Read Online A Ship Made of Paper by Scott Spencer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Scott Spencer
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him—but before he can complain, she rolls over, drapes her leg over him. Lifting herself up on her elbow, she looks down at him and says, “Pretend you’re raping me.”
“What?”
“Don’t hit me or anything, but rape me, really really rape me, tear my clothes off and force yourself into me.”
“Are you serious?”
She nods yes.
“Iris,” he says, in a fatherly, admonishing tone. But her request has already had its effect on him. His hardness feels urgent, brutal. He grips the band of her shorts, gives it a tug, waits to see what she will do.
Iris rolls onto her back, she lifts her chin, closes her eyes. She is about to be erased, obliterated, but on her own terms.
“Who should I be when I do this?” he asks. His throat is dry, his voice has a small fissure running through it.
She feels herself softening at her center, the way a peach will if someone has dug their thumb in, softening, beginning to rot. “You’re just you and I’m me,” she says.
“This is strange,” he says.
“Shhh,” she answers. “Come on. It’s all right.”
She has a sense of him as completely under her command. She is controlling the situation, him, the night belongs to her at last. But then he surprises her. He tugs her boxers down, fast, with something expert and irrefutable in his movement—just one long pull and they are around her knees. And then before she can even take a breath he turns her over a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r
swiftly and a little cruelly, and then the weight of him on top of her presses her nose and mouth into the mattress and all she can think is, Jesus, he is really going to do this to me.
Daniel comes home, closes the door quietly behind him, and tiptoes with exaggerated care across a minefield of squeaking floorboards. He is like the henpecked hubby in a cartoon, sneaking back home after a night’s carousing. He sits on the steps, takes off his shoes, and ascends to the second floor in his stockinged feet.
Knowing it will only increase his agitation, in some hapless way courting the self-torture, he looks in on Ruby. His love for Kate’s child has taken on the harrowing qualities of a crime in the planning stage. She is the night watchman in a store he is going to rob, she is going to be in harm’s way. He has a dream of his own happiness, and if he is lucky enough to one day attain it, bold enough to seize it, man enough to keep it, that joy will be paid for, at least in part, in Ruby’s tears.
Her bedroom is so dark he cannot see her, but he hears her slow breathing. He feels a kind of thud in the center of his consciousness, as if he has just knocked something down to the carpet in the dark.
As he feared, Kate is waiting for him, fiercely awake. Her pillows are stacked up to support her back and she rests her head against the wall, exactly in the center of the bedposts. She has wrapped her arms around her chest and she flutters her fingers on her upper arms. Instinctually, his eyes scan her bedside table: a stack of books, a little tape recorder for the taking of her own dictation, a little blue Chinese bowl holding a United Airlines sleep mask and foam rubber earplugs, and—what he was looking for and what gives him the sour pleasure of a hypothesis confirmed—a bottle of zinfandel, in which she has made quite a dent.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“For what?”
“For giving you a hard time, in the car.” It seems she means to be somehow repentant, but her words are delivered with a little tremor of
[ 45 ]
sarcasm on the edge, though he is not sure who is being mocked—he for being so touchy, or she for behaving badly?
“It’s all right,” he says. “It’s fine.”
“I had no right.”
“It’s okay. It’s just . . . you know.Talk.” He feels as if he is evading her conversation, she is the bull and he is the matador.
“I would like to apologize,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “And I would like you to accept my apology.”
“You did nothing and said
“What?”
“Don’t hit me or anything, but rape me, really really rape me, tear my clothes off and force yourself into me.”
“Are you serious?”
She nods yes.
“Iris,” he says, in a fatherly, admonishing tone. But her request has already had its effect on him. His hardness feels urgent, brutal. He grips the band of her shorts, gives it a tug, waits to see what she will do.
Iris rolls onto her back, she lifts her chin, closes her eyes. She is about to be erased, obliterated, but on her own terms.
“Who should I be when I do this?” he asks. His throat is dry, his voice has a small fissure running through it.
She feels herself softening at her center, the way a peach will if someone has dug their thumb in, softening, beginning to rot. “You’re just you and I’m me,” she says.
“This is strange,” he says.
“Shhh,” she answers. “Come on. It’s all right.”
She has a sense of him as completely under her command. She is controlling the situation, him, the night belongs to her at last. But then he surprises her. He tugs her boxers down, fast, with something expert and irrefutable in his movement—just one long pull and they are around her knees. And then before she can even take a breath he turns her over a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r
swiftly and a little cruelly, and then the weight of him on top of her presses her nose and mouth into the mattress and all she can think is, Jesus, he is really going to do this to me.
Daniel comes home, closes the door quietly behind him, and tiptoes with exaggerated care across a minefield of squeaking floorboards. He is like the henpecked hubby in a cartoon, sneaking back home after a night’s carousing. He sits on the steps, takes off his shoes, and ascends to the second floor in his stockinged feet.
Knowing it will only increase his agitation, in some hapless way courting the self-torture, he looks in on Ruby. His love for Kate’s child has taken on the harrowing qualities of a crime in the planning stage. She is the night watchman in a store he is going to rob, she is going to be in harm’s way. He has a dream of his own happiness, and if he is lucky enough to one day attain it, bold enough to seize it, man enough to keep it, that joy will be paid for, at least in part, in Ruby’s tears.
Her bedroom is so dark he cannot see her, but he hears her slow breathing. He feels a kind of thud in the center of his consciousness, as if he has just knocked something down to the carpet in the dark.
As he feared, Kate is waiting for him, fiercely awake. Her pillows are stacked up to support her back and she rests her head against the wall, exactly in the center of the bedposts. She has wrapped her arms around her chest and she flutters her fingers on her upper arms. Instinctually, his eyes scan her bedside table: a stack of books, a little tape recorder for the taking of her own dictation, a little blue Chinese bowl holding a United Airlines sleep mask and foam rubber earplugs, and—what he was looking for and what gives him the sour pleasure of a hypothesis confirmed—a bottle of zinfandel, in which she has made quite a dent.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“For what?”
“For giving you a hard time, in the car.” It seems she means to be somehow repentant, but her words are delivered with a little tremor of
[ 45 ]
sarcasm on the edge, though he is not sure who is being mocked—he for being so touchy, or she for behaving badly?
“It’s all right,” he says. “It’s fine.”
“I had no right.”
“It’s okay. It’s just . . . you know.Talk.” He feels as if he is evading her conversation, she is the bull and he is the matador.
“I would like to apologize,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “And I would like you to accept my apology.”
“You did nothing and said
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