The Lady, or the Tiger
Chapter 8: Living with Tiger Stripes and Leopard Spots_T
Pausing, slowing, catching her own image in the bathroom mirror, Julia's mind imagined William standing in the same spot an hour or so earlier. Her exhale was deep and warm, as she pictured him bathed in the ceiling's spotlight, the Sun still not rounded our spinning planet's curve, its pink hues not yet to crack the sky. "Early Mass," she shook her head marveling at his dedication, "somewhat rare that he made it to that first one these days," she thought to herself as a devilish, pleasured Mona-Lisa smile grew on her face, reacting to, remembering, the reason he usually missed the earlier service.
This morning, William's battle had indeed been formidable, for his wife had gone to bed right there next to him the night before wearing that same silky, taut, tumultuous garment that she had 'thanked' him with the night before… after being enchanted by his love-hearts, and seducing him so utterly lusciously downstairs in the low flutteriness of firelight. The lustful wave had captured him with a fierceness that had overflowed with a rushed and insatiable urgency to touch her, deeply, much, much more deeply than was humanly possible, to hold on to her, to have her hold on to him, tighter than two people had ever held on to each other before, to fuse together in the maelstrom, in the tumult, and for him to pledge his undying love to her for all of time.
Then, this morning, spurred on by dreaming about the memory of it, his body's sudden push against their mattress in the predawn darkness, minimal, compared to what he experienced as his first powerful thrust of making love to her… in the dream. Yet, that small bump had woken him, leaving him drowning in the lingering sweetness of the dream, mingling, for one… more… delicious… thrust, and a subtle, subtle grunt of ecstatic effort, as he hung in the ripples between reality and his subconscious. So ready, so desperately ready, he imagined, as he lay next to Julia in the black-as-night bedroom, he fantasized about touching her body, the smooth warm silk under his fingers as they sailed the curves of her, and her body reacting to his presence, leaning heavy, dense, backward into him, crushing him with want. Her flesh, in his fingers, the sequestering garment serving to tighten her marshmallowy bosoms within its cocoon as he molded them and jiggled them between his fingers, from behind her. And he heard her breathing change, and he could taste her in his mouth, and then, then, he felt the naked skin of her, first the plump roundness of her derriere as he pressed himself closer, then sliding ever so close to her to bask in the feel of her against his most focused, most honed, throbbing spot, finding her flesh accessible, daring to move in further under the opening in the loose fabric of those naughty, tabooed lingerie bottoms, her lush heat dizzying his brain as he felt the tilt, the pull, of the vortex.
The fight back from the fall into her had been epic, William ultimately winning, regaining control, not turning to her, not touching her, not waking her, not making love to her. No… No, he would not. He reached instead to the alarm clock, turning it off, then softly slipped out from under the covers, planted his feet firmly on the floor, stood… walked away. He would go to Early Mass. He had to take the long trip to their Body Farm afterwards – to reset the trap, and to collect the film from the scrutiny cameras, to catch the, now infamous, 'Body-Farm Dumper,' and hopefully to solve the case.
Her mind's eye saw him in the mirror, shaving, the pictured sculpture of William's muscled chest tugging at her womb. The haunting memory of the scent of the white, creamy lather, drifted in, as she imagined she heard it, so clearly as if it were truly happening right there, the close, scratchy sounds of the strokes of the razor cutting across his jawline. "My God, it was sexy when the man shaved," Julia's head shook, confounded by the strange power of it.
The sneaky urge to smell William's secret Chinese aftershave concoction teased at her, only briefly however, for her yielding to the urge came quite quickly. Holding her breath at first, she admired the unique bottle, popping the lid off of it. Dizzy with the need to breathe, the aroma landed phenomenally hard, flooding the back of her mouth, drenching the core of her brain, heavy and light all at once, cascading a flurry of memories, flickering and sparkling in a waterfall past her innermost being. It must have been all the times he was close enough for her to catch the fiery, tingly scent of him; when they were standing so enticingly close together in the morgue and both focused on a bullet, or some other piece of evidence, in her hand… or waiting to share a look in the microscope… or dancing –magnificent, the dancing, floating, flying, so very lovely. Then, almost with a comic thud, the memory played in her mind, of the first time he had 'assumed the position' for her to step into his arms and be dazzled by his dancing skills. The spicy, perfect scent of him arriving before… most definitely before… the blunder, William's clumsy tripping… and awkward grabbing, but because the hitting of William's unique and undeniably delectable smell had been before the blundering, it seemed, it had been the thing about him that had touched her, had affected her, at such a deep, deep level. How could it be she had loved him so much, even then? Then the delightful show of kiss after kiss after kiss after kiss after kiss spilled by, each of the remembered kisses electric and erotic and remarkable. Of course, their very first kiss on the picnic blanket opened the parade, but then such an array… them stealing, sneaking, a kiss in her office at the asylum… another with her clicking off the office light, silhouetting them in the shiny white outlines from the light flowing in from out in the hallway… and then, after watching that racy Hattie Carter show off her lovely legs, William proving to her that 'those artistic types don't have ALL the fun,' waltzing her into a secluded alley, taking off his top hat and kissing her in public… and finally, after the opera – that particularly golden kiss that had been so stupendous, but now she found it had been tainted with the memory of finding the photo of this delicious kiss in Leslie Garland's terrorizing threatening envelope. She pushed the thought away, only to be flooded by a memory of their kissing, yesterday, on the picnic blanket in the Park, somehow completing the circ…
The little knock at the door drew her attention. William Jr. was up. She placed William's bottle of Chinese aftershave down on the counter and went to open the door, and then scoop the child into her arms for a good-morning hug, and spin, and squeeze.
