Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (best fiction books to read TXT) 📗

prep school with Senator Packwood. What did you do?"

"I smiled sweetly, reached over, and grabbed the book by each side, then slammed it shut as hard as I could."

"Good for you!"

"Yeah, well, my morals didn't hold up as well after I ran out of money and was hungry."

"Didn't your father help you?"

"He would have if I'd asked."

"But you didn't."

"I didn't even tell him where I was."

"Why not?"

She stared off into space. A shadow crossed her face for just a second, and there it was again, that vulnerability and need. I am not a white knight bedecked in armor, mounted on a gallant steed. But if I were, I would have scooped her up, tugged at the reins, and spirited her away to a refuge in a forest of high pines.

"I didn't know at the time," she said finally, "but I do now."

Why? I wanted to ask, but sometimes the best questions are left unspoken. I knew Chrissy would get around to it, so I let her tell the story in her own time, in her own way.

"For the next two years, I was more of a party girl than a model. I went to Milan to build my book and fell in with a fast crowd. Figli di papà, Daddy's boys, Italians with trust funds. Some of them just want a beautiful girl on their arm; most want to fuck you and pass you off to a friend. When I started working, I lived in a models' apartment building the Italians called Principessa Clitoris."

"Cute."

"We just called it the Fuck Palace."

I dragged a piece of pork through the rice and tossed the mixture into my mouth. Outside our enclosed room, three male guards looked in through a window. If there had been a curtain, I would have pulled it. Behind them, a stream of female inmates lined up on their way to the cafeteria. Stringy hair, sallow faces. I wondered what Chrissy would look like after a year behind bars. Or twenty.

"I did the whole party scene," she said, "licking coke off hundred-dollar bills in rest rooms, skinny-dipping in fountains, parties for Arab sheiks, hanging with the disco droids. Amazingly, I was doing well, professionally at least. The makeup covered the dark circles under my eyes and I had a look that was hot, or so they said. I was traveling, making good money, but my personal life was chaotic and destructive."

"The men?"

"The wrong men. Playboys, married men, abusive men, starving actors, untalented painters. I was having nightmares, flashbacks that made no sense. I was bulimic one month, anorexic the next, then stuffed myself like a pig the third. I binged, gained weight, starved and lost weight, got depressed, got sick and was a total wreck. When I was fat, which was like a hundred twenty-eight pounds, the photographers would call me 'Flesh.' And when I was skinny, they'd call me 'Bones.' Finally, they combined the two."

"Flesh and Bones," I said.

"I really hated the name. One day, I'm walking up Fifth Avenue in New York, and one of those street-corner preachers with a filthy beard is ranting and raving, and he starts following me, right past St. Patrick's, heading toward the park, and he's waving his Bible and shouting, 'Flesh and bones cannot inherit the kingdom of God.' "

"I think it's 'flesh and blood,' " I said, trying to remember Granny's Bible lectures.

"That's what made it so creepy. It was like he knew me, like he was telling me I was gonna die for my sins of the flesh and— I don't know—go to the boneyard and straight to hell."

"But you straightened yourself out."

"It was either that or die. A few months later in Paris, I had a very bad trip on acid. Hallucinated I was jumping off a bridge into the Seine, and guess what, I almost was. I had climbed onto a railing and was model-walking above the water. The same week, my roommate, Pia, died of a heroin overdose. I was down to about a hundred five pounds, had these big dark circles under my eyes. Kept getting all this editorial work, the French photographers into their doomed-beauty stage."

"What did you do?"

"I came home."

"To your father?"

"No. To therapy. I went to Dr. Schein. Lawrence Schein. He'd treated my mother, became her friend when she and Daddy had nothing left to say to each other."

I shoved the food cartons aside and made a note on my pad. At last, a witness. "A psychiatrist?"

"Yes, and a good one. He said my problems had to be rooted in my childhood. We talked and talked and talked, but I couldn't remember anything more traumatic than falling off a horse. He insisted the memories were there but buried, 'sublimated' he called it, so we did hypnotic regression and repressed-memory therapy."

I tore open the little plastic bag with a fortune cookie inside. "And it worked?"

"He shined a light into dark corners I didn't know existed. It all came back to me. I owe him so much."

She let the thought hang there a moment and I didn't grab it. I saw where we were going and it occurred to me that she might owe him even more than she knew. She might owe him life in prison.

Chrissy looked around the barren little room. "I wish I could have a cigarette."

"What, Chrissy? What came back to you?"

Her eyes filled with tears. "My daddy. My daddy."

I waited but she didn't go on. "Did he molest you?"

No answer.

"Chrissy, tell me," I whispered. "Did he rape you?"

"No. He loved me."

The tears streamed down her face.

"Chrissy."

"No!"

She wrung her hands together on the table, her fingers entwined like restless snakes.

"Chrissy, trust me. Tell me."

Sobs stopped her. I waited. Her eyes were tightly closed. She put her head down between her arms and sobbed, keeping the sound and the pain inside as her body shuddered. I stood and moved around the table, wrapping my arms around her, tears dripping from her cheek to my shoulder. After a moment, she lifted her head