The Axeman's Jazz

She tried for levity: “You look like the Axeman right now.”
    She came closer to him, dared, despite the psychic shield around him, to reach out and stroke his hair. Childlike frustration, utter unbelieving misery replaced his anger. “What are you trying to do to me?”
    How dare she come to his house? And why? What was wrong with this woman? It was getting to be like “Play Misty for Me,” except that in the movie, the crazy woman had been in love.
    How dare she come to his house? And why? Did she know who he was? Maybe she was playing out some kind of drama with him, watching him dangle.
    I could ask her.
    But he knew he wouldn’t. Because maybe she didn’t know, and if she didn’t, he didn’t want her to find out. He hadn’t yet gotten over the shock of hearing his father described as a butcher, wouldn’t have given it the slightest credence if he hadn’t seen her body himself.
    It was such an odd turn of fate, his meeting her, making love to her, and then her saying all that. Publicly. So that he would be sure to hear it, to feel the knife twisting.
    It was too odd. Had she somehow found out his last name, had Missy told it perhaps? Had he slipped up, phoning about one of those group parties? “This is Sonny Gerard and I’d love to come on Saturday.” Forgetting he meant to be anonymous.
    At first he had taken the anonymity so seriously simply because he was embarrassed. Embarrassed to be going to some stupid meeting where adults played with teddy bears. Embarrassed to be pushed around by his girlfriend. Embarrassed that he didn’t have the balls to say no. And really, really deeply embarrassed that he actually liked the meetings, felt purged when he’d been to one, the way church was supposed to make you feel.
    That was the original reason he’d so guarded his identity. But now he saw how vulnerable he was. And he still didn’t know what had happened. Had she singled him out to toy with as some sort of bizarre revenge on his father, or had the whole thing been coincidental? And if it was a revenge, was this all? Or was there more?
    He was afraid of her. She looked like some mythical beast to him now, half snake and half woman, some creature who came in the night to steal splinters of his soul. Look at her, reading his poem. “It’s about me!”
    Could she possibly be so narcissistic?
    Could and was. The universe centered around her.
    The laugh he had thought so charming seemed now a cackle, the frivolous wrongheadedness that had so delighted him now seemed her attempt to twist the laws of nature to Di’s Law.
    Nothing about her behavior made sense. What was she doing here? Either she was evil and she was continuing her plan to hurt him because his father had hurt her, or she was forming an obsession with him like the woman in the movie. But he was still nagged by the fundamental difference—the woman in the movie believed she was in love. With Di it was nothing like that.
    If she formed an obsession with a man, it would be no different from one she might form with a red fox coat or a ruby bracelet—when she saw something she wanted, she was ruthless. He knew that. When she seduced him, she cared nothing for Missy, didn’t even pretend, just took what she wanted. He had a feeling there’d be trouble if it was withheld from her.
    There was already trouble. She was right here in his house, uninvited, and saying he’d stood her up.
    But he hadn’t stood her up. He had absolutely no recollection of making a date with her for last night.
    Perhaps she was crazy. Maybe it was just that simple.
    He heard his own voice ask, “What are you trying to do to me?”
    She said, “Sonny? Sonny, are you all right?”
    Now what? What did she mean, was he all right? Was this some kind of Gaslight scheme?
    The longer she stayed, the more confused he got; therefore there could be but one solution. He had to get rid of her.
    He used a line he had learned from Missy, who had gotten it from her therapist: “This isn’t a good time.” He turned away from her and began tying his tie, feeling her presence, her body heat, more than seeing what she was doing. It was like staring someone down, only the object was the opposite—to avoid eye contact. She stayed awhile, and then she left.
    Missy arrived almost immediately. Thinking she might have seen Di leaving, he told her Di had been there.
    “What did she want?”
    “Me. I think.”
    “What! She’s probably over forty!”
    More likely over