"I smell Daddy," he said.
"You do?" she questioned him, receiving his nod.
"Would you like us to put some of Daddy's smell on you too?" she offered.
"Yes Mommy," he declared, wiggling and squiggling to be put down, and then running lickity-split into the bathroom.
Julia lifted the little boy up to sit him on the countertop. "You know Daddy puts this on after he shaves. When you're grown up you'll need to shave too…"
"Like Daddy!" the little one exclaimed.
Such a warm smile, "Yes, like Daddy," his mother agreed, taking the smallest dab of the manly, Williamy, potion as possible onto her fingers and then spreading it onto her hands to apply it to the boy's soft-skinned neck.
She leaned down close to him. "Mmm, you smell good, Little Man," she told him.
"No Mommy," William Jr. protested, "Little Man for Daddy, NOT for Mommy."
"No?" she giggled softly and shook her head at him.
"No!" he insisted.
"All right then," Julia gave, "You smell very good, my Little One…"
She found herself caught, for just the tiniest of moments, in her son's beautiful, big, brown eyes…
"Is that better?" she asked, smiling when he nodded.
"Good," she answered simply, reminding herself of her husband. "Now, what do you say, we take care of you using the potty, and then we can have a yummy breakfast?"
"With bacon?!" he hoped.
"Yes, with bacon," she promised.
) (
The day was chilly, but delightful. William Jr. and his mother spent most of the morning outdoors. Having noticed that there were still a few reporters hovering by their front gate, Julia decided to stay home, but their backyard was big, and bordered on a lovely patch of woods. There were boundless adventures, and, as they played, exploring, climbing trees, making a tiny boat out of leaves and sticks to 'sail' down the creek, she found herself regretting that they only had this one, magnificent, child, and she felt their little boy was lonely without siblings to romp with, and she regretted, again, not being able to have more children, and now, not even being able to adopt any children.
As they headed out of the rustic shady, twig-crackling, leaf-crunching woods into the light of the grassy backyard, William Jr. remembered his favorite – the swing his Daddy had made for him.
He was in a mad dash before Julia could even call out his name. "Play swing! Play swing!" he declared back to her. The swing was much like a wooden basket, the boy tucked safely in for his flights. But it was too high off of the ground for him to get in and out of without adult help. As a result, he stood under it as it hung down temptingly from the huge maple tree branch, hopping and jumping, as if, somehow, this time, he would get it.
"You'll be tall enough to reach it someday," his mother promised him. "Unfortunately," Julia kept this part to herself, "you'll be too big to fit in it when that happens." Her mind played up an extension of the thought, imagining, planning, into the future, "But, you'll be interested in other things by then… maybe burning down sheds or other such as sundry undertakings, like your Daddy was when he was a youngster."
A little giggle escaped out into the crisp fall air with the thought as she lifted the two-year old up, and he stiffened his legs to fit them through their allotted slots in the wooden swing. It seemed the little one would ride the waves of back and forth, up and down, higher and higher, until infinity, if he could. Amazing, how it brought them both such pure, pure joy.
Later, when William Jr. was playing with his toys in the playroom downstairs, and his mother read a book beside him, he interrupted her, requesting, wanting her to push him in the little toy swing that his Daddy had made for his toy soldiers to play on. Julia came to sit next to him on the floor, wholly boggled by the fact that the boy could not understand the concept of size – well, at least not with respect to HIS OWN size.
"Push me, Mommy," he demanded, as he turned his back to the tiny ten-inch toy and tried to lower his backside down onto the little wooden swing hanging from William's toy 'tree.'
"Mommy…" he complained, his mood turning towards tantruming, his feet taking on the characteristically challenging, rhythmical stomps, "Let me!" he bellowed, "Swing! Swing!"
