The Bimbo in Limbo

Back to Black

Your playlist for this chapter: Back to Black - Amy Winehouse; Explosions - Ellie Goulding; Uninvited - Alanis Morrissette; Betty's Bein' Bad - Sawyer Brown; White Flag - Bishop Briggs; Rolling in the Deep - Adele

In his bed that night, alone, he thought of Judy in her bed, alone. He wondered if she would ever remember being Jude. He wondered if he wanted her to remember being Jude or remember him as Monsignor Howard. Glaring at his raised pink scars in the lamplight, he thought of his Vatican fantasies; how he'd imagined Jude as his doting right hand nun - the stark contrast of her bare skin against the red of his Cardinal's robes as he stroked her bare breasts beneath a fall of long, blonde curls, cupped them, squeezed, his every powerful touch bending her to his will and over his massive cherry wood desk... He'd fucked Jude in his fantasies, crippled her with his lust because it was safe in his mind. Wrong and ungodly but safe and exquisite. The idea of a woman so worshipful, so idolizing that she would allow him total ownership of her beautiful hidden body. They would have such secrets together as sinners, lust as divine as her dinners.

He'd known her desire. Had seen it burning in her brown eyes on a daily basis. He'd basked in those flames, wondered if her fantasies were as sordid and sanguine as his were. But he doubted. Could only see her loving him in her fantasies. Soft and pristine, nurturing him - sighs in satin sheets.

He hadn't loved her. Couldn't. Not then. He'd only known love for himself. And God (sometimes). He'd mistaken love for need too late. When he'd needed Jude, she'd been there still, somewhere in her chicken fried brain. He remembered the feel of her dry, floured hands in his own bandaged ones. The worship was gone in her dead eyes, but something had lingered, compelling her to give him succor again.

He remembered the day she'd come to hate him. The pure venom in her tone. The madness in her face that was just that - mad. She was so angry. And just in that anger. "Perfect clarity," she'd said.

He hadn't understood until he laid in a quick cooling bath, razor poised inside his elbow. He'd known precisely what awaited him, or so he thought. He would be revealed as the murderer, liar, and con-man he was and the fear guided his slice.

He'd known Hell awaited. But now...he was here. With an opportunity to heal himself and a woman he'd loved. To apologize and make right his many wrongs. To have one more chance. To create finer fantasies.

He slept well, and dreamed of Judy in his kitchen, cooking, smiling when he wrapped her in his arms from behind.

The dream of Judy in his kitchen couldn't have been a more desirable reality. Timothy sucked at cooking. He burned his first egg, scraping it violently from the bottom of the small pan. The second one fared better, but he couldn't seem to flip it without breaking its yolk. So there would be no over easy. He forgot about the two pieces of toast, so they burned, as well. He scratched the black layer off and slathered it with jelly. The glass of milk was the only thing that wasn't in some way destroyed.

He considered going to Judy's hotel. Perhaps she would see him during the day. Alone. Perhaps she would be willing to come to his little house. It seemed she remembered how to cook like Jude... But he decided to wait. It was Saturday. He would see her at Hathaway's tonight. He felt their footing had tread onto uncertain ground. She'd told him to leave town, after all. He didn't want to harrass her into a restraining order.

He explored Waltham that day. Drove into the town, past the Blue Moo(n). There were four cars in the lot, but none near Judy's room. The two on her door questioned him even from afar.

On Main Street there was a bookstore. He bought a book of new poetry and a book on how to dance. There was an ice cream parlor. A diner. A bank. A Woolworth's. A pharmacy. A butcher shop. A green grocer. It was small town America perfection.