Carnal Innocence

for a hangover, shattered nerves, and an unwelcome dose of sexual frustration. “Just a little frazzled.”
    “Who could blame you, honey? Tell you what. We’re having a barbecue tomorrow. You come out here and sit in the shade, eat till you can’t walk, and forget all about your troubles.”
    “That sounds wonderful.”
    “Five o’clock. You drive into town, go all the way to the end of Market, and turn left on Magnolia. We’re the third house on the right. The yellow one with white shutters. You have any trouble finding it, just follow the smell of charring ribs.”
    “I’ll be there. Thanks, Susie.”
    Caroline hung up and started back to the kitchen. She put the coffee on, popped some bread in the toaster, and took out some of the wild raspberry jam. The sun was sizzling on the wet grass outside, and the wild, hot smell was as appealing as the scent of coffee. She watched a woodpecker settle against the side of a tree to root for breakfast.
    From the front porch came Toby’s voice, a rich, creamy baritone. It was lifted in a body-swaying gospel tune about finding peace.
    Caroline found that her headache had vanished, her eyes were clear.
    All in all, it was good to be home.
    Not so far away, someone lay tangled in sweaty sheets and moaned in sleep. Dreams, like dark, twisted rivers, flowed. Dreams of sex, of blood, of power. The dreams were not always remembered in the daylight. Sometimes they flitted in those waking moments, razor-wingedbutterflies slicing through the mind and leaving shallow wounds that stung.
    Women, there were always women. Those brutal, smirking bitches. The need for them—the smooth skin, the soft scent, the hot flavors—was hateful. It could be overcome for long stretches. For days, weeks, even months, there could be a gentleness, a warmth, even a respect. And then, then one of them would do something. Something that required punishment.
    The pain would begin, the hunger would grow. And nothing would quench it but blood. But even through the pain, even through the hunger, there was guile. There was a wild satisfaction in knowing that no matter how they looked, how they struggled, no one would find proof.
    Madness was alive in Innocence, but it cloaked itself well. As the summer wore on it would fester inside its unwilling host. And smile.
    Dr. Theodore Rubenstein—Teddy to his friends— polished off his second cherry danish. He washed the pastry down with lukewarm Pepsi straight from the bottle. He’d never developed a taste for coffee.
    Teddy had just skimmed past his fortieth birthday and had begun to comb Grecian Formula 44 through his thick brown hair. He wasn’t balding—praise be—but he didn’t care for the professorial look the threads of gray gave him.
    Teddy considered himself a fun-loving kind of guy. He knew that with his small dark eyes, slightly receding chin, and sallow complexion, he wasn’t heart-stirring handsome. He used humor to attract the ladies.
    Personality, he liked to tell himself, caught as much pussy as a perfect profile.
    Humming to himself, he scrubbed his hands in the sink in Palmer’s embalming room, the sink just below the trick picture of Jesus. To amuse himself, Teddy swayed from side to side. When he shifted left, Jesus wore a red robe, a kindly expression, and held an elegant hand up to the valentine-shaped heart prominent on hischest. Shift right, and the face shivered for an instant, then moved to sadness and pain. Understandable, as there was now a crown of thorns perched atop the chestnut hair, thin rivulets of blood marring the intellectual forehead.
    Teddy wondered which image Palmer preferred before he reached for his Rock-Hard Cavity Fluid. While he experimented, trying to find that precise point where he could stand and have the two images merge into one, he dried his hands. Behind him, Edda Lou Hatinger lay naked on the porcelain embalming table—the old-fashioned kind, with the run-off grooves along the sides. Her skin was ghastly under the merciless fluorescent lights.
    Such things didn’t put old Teddy off his danishes. He’d chosen pathology because he’d been expected to go to medical school. He was the fourth generation of Rubensteins with Doctor in front of his name. But long before he’d completed his first year of internship, he’d discovered in himself a nearly obsessive abhorrence of sick people.
    Dead was different.
    It had never bothered him to work on a cadaver. Hospital rounds with the wheezing,