The Perfect Girl

The soup can had shifted a little to the left. He hated asymmetry in
any perspective. Life was to be neat, ordered, and on time. There was
no room for imperfections. He stopped at the mirror for one last check,
his tie was straight, and his shoes shined back a third image of
himself in the mirror. He was a tall man, attractive with satin black
hair and striking blue eyes. He was in his mind perfect.
Outside of his little house he was prisoner to the chaos and
indiscipline of the world. It was the worst part of the day, the
moments traveling from his home to his work. He liked to think of his
briefcase and umbrella as shields from it all. He liked to imagine
himself a courtly knight sauntering in the streets of the common. His
neighbor, Ms. O'Reiley stood in her doorway with a fat orange cat under
her arm; she was still in her bathrobe. Disgraceful, he thought, a
woman should not allow herself to be presented so.
She smiled at him, "Good Morning, Mr. Edgar." He gave her his
traditional glance in acknowledgment. She had asked him to come to
dinner a few times, but he could only imagine the inside of the house,
cluttered with lace and cat fur. He thought no woman could meet his
standards, especially not this one.
He pondered this while waiting for the 08:16 bus into town. Perhaps if
he could not find a perfect woman, he could create one. On the front
page of his daily Times was a young girl with a beautiful face smiling
and inviting him to patronize a new restaurant. Her smile was perfect,
though he felt her eyes were too close together. When he arrived at the
office he cautiously cut the mouth from the portrait.
And that was how it started. Everyday he would find different parts in
news papers and magazines; he cut out what ever component he found that
suited him. Yet, when he fixed his perfect pieces together, what he was
left with was still inadequate. He wondered how it could be, everything
was just as he wanted it and yet together it made no sense. So he cut
more pieces. Until he had boxes full of parts, each carefully labeled:
perfect lips, perfect eyes, perfect cheeks, noses. And at night he sat
alone in his study and preformed dark surgeries with his precise
scissors. His project became an obsession. He could never get her
right. Never right. It was the dimensions he decided. No matter how he
put the parts together they were always flat, one dimensional.
It was a Thursday night when she came to the door as he sat frustrated
over the never ending flaws in his delicate creation. Ms. O'Reiley
stood on the porch step with a steaming hot pan of tuna casserole, her
fat orange cat tangling her legs. As she stood with her wrinkled dress
and her wind blown hair he had his revelation. Peaking from the stained
and burned oven mitts were two perfect wrists, dainty and pink with
delicate pale blue veins.
"I thought'cha might be liking a hot meal." She smiled shyly. He no
longer saw the disorganized manner, the wrinkled clothes; all he could
see were the wrists. He wondered if her hands were as lovely. Yes, he
thought, they must be. He had to have them and he knew just what he
needed to do. For the first time he asked her inside.

The police arrived at nine in the morning on Sunday after a neighbor
reported Ms. O'Reiley's beloved cat yowling and raised concern that she
was no where to be found. Ms. O'Reiley was a spinster with no family
and there was no apparent sign of foul play. It was decided that she
must have gone on holiday, and the cat was left in the care of a
friend.
He watched from his window for a moment with his usual indifference,
and turned back to his morning paper. He thought simply about how the
earth of the basement floor had been so easy to replace, how flawless
in its reconstruction. He had felt only one moment of sentimentality at
placing Ms. O'Reiley in the dark hole. At this he had written a careful
note in exact penmanship: My hands were perfect. It seemed appropriate
to immortalize Ms. O'Reiley's one beauty. The rest to him was
worthless.

His new past time opened to him a whole new world of recreation. He
particularly enjoyed the fabrication: the careful manicuring of the
nails, the application of paint. He thought it was a little like
painting model airplanes when he was a boy and he hummed a few campfire
songs while he worked. When he was satisfied with his design, he placed
the hands in a glass case with great care to preserve them well. This
is how she was born to him. These two pale floating hands made her
real, dimensional, attainable. He created a special sanctuary for his
beloved, his perfect woman, in the depths of the basement.

