"Hush," he said. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

She let out a muffled moan when he punctuated his statement by shoving her wrist a bit higher up her back, putting an end to her puny resistance. She felt her heart pound. With her nose jammed between the two pillows on the back of her couch, breathing was difficult. How she wanted to scream, to cry out, but her jaws were frozen by fear. Breathe, she told herself, just breathe.

Working quickly, he took the cord dangling from his mouth and tied her wrists together. "Too tight?" he asked.

She didn't respond.

He shrugged his shoulders and reached into the inside pocket of his brown jacket and produced another piece of cord. The coffee table was confining his movements, so he shoved it aside and back, out of his way. He tied her ankles.

"Too tight?" he asked.

Still no response.

Breathing rapidly, he straightened up and leaned back on his heels, admiring his handiwork. That had been easy, he thought.

And it had been easy. He had followed her right home from the bus when it let them out at the corner. She probably hadn't even noticed that he got out at her stop instead of his own stop, two blocks farther down the street. Besides, this was Friday; it wasn't unusual, on Fridays, for him to get off at her stop in order to drop in for a canned drink at the mini-mart located two lots up from her small house in this old neighborhood. He could have as easily waited and taken a soda from his own refrigerator, saving himself twenty-five cents in the process, but that wasn't nearly the treat of having the huge selection the mini-mart placed at his disposal.

But on this particular Friday he wouldn't be visiting the mini-mart. No, as soon as he stepped down off the bus, and the bus had pulled away, he sat down at the curb and pretended to tie his shoelaces, allowing the lady to continue down the street.

He stood up and looked all around. No one was outdoors; too cold, he figured. He glanced down the street. The woman was a bit farther along than he had expected. He ran several steps, long strides, and drew nearer to her. When she began to cross her lawn, he slowed to a walk. Reaching her driveway, he had another look around. . . . No one.

He walked up her driveway, paused, and ground beneath his feet the colorful fall leaves lying there. After a final look around, he boldly marched into her empty carport, right up to her door. He could smell smoke from the chimney next door. He listened. He could hear the woman inside; she had failed to close and secure the door behind her. He peered in through the screen door. There she stood, her back to him, one hand poised on the kitchen counter as if trying to gain her balance after a grueling day at the office. Just for a second he wondered where she worked.

He threw the door open and tore inside, seizing her wrist before she could react. Speed was crucial now if he were to subdue her. Twisting her wrist behind her back, he guided her through the kitchen, through the dining room, and then, after seeing he was about to push her down a hall, he made a left and steered her into her living room, hurrying her along until they reached the couch, where he forced her down.

That's how the two of them came to be in that living room. She had been good: but for a few squeaks of confused panic, she hadn't made a sound--which was for the best, because Jerry wasn't going to be allowing any talking out of turn.

He still leaned back on his heels. He was aware of the heat of the room. He reached in his pocket and took out a long strip of cloth, a fragment of material he had cut from an old pair of flannel pajama bottoms he had taken the night before from his mother's rag bag. He edged up behind the woman and moved the piece of cloth over her head where she could see it.

"Open up," he said.

She didn't understand. She did nothing.

"Open up," he repeated, more urgently this time.

Her trembling lips parted, and she accepted the strip into her mouth. He deftly tied it behind her head.

He then moved away from her and squatted on his knees. The heat was unbearable. He stood up and then raced through her house to find her thermostat. It was in the hall; he turned it way down and then returned to his captive.

She hadn't moved. She must be very uncomfortable in her coat, he thought. She wore a heavy black coat, a black skirt (which he could see because her coat had been pushed up while he was subduing her), black pantyhose, black pumps--black everything, he supposed. But something had to be done about that coat: he didn't want her to be uncomfortable.

"It's pretty warm in here," he said. "Would you like me to untie your hands for a minute so you can take off your coat?"

She jerked her head yes, a gust of breath exiting her nostrils. She moved as if to stand up, but he placed his hand against her lower back, and she remained on her knees and wriggled out of her coat, which he then gathered up and flung to the far end of the couch. That's better, he told himself.

He helped her to her feet and sat her down on the couch. When he saw the look of terror in her eyes, he said, "I'm not going to hurt you. You only have to listen to me."

And he had no intention of hurting her. He was too elated. The reason for his elation was the election, only three days before, of the new right-wing president. He was certain that landslide election signaled a dramatic and much needed shift to the right in U.S. politics. He was starving to share with someone, anyone, his delight over these things. He ruled out his mother; his mother had no interest in politics. That left only the golfers who played at the country club where he worked cleaning golf clubs and picking up balls on the driving range. But these adults had no interest in the political opinions of an 18-year-old; in fact, whenever he tried to talk to them, they looked right through him as if he didn't exist, and went on their way without so much as a grunt, something that often made Jerry pinch his forearm in order to remind himself that he did exist; and that place on his forearm was always discolored. Didn't these men realize he was one of them? he wondered. Wasn't he, too, in the right-wing camp?

Oh, how he hated those golfers for snubbing him. He wondered how they could all be so much alike--idle men with nothing better to do than to spend so much time playing golf as to actually become good at it. Jerry thought that was sad. They may as well have been formed with a cookie cutter, by the millions, they were that much alike, not a dime's worth of difference among them. He wondered how a group of such conforming mediocrities could have ever managed to be so right when it came to politics. But these men would never listen to him.

He asked the woman if she was comfortable, and she shook her head no and then nodded her head yes, another gust of breath accompanying these actions. Jerry felt he had the situation fully under his control.

Since he now had her where he wanted her, he went on to tell her that all he was going to do was tell her his thoughts on politics, which he proceeded to do in his dreadful monotone
. . . for hours on end . . . for three days running . . . only stopping long enough twice each day to handcuff her to the leg of the television set while he got them something to eat, or to handcuff her to the handle of the drawer beside the commode before he left her there for five minutes of privacy, warning her that it wouldn't be wise to try anything funny while she was in there.