How could it be that he did not see that he does not fit in the small swing, to the point of becoming frustrated, even angry, that his mother would 'not let him?' Julia wondered. She ran her mind through her training with Sigmund Freud in Vienna, reminding herself that Freud had characterized the concept of developing a "body ego" in terms of body sensation, functioning, and image… "This must be a developmental error of the latter," she thought, "He does not hold, yet, an accurate image of his own size. Amazing, truly amazing," she marveled for a moment, before she moved to model for her young son coping with his frustration. She needed to hurry, for he had already reached the tottering edge of no return for toddler meltdowns, bordering on tears, yelling red-faced, "Play swing! Play swing!" Soon, the only solution would be a stiff drink.
"Let's try again later, shall we?" she encouraged, "We could go outside and play some more on the right-sized swing…?"
"No!" he ranted, "This swing!" he insisted again with a demonstrative stomp. Then, sending Julia's stomach into instant nauseas dread, his face wrinkling towards crying, her brain anticipating only seconds until the wailing began, "Want THIS one," he began to fall towards collapse.
"Little One," she had an idea, the change in her tone interesting him, thank God, he took a breath, "Can I show you something?" She noted he was intrigued. Julia ran household item after household item through her mind, searching for something similar in size to her little son. "Let's bring the tiny soldier toy with us, so he can swing on the real swing outside," she said, standing, "the soldier doll that fits in the toy swing… Can you fit it in my pocket?" she suggested, opening the pocket at her hip wide enough for him to slip the small toy soldier doll into it.
"Oh," she acted like she just thought of it, "I want to bring one of our pillows outside too. It can make the swing seat softer," she tried to think of a good reason for bringing the large pillow outside to the swing with them.
By the time Julia and William Jr. had 'played swing' with the toy soldier doll (which was so small it fit in his hand and it had kept falling off the big swing), and the pillow (which was too big for him to hold in one hand and it was big enough to become wedged against the sides of the swing, so stuck it on, and it rode the swing well), and her son (who fit the swing perfectly because he was more the size of the pillow than the toy soldier), and then they had gone back inside to try all the same items on the toy swing, she thought she had seen the light go off in William Jr.'s brain. He did not even try to fit himself on the toy swing, barely tried with the pillow, only once, quickly seeing the error of his ways, and, importantly, he no longer begged her to push him in the toy swing, there was that evidence that he had started to grasp the concept of his own body size making it impossible, at least. Unbeknownst to herself, Julia exhaled a huge sigh of relief. She decided she would have a whisky anyway, disaster averted this time, she still longed to unwind.
) (
William arrived home, home from Church and from resetting the booby-trap at the Body Farm. His small family heard the front door and dashed up the stairs from the playroom to greet him.
"He seems bothered," Julia's inner voice warned with her first sight of him.
William's attention on the large suitcase packed full of scrutiny cameras that he had brought home after exchanging the ones from their home with the ones at their property, he barely gave them a hello. "I want to develop this film immediately…"
"After you say hello to your son and your wife, I presume," Julia corrected, adding, "…perhaps some lunch," with a cautioning eyebrow up at him.
"Of course," he quickly agreed, leaning in to give her a kiss, then crouching down to take William Jr. into his arms and lift him up, and turn him upside down, and bask in the boy's gleeful shrieks, and toss around, his, "Little Man…"
The child begging for, "More Daddy! More!" Astounding, William noticed in his head, the way Julia was always right. William finished their roughhousing to hold his little son in a prolonged hug. Unsure of the reason, possibly unconscious of the familiar scent teasing his innermost brain, he felt so very close to William Jr., so very, very aware that the little child was HIS son, HIS.
)
After the film had been developed, William thought that he recognized the man he had caught – trapped "red-handed" up in the dangling net high in a tree doused in permanent red stain. He was not yet aware of the profound irony in the twist on words, particularly that they actually came from a reporter from the past, Paddy Glynn of the Toronto Gazette, aka the Kissing Bandit. "Perhaps Julia will know him?" he thought to himself as he cleaned up and prepared to go upstairs.
Sitting in the living room reading, William quickly guessed to himself that William Jr. was having his nap. He handed her the best photograph of the intruder.
She was similarly unsure. "He seems familiar. But I must say, William… I do not have warm fuzzy feelings associated with the sight of him. How about you?" she asked him.
William sat next to her on the couch and placed a hand on the photo, turning it to block the shining reflection. His wrinkled corner of the mouth answered her question.
Julia too, could not place where she had seen the man, but unexpectedly, she giggled, praising her husband's devious trap, "Perhaps it's all the dye he's drenched in."
He gave her his ducked down chin, scolding look, up through those gorgeous long, black lashes of his, thrilling her to the bone.
Taking a deep breath first, changing to a rolled-up sleeves sort of approach, she drew the photograph closer. "It feels recent," she elaborated, checking to see him nod.
"Yes," he agreed, "I thought so too."
Another deep breath from her, she would dig deeper. "And there's a feeling of him being a foe to us, dangerous… somehow," she gave all she could at the moment. "Perhaps it will come to me," she encouraged.
