Far enough away so we wouldn’t have to smell him rot.
King of the Island
Almost three weeks have gone by since that morning.
My women are still in their cages.
Including Kimberly. After disposing of Wesley’s body, I did what was necessary. I tried for a while to break into the cage. I couldn’t get in, though. So she would have to stay.
There were sacks of concrete in the storage building where I’d found the wheelbarrow.
I mixed the concrete in the wheelbarrow with a shovel. I carried it in a bucket up the ladder, and dumped it through the bars. The heavy gray glop fell on Kimberly, bombed her, splatted her body and spread out, rolling like lava, some spilling down her sides to join the concrete of the floor.
I don’t want to get into how I felt. Or which parts of Kimberly I covered first. Or last.
After many trips up the ladder with the paint bucket, none of her showed anymore.
Wesley’s two knives, one in her thigh and one in her chest, stuck up out of the gray mass like miniature Excaliburs. But no hero arrived with the strength or magic to draw them out.
I gave the concrete a while to set, then mixed more batches in the wheelbarrow and hauled them up to the top and poured. I couldn’t pull out the knives, but I could bury them.
When I finally quit, Kimberly’s resting place was a long, low hill of concrete at the bottom of her cage.
Billie had watched all this from her cage. She’d given me useful advice, from time to time. She’d spoken softly, sadly. It was good having her there. To Connie, Alice and Erin, I’d apparently turned into a leper. It didn’t bother me, though. Mostly, I felt numb.
We didn’t say anything over Kimberly.
Maybe we each did, privately. At least those of us who loved her.
Which probably included only me and Billie, when you come right down to it.
I thought about singing “Danny Boy” for her. I couldn’t do it, though. Maybe someday.
After cleaning up the tools, I returned to the mansion and took a long, hot shower. Then I stayed in. I went to where I’d hidden the Swiss Army knife. With the knife in my hand, I searched for a good bedroom. I picked Erin’s, on the second floor. I flopped on her bed.
I stroked my cheek with the knife’s smooth plastic handle, and remembered Kimberly. Next thing you know, I started bawling. I cried like crazy, like I’d never cried before. And then eventually I fell asleep.
I dreamed of Kimberly running on the beach. It was our beach on the inlet. She ran toward me, smiling. She wore her white bikini, and her husband’s gaudy Hawaiian shirt. As usual, the shirt wasn’t buttoned. It flowed behind her as she ran. And so did her long black hair. She was tanned, sleek, gorgeous. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It must’ve been a mistake about her being dead. Maybe I’d only dreamed that she’d been killed.
She came into my arms, held me gently, kissed me on the mouth.
After the kiss, I murmured, “I thought you were dead.”
“You think too much, Rupert.”
“You’re not, then?”
Her smile. Her fabulous smile. “Of course not. Do I look dead? Do I feel dead?”
No, she didn’t. She looked and felt alive and very wonderful. Shaking my head, I began to weep in my dream. She kissed my tears away. “Do you love me?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Would you like to marry me, Rupert?”
“Yes!” I blurted. “Yes!” But suddenly I realized that I couldn’t marry her, no matter how much I wanted to.
She saw the change in me. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I can’t. I love Billie. I love both of you.”
Kimberly’s smile beamed. “Then marry us both,” she suggested. “Why not? You’re the king of the island, you can do whatever you want.”
“Okay, then. That’s what we’ll do.”
“Don’t you think you’d better ask Billie, first?”
“Oh, yeah. Good idea.”
“I’ll be back,” Kimberly said. She kissed me, whirled around and started running away down the beach.
“Wait!” I yelled. “Don’t go! Come back!”
I must’ve called out in my sleep, and I think that it was the sound of my own voice that woke me.
The room was dark.
I crept through the house and went outside. I walked across the front lawn, sad that the dream had lied about Kimberly being alive, but feeling less desolate than earlier. Wherever else her soul might’ve gone, it had found a home inside of me.
I would hold her in my heart forever.
Along with Billie.
Though I approached silently and invisibly in the full darkness, Billie touched me when I tried to find the bars of her cage. She took my hands and guided me forward. We hugged each other. Hard bars pressed against us, but couldn’t keep us apart. We filled the spaces between them with our warm, bare flesh.
It was as if Billie had been waiting for me, needing me.
We didn’t talk. We hugged and kissed fiercely. It started with the solemn urgency of two survivors finding each other after long and lonely wanderings. There was joy and relief, and a terrible sadness for all that had been lost.
Then that changed, shifted into an urgency of lovers. Hearts pounding, we explored each other with hands and mouths. Caressing, squeezing, delving deep, stroking. We licked each other, sucked and tasted. Gasping for breath. Moaning and sighing. Whispering no words except, “Yes,” and “Oh, there,” and “God.”
I won’t even try to describe all we did.
We were together for hours. Sometimes, we simply embraced and quietly talked. Then we would get started again.
Eventually, Billie managed a contortion that allowed us to make love between the bars. It was a hell of a trick, and took a lot of strength on her part. She couldn’t hold the position for very long.
It drove me crazy to be inside her that way. I’d never felt anything like it. So soft and warm and tight and slidy. And how it made me feel as if we were almost the same person for a while.
We’ve done it plenty of times since. I’ve learned to help by reaching through the bars and clutching her. That way, she doesn’t need to work so hard at holding herself up.
It has been wonderful.
Kimberly’s concrete tomb gives us sorrow, but also reminds us that life is a gift and we need to savor every moment that we’re given.
Though they’ve been imprisoned in the cages for three weeks now since the deaths of Wesley, Thelma and Kimberly, all four of my women are doing well. I have provided them with clothing, blankets and pillows, plenty to eat and drink. I clean them regularly by pouring water onto them from the tops of their cages. They have soap, washcloths, drinking cups, toothbrushes. They have hung blankets to make cubicles for privacy.
Their toilet buckets cannot be removed from the cages, so we came up with a system of lining the buckets with plastic bags. The used bags are passed between the bars for disposal.
I give my women whatever they ask for: combs, brushes, mirrors, sanitary napkins, books, magazines—even a Gameboy and a portable radio, both of which run off rechargeable batteries. I have become a fairly good cook. The mansion has provisions enough to last us for a few months, so there is no need to worry about starving. I don’t even ration the food.
My women want for very little, except their freedom.
It became obvious, after many tries during the first few days, that their cages were impregnable. I couldn’t pick the locks. I couldn’t force the doors or hinges. I had no saw or file capable of cutting through the bars. With a pickax, Billie tried to break out through her floor—only to find iron bars imbedded in the concrete.