the dishes, and set up the board on his bed. “The smaller pieces in front, they're called pawns,” she teased. “Please move any one of them, so I can begin to thrash you.”
Now he concentrated on the game. Her challenge had aroused his huge competitive spirit, and he was determined to win. He even forgot about her breasts, and the rest of her.
The game was their best so far. It was incredibly close—closer, he knew, than Vannie had expected—but at the last minute, in a move he should have foreseen, she took his rook with a knight. She leaned back in smug satisfaction.
“I'm afraid—checkmate, my darling, Mr. Competitive.”
“Oh, sod it!” Will roared and struck the game board in frustration. Pieces flew on the bed and across the floor and under the night table.
“Typical loser. Typical man,” Vannie said. “How do you think your opponents feel on the football pitch?”
They both laughed. Then they scooted around the bedroom, picking up the scattered pieces: queen under the night table; knight somehow on top of the bureau; king underfoot on the imitation Oriental rug.
On hands and knees, they reached for the king simultaneously. Will's elbow grazed the slick cloth of Vannie's dress; he could feel the warmth of her skin underneath. She didn't pull away. Neither did Will.
Every sound, every tiny movement, suddenly became intensified in the bedroom. Electricity spiraled up his spine, and he could scarcely breathe. She wants me. I was right. I knew it.
Vannie stared into his eyes for a long second. She actually stared at him. The room was so quiet. He was conscious of the staccato pounding of his heart, and was afraid she could hear it. He wanted to hear her heart.
Without saying a word, Vannie's fingers gently traced Will's cheeks. Then, they trailed down over his throat, rode the lump of his Adam's apple. He gave a little moan.
She leaned forward and kissed him softly. Then she nipped his unpuckered lips with her teeth. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing him against her breasts.
Her tongue slid inside his mouth. Her tongue was inside him, and it was hard.
“Dear, sweet boy,” she whispered. “You are something else. You're very special, Will.”
Will's hands finally reached for her, tentatively at first, as though they themselves barely believed the miracle that was happening. Then more aggressively, up and down her surprisingly well muscled back, her soft face, her neck, and then, blessedly, to those wondrous breasts. She wants me. Finally, someone does.
“Not so fast,” she whispered. “We have time, Master Will.”
“I know that. I've thought about this a lot.”
She smiled and her eyes opened wide with amusement. “You have, have you?”
His hands slid down along the outside of her legs. Vannie's dress made a sound like light static in the air.
She tugged at her own belt, then pulled him even closer. He didn't know what would happen next—what could happen?
He was already taller than she by half a foot, and much stronger, though she was strong. Her hands slipped all over him, reaching down into his pajamas. Her dress fell away to the floor. How many hands did she have? Where had she learned all this?
Will's face and neck were extremely hot—on fire; his ears were loudly ringing. His penis felt huge, and he rubbed against her bare flesh with a cry of utter joy. He wasn't sure what to do now, exactly where to go from here, but he would figure it out. He was smart, just as she suspected.
Naked, Vannie lay on her back on the bed. She was holding herself open with her hands. Her cheeks were red, blushing, and he loved that look, would never forget it.
“Now,” she said, reaching for him. “Now would be a very good time, Will.”
She wanted it to happen. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.
Will watched her face—studied her beautiful brown eyes; then her rising breasts; the luscious V of her legs and the dark hair at the center. He was so hard that he almost couldn't believe it was he. He felt stronger and more powerful than he ever had. Most important, he knew what to do with her. He just knew it. Naturally.
“Don't rush it, Will,” she whispered to him. “Take your time, young Master.”
“Don't worry. I don't want it to be over either.”
When it was, though, when they lay together, and she gently stroked his long blond hair, she said, “You're so very beautiful. You're going to be able to have anyone that you want.” She smiled warmly. “You're quite irresistible, Will.”
This, Will already knew. He just wasn't sure what it meant.
To be irresistible. Was that good, or was it very, very bad?
CHAPTER 19
ALLAN “SKIPPER” THOMAS appeared to be an ordinary fellow, a tradesman perhaps, but Will understood that Thomas was the most important man he had met in his entire life.
Thomas was in his early forties now, manager of the Hammersmith Rangers, but rumor had it he trained as hard as his players, and that he offered bonuses to any on the team who could go past him one-on-one. Rumor also had it that no bonus had ever been paid.
He and Will were sitting like proper gentlemen in the living room of his aunts' house. Eleanor and Vannie had tactfully gone out, leaving the men to talk football, as men so love to do.
“I've watched you play, Will,” Thomas said, playing everything close to the vest, as Will had expected he would.
“I'm honored to hear that, sir. I really am.” Like hell. Every club in London had sent scouts to see him play.
“You've got natural talent, no question about it. I could make you into a fine player, over time I could.”
Will watched Skipper Thomas calmly, the way Will did most everything. “I'm a fine player already, sir. You know it, or you wouldn't be here.”
“You're fifteen years old. Nobody is a player at that age, just a potential player.”
“I am,” Will said.
“And modest too,” Thomas laughed heartily.
“No, I'm not modest, sir. That would be false of me. But I am a goal scorer, sir. I have no particular sense of team, of anyone else on the field. I'm a loner, a striker pure and simple. I'm cut from the same cloth as Johan Cruyff, Pele, Gerd Müller. I'm the best at my age that England has ever seen. Fast as any pro, and stronger too. All the papers say so.”
Thomas smiled broadly at the audacity of this young Turk, but most of all, because he just might be right. “The local papers say so, Will.”
“And The Telegraph. And The Sun. Look, Mr. Skipper Thomas, why don't you just get on with it
? You want me to play for you; I want to play for you. So cut through it. How much are you willing to pay, sir?”
“Come on, Will, dribble past me. If you think you can. You're the next Cruyff, isn't that right?”
Skipper Thomas and Will were the only ones who stayed on the pitch this late after practice. It was the same thing night after night, practice after practice. Thomas had never seen such maniacal desire in a player, even a young one. Will was indeed an incredible striker, a natural goal scorer.
“What'll you give me if I do? What's in it for me?”
“Twenty pounds,” Skipper said and spat.
Will laughed and walked away. He was bare-chested, shaking his long blond hair. “I wouldn't fuck your wife for twenty pounds.”
“All right. Fifty pounds. But you have to get right past me.”
Will turned back, took the challenge. Thomas tossed him the ball; Will trapped it with his feet. Real casuallike. Acting like a dumb, cocky little shit.
Skipper Thomas crouched, but stayed on the balls of his feet. “Whenever you're ready, son.”
He was ready now, and he wasn't anyone's son.
Will feinted left, quickly feinted right, headed directly at his coach and then, with fist toward the sky, middle finger raised in the universal gesture of contempt, glided past him as though Skipper Thomas's shoes were glued to the grass.
“Keep your money,” he said and laughed at the coach. “I won't need it where I'm going.”
Will played two years for the Rangers before his contract was bought by Liverpool, perennial champions of the English League's First Division, for one point five million pounds. He was already the biggest star in England. In his first year he was the League's leading scorer and was barely edged out as Footballer of the Year. He was nineteen years old.
The papers glowingly wrote about his “great inner fierceness,” his “uncanny ability to actually fly across the pitch.” “He can swoop like a golden eagle, then fly off to his natural aerie—the opposition's goal,” the Guardian said.
“He is like a Blond Arrow—stretching toward the goal.”
“Will Shepherd is the complete egomaniac on the field; he has the consummate scorer's mentality. He plays as though he were alone out there.”