"Mm," his simple answer as he put the picture aside. "Well, I guess I'll replace the scrutiny cameras," he told her, slapping his hands to his thighs and then standing.
Julia heard her own sigh, focusing to chase after the meaning behind it. William seemed… off. She brushed the worry aside figuring it was just his frustration with not yet figuring out who the man in the trap was, with not yet solving the case.
"Oh," she thought suddenly, considering the time, "William Jr. should be up." She headed upstairs to wake their little toddler son.
)
Placing the last camera back in its hiding place, once again set to catch any intruders coming through the sliding doors onto the patio, William felt an unwanted dread in his gut, for he had noticed earlier when he had traded their house cameras for those up at the Body Farm, that there had been a photo taken on one of the cameras, and he had had to expose it in order to use the camera in the newly prepared booby-trap. And, although he had told himself at the time that it was probably nothing, that the camera had probably just been triggered by a nosey reporter sneaking around their home, trespassing in the middle of the night, going out on a limb to try to get a scoop on all the others… "Heck, it was probably even that mean-spirited Louise Cherry," he had told himself with a huff. Yet, a part of him down in his gut nagged that it could have been something more treacherous, more insidious, that he should have taken heed, that he had made a mistake.
A big sigh escaped. He was bothered. This disgusting feeling about missing something important with this lost photo, added to his discomfort with what he knew he still needed to talk with Julia about because of his discussion with Father Clemmons after Mass earlier, and he ended up stuck there shaking his head trying to push it all away, to cope, finally deciding it would be a welcome distraction to go down and work out with his weights.
)
Going into William Jr.'s bedroom to rouse her Little One, for if he napped much longer he would end up having trouble going to bed later that night, Julia noticed that the baby's window had been left opened. "That's odd," she told herself as she closed it. She hadn't noticed it was open earlier when she put him down for his nap. "It must have been opened then… must have been William before he left for early mass, strange though, it had been chilly, why would he have done that?" she questioned her reasoning.
)
The family sat at the dinner table, William Jr. still using his highchair. William seemed not to have much of an appetite. To Julia, her husband's food-covered plate was yet another clue that something was definitely troubling him. Twice she had thought he was about to bring up whatever it was that was on his mind, but he must have chickened out, the first time William mentioning instead some unimportant fact – "oh yes," she remembered, "that he had picked up some of the Sunday papers for them to read through later," but the second time their eyes had held for a moment, the silence sticky and heavy between them, before he had dropped his eyes away and went back to pushing his food this way and that on the plate.
"Perhaps some dessert will cheer him up," she thought, deciding not to question him about whether or not he disliked her cooking.
Pie served, she lifted their son out of his highchair and passed him to William, thinking having the toddler on his lap, sharing his dessert with him, would provide some welcomed intimacy and fun. Between the two of them they did finish the treat rather quickly, with William lifting the boy high, commenting on his dirty mouth and needing a cleaning, before his mother dipped a napkin in William's water and wiped off the smudgy messes… wetting grubby hands and fingers too.
The moment his father put the little boy down, his feet hitting the floor, he started a mad dash for the playroom.
His mother called out, "Wait, William Jr.! You need to help clean up."
"No," the typical two-year old reply shot back.
The problem was that Julia found his obstinance to be endearing, her mind picturing the little tyke turning backwards to hurry down the stairs, reverting to his younger stair-tackling methods in his excitement. But when she turned to William, expecting his look of complaint, he was staring down at his plate. His eye met hers, and there was a feeling, like he had decided to push himself to hold his nerve. Inside, a part of her felt dread, hoped he wouldn't have the nerve. The moment passed, however, if he was working to build-up the courage, he had failed once again.
"Toddler bath duty or kitchen cleaning duty?" she gave William the choice.
He sighed, another opportunity to talk with her missed. He chose cleaning the kitchen, to better give him time to think.
)
Finally, after their son was tucked in for the night, the couple hesitated outside the little boy's cracked bedroom door and Julia pushed William to tell her what had been bothering him all day. The wrinkled corner of his mouth revealed the accuracy of her perceptions. Compassion in her tone, she suggested they talk over whatever it was with two cups of warm hot chocolate. The intimacy, her care, the soothing of it caused a deepening in the pull of his eyes, and they stood outside in the hallway for a moment, stuck there together, grateful for each other.
Downstairs, their chairs at the kitchen table moved closer to the shared corner than usual, the closeness allowing for low, heart-spoken voices, Julia made her own worry apparent as she spiked her cup of hot chocolate with a shot of whisky. She'd made the first move, she thought to herself with a subtle sigh, she had to wait for him now.
"Father Clemmons…" William cleared his throat and barked at himself in his head, "She has to know. Go On!"
