Not in plain graphic words, because Sex was a word with a definite capital
S
in her mind. S for sin.
S
for sickening. S for shame. So Rory had left. He’d given Delia everything he had: the house and all his money, in settlement. He wanted nothing to do with her, or her child.
The only thing Buck remembered about his father was his singing in church. There was a particular hymn that was his favorite, because it was the kind you sang loud and strong.
Onward Christian soldiers
,
Marching as to war
,
With the cross of Jesus
Going on before …
Buck could hear Rory’s voice in his head, see that cross he sang about … somehow it made him feel like a god, crusading for his rights. To him, the cross was a symbol of his power and masculinity. The sign belonged to him, and to his father.
Buck thought he would escape from Delia when he went away to college, down the coast at UC Santa Barbara. By then, he was a clever young man, tall, strongly built with rich copper-red hair and deep-set dark eyes that shifted slyly away when he spoke to you. Still, he was attractive and he got himself a date the first week. She wasn’t available for a second date, though; told her friends he was “creepy.” Same thing happened with another girl, then another. So he found himself a hooker, paid her twenty bucks. It was over in seconds so he beat her up, took back his money and kicked her out of his car.
Hookers were easy, he was the one in control. Except not sexually. Sometimes they laughed at him and it drove him into a frenzy of hate and violence.
Delia kept him short of money and he was working two jobs to pay his way through college. He felt demeaned by his poverty, and by the shabby old wreck of a car he drove. He wanted Delia’s money and he wanted to be rid of her.
One night, after a bottle of vodka, he saw the light. A voice in his head told him all he had to do was remove his mother from his life. Then he would be free, he would inherit the house and her money. He would be rich.
He made his plans carefully, going over them again and again. He even did a test run one night, driving from the campus at Santa Barbara and sneaking up to the house, though he didn’t go in. No one was around, no one saw him. He knew it would work because everybodytrusted him. Besides, he was smarter than the local police.
When the night of the killing arrived he was excited and happy. Everything went according to plan. She never heard him come in, never spoke, never screamed. Only her puzzled eyes, bugging from her head, had fixed on his, while his strong hands squeezed the life out of her.
In that moment of empowerment, when his energy buzzed through his veins in a single electrical jolt, he felt invincible. Submitting to an overwhelming compulsion, he carved the sign of the cross into her forehead. He looked at it, pleased. It was his signature.
Before he left, he jimmied the back door, ransacked the place, took the money from her purse so the cops would think she’d been robbed. Then he headed out of town.
The next morning, he drove back again. He stopped at the local store and told the owner, whom he had known all his lite, he’d not really intended to come home this weekend, but he’d been calling his mom and gotten no reply. He was worried.
He called again from the pay phone at the store. “Hey,” he said, with a puzzled frown, “it’s really weird. She’s always there. At this time of day, y’know.”
The store owner did know. Everybody knew Delia. Her movements were regular as clockwork.
Buck went home and “found” the mutilated body. He called the cops, distraught, his voice choked with sobs. The evidence of a fight was all around: a table tipped over, vases smashed, her purse flung to the ground. The store owner corroborated his tale. And besides, Buck had planned his alibi perfectly. He told them he was at a concert in Santa Barbara the previous night, he still had the ticket stub in his pocket.
Buck was always a good
S
in her mind. S for sin.
S
for sickening. S for shame. So Rory had left. He’d given Delia everything he had: the house and all his money, in settlement. He wanted nothing to do with her, or her child.
The only thing Buck remembered about his father was his singing in church. There was a particular hymn that was his favorite, because it was the kind you sang loud and strong.
Onward Christian soldiers
,
Marching as to war
,
With the cross of Jesus
Going on before …
Buck could hear Rory’s voice in his head, see that cross he sang about … somehow it made him feel like a god, crusading for his rights. To him, the cross was a symbol of his power and masculinity. The sign belonged to him, and to his father.
Buck thought he would escape from Delia when he went away to college, down the coast at UC Santa Barbara. By then, he was a clever young man, tall, strongly built with rich copper-red hair and deep-set dark eyes that shifted slyly away when he spoke to you. Still, he was attractive and he got himself a date the first week. She wasn’t available for a second date, though; told her friends he was “creepy.” Same thing happened with another girl, then another. So he found himself a hooker, paid her twenty bucks. It was over in seconds so he beat her up, took back his money and kicked her out of his car.
Hookers were easy, he was the one in control. Except not sexually. Sometimes they laughed at him and it drove him into a frenzy of hate and violence.
Delia kept him short of money and he was working two jobs to pay his way through college. He felt demeaned by his poverty, and by the shabby old wreck of a car he drove. He wanted Delia’s money and he wanted to be rid of her.
One night, after a bottle of vodka, he saw the light. A voice in his head told him all he had to do was remove his mother from his life. Then he would be free, he would inherit the house and her money. He would be rich.
He made his plans carefully, going over them again and again. He even did a test run one night, driving from the campus at Santa Barbara and sneaking up to the house, though he didn’t go in. No one was around, no one saw him. He knew it would work because everybodytrusted him. Besides, he was smarter than the local police.
When the night of the killing arrived he was excited and happy. Everything went according to plan. She never heard him come in, never spoke, never screamed. Only her puzzled eyes, bugging from her head, had fixed on his, while his strong hands squeezed the life out of her.
In that moment of empowerment, when his energy buzzed through his veins in a single electrical jolt, he felt invincible. Submitting to an overwhelming compulsion, he carved the sign of the cross into her forehead. He looked at it, pleased. It was his signature.
Before he left, he jimmied the back door, ransacked the place, took the money from her purse so the cops would think she’d been robbed. Then he headed out of town.
The next morning, he drove back again. He stopped at the local store and told the owner, whom he had known all his lite, he’d not really intended to come home this weekend, but he’d been calling his mom and gotten no reply. He was worried.
He called again from the pay phone at the store. “Hey,” he said, with a puzzled frown, “it’s really weird. She’s always there. At this time of day, y’know.”
The store owner did know. Everybody knew Delia. Her movements were regular as clockwork.
Buck went home and “found” the mutilated body. He called the cops, distraught, his voice choked with sobs. The evidence of a fight was all around: a table tipped over, vases smashed, her purse flung to the ground. The store owner corroborated his tale. And besides, Buck had planned his alibi perfectly. He told them he was at a concert in Santa Barbara the previous night, he still had the ticket stub in his pocket.
Buck was always a good
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