Julia's brain raced, narrowing down, honing in, "Not the case, then… Nothing I said… Adopting… It's about adopting!" she arrived at the gist, "Father Clemmons won't be able to help us with the Catholic orphanages. Just another dead end…" Julia needed the warm chocolate, the sweet sting of the whisky, taking a sip, hoping it would stop her heart from dropping through the floor, telling herself to stay with his eyes, his beautiful, beautiful eyes, to hold their bond through the storm.
William's head ducked down as he swallowed, starting again, "Father Clemmons said he is not getting a good response at the Catholic orphanages… um, so far anyway, acting as our reference… They are reluctant."
Her courage amazed him as she stepped closer to the flames, "Did he say if they, if his contacts at the orphanages, have said why they are disinclined?" she asked, lifting her cup to her lips for another sip, never losing contact with William's eyes.
Now, this was going to really be the hard part. Sometimes it caught him, stung him deep inside, to notice how much there was against them.
Finding he needed to clear his throat… and then swallow again, William's voice still was scratchy when he replied, "The Queens Hotel…" The combination of heat burning and ringing his ears and chilling dread icing in his veins, threatened to unnerve him. "And the trial… us admitting publicly to loving each other when you were married to another man… They believe we committed adultery, Julia." The slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth showed his pain. It hurt so, and he struggled with his shame in admitting it.
"Yes," she answered him, "They would likely think that, based on what they know. I'm sorry William. Perhaps we should not hav…"
"I knew what we were doing," he reassured her, finding doing so strengthened him, "I wanted to do it to."
Julia smiled, a little, saw him take a slowed breath. Good, they were together.
William added, "I told him the truth, that we did not commit adultery, just made it appear so…" William's soft chuckle filled the space between them, his eyes to hers, so sincere, "…that I even brought dominoes and slept on the floor. That we did it to give your husband grounds for a divorce." He took a deep breath, the relief showing on his face. "He believed me," he told her. Another deep breath, then a frown…
She steeled herself, took a deep breath and then asked, "What else?" For the life her, she had trouble imagining William handling such an uncomfortable conversation as this one that he was describing with Father Clemmons. William Murdoch truly never ceased to amaze her.
He reached over and took her hand, his touch warmed from holding the hot cup, his fingers tenderly rubbing back and forth over her golden wedding ring. "The rest, well, for the most part the same problems we had with the other orphanages. They figure we must be sinning – using birth control…"
She nodded. It was a 'sin' they had been guilty of in the past, to ensure her life, and most people would be unable to fathom that for her pregnancy would most likely mean death, had gotten so very close to death with William Jr., and there was a pang of deep, deep fear and possibly remorse in Julia's gut, because the reason for her situation, her 'sterility' as it were, was so much more of a 'sin' than was using prophylactics… and thus the truth of it was so very much worse than what people thought.
William went on, "There should have been more pregnancies than the one… in the four years we've been married… people figure. And some think it's immoral, us wanting to adopt instead of having our own child…" Suddenly he realized that this one, the one he was about to say, was so directed at Julia that his ears started to screech again, "…so you can keep working," he finished the thought.
Julia nodded again. Not new, these grievances – these complaints, accusations really, not new at least, but terribly unfair because they were untrue, and thus infuriating.
William took a sip of hot chocolate, delaying, feeling nervous. "Father Clemmons suggested… um, thinking it might help with the opinion that you… um, well that you have not been authentic in your conversion to the Catholic Faith…" William observed her eyes gloss with tears, surprised on some level that it would be this point, this one, which seemed to be the one piercing her heart. Every instinct in his body rushed to save her.
"Father Clemmons says he knows your soul, Julia. He knows you have a kind and compassionate spirit that loves, and heals, in our world. He truly cares for you, trusts you…"
Truth be told, though, and they both knew it. And they even knew Father Clemmons knew it, though it had never been directly said. Julia Ogden did not, could not, wholly believe in God. Yet, she had a profound love and respect for William's belief in God. And she had seen it fill his life in a way she envied and wished for at times, and as a result of William's Faith, she had been lifted and carried through things she believed she would not have survived without him. William Henry Murdoch came with his Faith, and thus, she loved it, cherished it, deeply.
"Did he go so far as to say that we should give up," Julia asked, ripping it to the core, her voice dangerously close to squeaking with her upset.
William wrinkled a corner of his mouth and said, "No. No he did not. He suggested…"
William's heart raced and thumped in his chest, taking him off-guard. He had not expected to feel this strongly.
Julia caught it, the change in him, her heart thundering, butterflies stirring in the pause. "Yes?" she urged him forward.
"He suggested that you… um, that it couldn't hurt if you were seen more at Church," he swallowed. Invested, he wanted to look away, to give her room to react, but he could not. He was mesmerized with anticipation.
Tumult inside her, her answer came quickly, "Then I shall…"
And William found a celebration pounded in his chest, surprised at how happy he felt, like a dream had come true…
"I'll join you on Sundays, and we'll bring William Jr. too," she said.
William's brain trumpeted, surging his breaths, reddening his cheeks, a smile growing, the corners of his mouth twitching trying to hold the emotion back. His family, his beautiful little family, living with him in his Faith. He tried not to show it, his reaction, his joy, but she noticed.
He looked so much like he did when he was waiting for her at the end of the aisle on their wedding day…
And Julia Ogden would not say it, but she wished she could give him this, that she could have given it to him all along, and not for these more manipulative reasons, being motivated by the desire to improve their chances at adopting a child, but rather for more authentic ones. In her heart though, she knew… and solidifying it in her psyche she thought, "No," and importantly, Julia would not tell him this even though she suspected William knew it too, "this would not be a permanent change." She pinched her lips tight and nodded to him, lifted her warm cup of hot chocolate to her mouth with both hands. The swallow of the warm liquor, the sweet chocolate, pushing down her feelings of regret. Her mind worked to console herself, telling her in its guiding inner voice, that she is of service to the world in other ways, that there was value in her contributions to charities, and donations of medical expertise to those in need.
"Good," her husband concluded, "Very good."
)
The couple went to bed early that night, a workday tomorrow. However, rather than turn off the lights and sleep, they each took one of the Sunday papers William had brought home and read through the headlines while lying together in bed. They both loved this kind of time together, they would share bits and pieces, then go back to reading some more.
It was Julia who found Madge Merton's story in the Toronto Daily Star. The moment she gasped, William's attention was drawn to her, his own Toronto Gazette dropping down onto his chest.
"William," her voice telling her happiness, her disbelief, "Madge Merton…"
And William's mind ran forward at a hundred miles per minute, or more backwards, and he remembered meeting the older woman at the flower shop, and then he remembered telling her – a gossip columnist, no less, about how much he loved Julia, and when they first met, and how he had known since that first moment that he met her that she was the one for him…
Julia had moved on, so much happening in a heartbeat. "She appears to have written a full-page story… about us." Julia's blue eyes so pale and big and beautiful in the low light of their bedroom lamps, "A good one!" her bosom noticeably rising and dropping with her big breath. Julia dropped her eyes back down to the paper, opening it wider so William could see too. He nestled down closer to her, his head sharing her pillows.
The first thing to catch the eye was a large photograph, taking up nearly half of the page, of the two of them, both of them knowing instantly that they had seen this picture before, in the same newspaper, and rather recently. It was the picture taken unbeknownst to them, catching them while in a kiss out at the scene of the most recent murder, a case that fortunately was quick to be solved. Much had been made at the time about how cavalier they were, this strange Murdochian detective and doctor couple, cavalier to such disgusting and disturbing things as crime and murder, the photograph being used as evidence to support the malicious claim. Still, the eye seemed naturally, almost mystically, to get pulled into the photograph, instinctively intrigued by the uncommonness of their intimacy, the bare secrecy of its force.
Julia took a deep breath and began her reading aloud of the story…
"Living with Tiger Stripes & Leopard Spots…"
The title so catchy, piquing the curiosity, yet William wondered how Julia had gotten from it that the story would be a "good" one for them, and yet, he, too, felt it.
Her reading continued, starting with the first paragraph…
"It seems that the reporters of the world, along with quite a few others, have been hunting big cats in the crime-solving world, particularly Murdoch's, as of late. The ripple in bloodthirst started when word of the couple's failed attempts at adopting a second child began to be pursued, and worsened when the rumors were verified. However, the tsunami really hit when a body was dumped at their rare, and some would argue, macabre, Body Farm…"
Julia paused in her reading to look at William, who nodded. Madge Merton's use of the word "hunting" spurring some hope that Julia's comment about it being a "good" story for them may end up, not only being true, but the story had the potential to also be significant. There was a feeling that, perhaps, the tide was turning.
Back to reading, she went on…
"Now, the author of this story, I, Madge Merton, would argue that it is always a shame when such strong, elegant, majestic creatures as lions get slaughtered for pleasure, but to me it is even worse, outright monstrous, to kill such scarce and wonderful creatures as tigers, and even more uncommon, leopards. These big cats are not only infrequently encountered, but further, their unique traits make them arguably magical. Who except out God Almighty would ever have dreamed up the idea of putting elaborate stripes or spots on such graceful creatures – and yet, there they are, for all the world to see! Well, they are there provided that these noteworthy and striking creatures are not driven to extinction by the world's madness?
Recently, this paper published a story with a photograph of Detective Murdoch and his wife, Dr. Julia Ogden – this photograph, taken in the Park, at a crime scene, a murder victim lying flat-out in the background, knife sticking up gruesomely into the air from the dead body. Unexpectedly, particularly with the aforementioned in the background, the couple had been captured in a remarkably tender embrace – a sparkly, romantic, silhouette of a kiss. The take on the picture in that earlier article was that it revealed the Murdoch's strangeness, not just hinting but rather directly saying that this couple was not to be trusted because they were odd, because they were different.
Yet, in my humble opinion, the ones in this story who are truly not to be trusted are the reporters, so stuck in their frenzy, smelling blood, crazed to the point of behaving in illegal, not to mention immoral, ways in order to destroy this couple, in order to win the hunt. This insane cruelty has gone beyond the point of being fathomable. Why, just Friday night a reporter from a rival paper became netted in a trap Detective Murdoch had set to catch the Body-Dumper killer at the Murdoch Body Farm. This reporter was caught in the act of attempting to dump a fake body on the couple's property, all to push public outrage over the edge and to force the Murdoch's to close their Bod…"
Julia's reading halted.
William's sudden gasp the result of having had the light-bulb go off in his head, stopping Julia's words abruptly, causing her to gasp too, their two quick minds hurling towards naming the man of whom Madge Merton wrote.
Simultaneously, all the sounds announcing at once…
Julia declared, "That older man, from the Toronto Gazette…"
And William exclaimed, "Charlie Masters! I knew it!"
And the newspaper's crackly crinkling noise wrinkled in the ears, as Julia's excitement slapped the pages temporarily closed to allow the two of them to huddle closer together to share their thrill.
Julia's eyes bright, twinkling, she said, "Yes, in the photograph from the scrutiny camera at the farm. Of course. But I can't believe he'd go that far, William. He's a legendary journalist…"
William nodded, but Julia noticed a change come over his expression, his jaw tightening, "Angry?" she wondered, quickly deciding not, for there was a familiar focus in him that she had seen so often, and with that thought she knew that her husband was now chasing after a clue inside his wondrous brain. He spoke while his inner journey began, adding, "Yes he is well-known, but dogged, determined, Julia. It is because of his relentless pursuit of getting the story at any cost that Charlie Masters became as famous as he is."
William's mind raced…
He and their handyman, Jake Castern, had found goose feathers in the red dye stuck to the net up in the tree, surely the evidence left there by the culprit, whom they now knew to be Charlie Masters, before he had cut his way free of the net, and they had also found similar goose down feathers on the other side of their Body Farm border fence. And then he saw it as it likely had happened, in that odd, floaty light of William Murdoch's honed imagination, Masters throwing a fake body, one made with feather pillows, over their fence, before the reporter stepped up onto one of the posts to crawl over the fence after the body, setting off the trap, being catapulted up from the nets hidden under the leaves on the ground. "Oh," his brain hollered out silently in its surprise, for then thoughts split-off down multiple tracks, so fast, so very, very fast, and yet somehow William was still able to think of one, and then the other, and yet another, all at lightning speed. "But what if it were not a fake body? That would mean that Charlie Masters was the kill…" then interrupting himself, "Paddy Glenn! Paddy Glenn! He was a reporter!" And a flash of memory played in William's mind, of Paddy Glenn intensely watching as William loaded the dye-packs into the bags of money to set the trap for the bandit in the bank vault, Glenn even coining the term for how the Kissing Bandit was to be caught… "Red-handed," that's what he had said… And then, then the coup de grâce, for William's brain reminded him that, "In the end, it turned out that it was Paddy Glenn, that it was the reporter himself, who had been the Kissing Bandit, all along!"
Julia had watched William's face, and waited for his eyes to meet hers again, to reconnect, waiting for him to have come back from wherever it was that he goes. "There he is," she noticed, then rushed to ask him, "What is it William?"
"The killer, it could be Masters," he replied, excited about the idea, optimistic that the case was going to be solved. His own caution and doubt hitting just after he said it, as he saw it register on Julia's face as well, her getting the words out first.
"William," she cautioned, her lips dipping into a frown, "I'm not so sure."
He agreed, "Nor I." He would elaborate, though. "Well, Masters obviously knows his way around our property, and is capable of sneaking in and out undetected, if not for the recently set booby-trap. And, well…" And suddenly William felt such grief and sadness that it stalled him there in his tracks. He imagined, remembered, Ruby Ogden, and then the two of them, Ruby and Julia, begging him to go to a ridiculous costume party, a "Wonderland Party," and Julia being about to marry Darcy, and himself framed for murder, and Constance Gardner, and then getting Julia's letter from George, and the hurt, the unbearable, unbearable, awful hurt, letting her marry someone else despite knowing that she loved him… It had all happened around that same time, the Kissing Bandit case… and all of this other turmoil…
"William?" Julia asked.
"Hmm?" he felt so disoriented.
She cupped his cheek, her worry showing.
His exhale washed over her, fluttered a curl. "I was going to say that it was a reporter, after all… Paddy Glenn, also ironically of the Toronto Gazette, who ended up being the Kissing Bandit," he explained.
"Yes," she nodded, seeing the connections, "Yes, that is true."
It was quiet for a moment, each of them thinking it through.
William spoke up first, now more skeptical, "It would not explain the goose down feathers that Jake Castern and I found though, in the net and on the property. More likely it was as Madge Merton says there," his eyes glancing down at the paper, "a fake body rather than a real one that Masters intended to dump."
Julia added, "And, if Charlie Masters were the killer, I doubt he would have been so brazen as to actually dump another real body at our farm. He'd have to know there was more scrutiny there now, now with all this being in the headlines every day."
"I suppose you're right," William gave, disappointedly. "Still," he planned, "I'll have to interrogate him – charge him with trespassing, at least."
She leaned close and kissed him, causing him to wrinkle his face at her admitting to the anticlimax he felt with it all, the gesture making her chuckle.
"I do so love you, William Murdoch," she told him.
"And I you," he replied, his eyes straying back down to the newspaper in her lap. "What else does it say?" he asked.
Julia read on…
"A fellow reporter from this paper sent me this photograph…" and both William and Julia reoriented to remember the story Miss Merton was telling about their photograph that had been taken of them kissing at the crime scene. He told me he sent it to me because he knew I was interested in any photograph of this particular couple in a romantic pose. Clearly, this photo has that, the detective and his pathologist wife caught by the camera in a silhouette of a soft and passionate kiss. But, one can't help but notice, that along with them in the frame there lies on the ground behind them, a dead body, a victim of a grisly murder, the knife stiffly erect, sticking straight up into the air, right out of the dead man's chest. It has been stated that no other couple in the world except for this one would ever be so unaffected by death, and by such gruesome and horrendous murders as this. How can anyone, yet alone two, bright, vibrant individuals such as these two, feel romantic at such a time, in such a place, as this? And yet, there they are, the couple we have come to see as being strangely passionate and nerdy, and being madly in love, our storybook, fairytale couple, "Toronto's Favorite Couple." Each of them odd, it's true, but odd is just another way of saying unique. And surely there is no denying that each one of them has an elegance to them, each one of them possesses a brilliant mind, has a determined personality, is brave, is willing to stand up for, and fight for, what they believe in, for what they believe will benefit all mankind.
And I feel I must point out that what is most remarkable about this couple, what made us love them in the first place, was that somehow these two strange individuals found each other. For, it is TOGETHER that they are truly enchanting. And I say to you, Toronto, that asking them to be different is no more ludicrous than asking a tiger to be without his stripes, or a leopard to live without her spots. I urge you to look harder at this picture. Take in the whole view. Surely, you cannot miss it. This couple is profoundly… wonderfully… beautiful. It's right there before your eyes, if you open them wide enough to see it – we have been graced by Murdoch Magic, my fellow Hogtowners. I say let us love them because they are exceptional, rather than villainize them because they are not like us. Let them live happily with their tiger stripes and their leopard spots. And let us appreciate them, learn from them, become better people because we have been inspired by them. Much better, I say, to celebrate their tiger stripes and their leopard spots."
Julia closed the paper and awed, "That was quite something, William."
"Indeed," he joined her in a smile.
)
Julia's subconscious venturing to imagine being in the confessional booth with Father Clemmons, she rolled over to face William in the sudden blackness after they had each put the newspapers away and pulled the cords on their lamps.
"William," her secretive whisper came, "Do you want to fornicate?" Julia seductively asked him, her breath sultry and luring in his ear. The waves of her motions caused the mattress to dip and ripple sinking their two bodies closer together. "You know, husband, it is not a sin, now that we are married," she coaxed.
He rolled her onto her back, taking control, their breaths growing rapid and fierce and their bodies growing harder and weaker at the same time, a rhythm building, and he kissed her, so velvety soft, then letting her go, to take a nibble, the hunger, the heat, building.
"No. No, it's no longer a sin," he agreed, lust scratching his throat, pulsating its tone deeper, and lower.
Breathless, a few moments later, having had thought of what it would have been like if he had known how powerful their lovemaking was to be, back before they had married, he said, "Fortunate though…"
She felt his cocky smile against her neck…
"…that I did not know… before, before we were married, how much..." but suddenly words seemed to fly away from him, to whirl away, with his current dizzying wild need for her, and his dumbfounded, unbelievable, unbearable, magnificent absolute LOVE of fornicating with this delicious woman. He would try again to express it, in between his mouth's kisses and nips, "If I had known, what we would have," his voice so rushed and intoxicating, "…when we … I would not have been able to…"
"Nor would I," Julia interrupted him, "Nor would I."
And fornicate they did, deep, and long, and hot, this extraordinary lovemaking just another exceptional characteristic of the Murdoch's… an integral ingredient in making their sole and outstanding tiger stripes, and leopard spots.