The following night he dressed in his best suit, tie and bowler. He
stood and checked himself in the mirror to assure his look was
impeccable. It was in the mirror that he noticed the basement door
open. It was through the mirror that he saw the fat orange cat emerge
from the darkened room. He scowled at the unpleasant animal and chased
it out the front door before heading into town.
He seldom ventured out into the world after business hours and the
uncomfortable shift in routine was soothed only by the acknowledgment
that he would come home with another part for her. He thought of them
like gifts, like buying flowers, or candy. He had never ascribed to
such sentiment in life until now but she was a voice in his head and
she needed form. He could hear her in his thoughts whispering secrets,
what to do, where to go, what things he would need to have and where to
find them. She was thorough, precise and ever so exact; such lovely
qualities for a lady, but her temperaments were a bit short at times
when he would question her directions or his ability to carry out her
tasks. She became coolly silent in his mind; she would hide in the
recesses and cry great tears over his disloyalty. This he could not
tolerate. He needed her voice and her image, her soft words of
encouragement and praise. He needed these above all else, especially
tonight, for the place he would go was to him unthinkable: The North
End.
The North End of smelled of urine and tobacco. The buildings were tall
and ominous allowing only the sickest of light to filter through. The
air was stagnant. Stray cats and rats filled the alleyways and the
trash cans. People sat in the filthy streets begging money or selling
their bodies or their drugs. It was the bodies that interested him and
he strolled along the boardwalk shopping for just the right one.
He found her on the corner of First Ave. and Grace St. An auspicious
location he felt. She was young, perhaps no older than sixteen, dressed
in wicked clothing and bathed in perfume. She had soft, pale skin
beneath the rouge, and the peaceful blue eyes of a dove. Her hair was
the color of an infant strawberry, her cheek bones high giving her face
the gentle shape of a heart. He stood across the street from her corner
and stared at her for a moment until he caught he attention, then he
gave her his most charming and endearing smile. She followed suit and
moved closer. He felt his heart racing, suddenly alive in a way it had
never been before. He had become the hunter. She was very near now, a
cautious little lamb. His grip tightened on his briefcase, and
remembered the words he had memorized. It took him back to grammar
school; he was play acting the part of the killer on a great stage. The
idea cooled his nerves, she was very close now, and he spoke.
"I am a married man," he stammered, "I?" he felt a bit uncomfortable,
not wanting to scare her away, but to his delight she moved even closer
to him, so close that her silky skin brushed his arm and she smiled. "I
have always wanted?" He pulled a black silk scarf and a hundred dollar
bill from his pocket. She smiled knowingly at his seeming blindfold and
took the money. He put the scarf back into his pocket to await its
moment. He hailed a cab. Once inside he opened the briefcase and
produced a long black raincoat which he gave to the girl. "The
neighbors," he explained. She understood.
Her banter annoyed him to no end, but he knew it would be only a short
while now. Once inside his house he felt better, safer, more in
control. He examined her face closely in the light to be sure. He ran
the back of his hand over her cheek. The flesh was soft and warm and
the girl flushed a little. He took to removing the raincoat, letting
the fabric fall over her shoulders. He delighted in her willingness as
he turned her away from his so that he could press himself against her
back, brushing the hair away from her neck and smelling along the
yielding curve of her neck. He drew the scarf from his pocket again,
whispering in her tiny ear, "You are perfect." He tightened his stance
in preparation of the momentary struggle as he slipped it over her
mouth and nose. The chloroform worked surprisingly quickly. He
appreciated its efficiency.

It was easier this time, the earth of the basement floor moved more
readily and her body was lighter than that of poor Ms. O'Reiley. His
wrote her epitaph with care: My face was beautiful. He looked at the
glass case with the fair floating like that of an angel. Yes, she was
beautiful now that the make up was gone and the teeth were fixed. He
had used an epoxy, a steady hand and, he felt, pure genius to create
her flawless smile. Everything was in order. In the recess of his mind
his perfect girl smiled triumphantly and spoke to him promises of love
so great he felt he might burst from her emotion. She was pleased with
him; he had done very well. He was smiling as he turned to leave,
brushing the dirt from his hands but was startled by the hiss and spit
of a fat orange cat. His perfect girl shrieked in terror of the animal,
begged that he destroy it. It stood blocking his passage from the
basement. He checked the small windows which were securely locked and
shaded before again chasing the cat from the house.

The next morning he left promptly and for the 08:16 as usual. The hours
of work seemed to drag on and he occupied himself with plans of future
acquisitions. He was positively chipper when he returned home in the
evening. Ready to choose his tie and bowler, ready to continue his
construction. He twirled his umbrella and hummed a little tune while
walking the lane to home. He felt lighter than air. He was startled to
find an enormous grey alley cat stretched out on his porch washing its
face with a soft paw. He felt a fury beyond comprehension at the site
of the feline and his perfect girl again began to shriek and howl until
his head pounded. She had told him that the cats would come, that they
were evil; that they wanted to take her away from him. This he would
not allow.
"What is with you animals?" He called after it. "Stay off my porch."
And he threw his umbrella at the cat with such force that it rattled
the windows upon landing. The cat looked at him with sad blue eyes as
if hurt by his assault and snaked into the bushes.
Once inside he began to regain control of his senses and decided to
heat a cup of tea to calm his nerves and sooth the flood of words and
ideas that his perfect girl fed in steady stream into his mind. He sat
at his window reading the evening paper and talking to her calmly. He
swore to her they would never be separated, that he would love her for
ever. He called her his angel and his turtledove and he chided her
about the lovely legs her would find her tonight. She calmed and began
humming a tune and before long he felt utterly relaxed and
jovial.
He retired to his room to shower and dress for the evening. He unrolled
his socks and pulled on his trousers before opening the closet to
select a shirt from a carefully placed hanger. The door slid with ease
and a fat hissing orange cat hurled itself off the closet shelf and
onto his back. Its claws ripping the tender flesh of his face as it
passed. He was enraged and his perfect girl wailed with such tonality
that blood dripped from within his ear. He had to make her stop
screaming, she wanted him to kill it and he would do just that. He
grabbed the spitting cat which continued to scratch and hiss as he
pounded it over and over again with his shoe until at last it stopped
moving. He was pouring with sweat and blood and his head ached. He
could not go out now. Not tonight, not until all of the little wounds
had healed. She was disappointed and his heart hurt that he would have
to break his promise. He sought to further harm the dead animal by
dismembering it painstakingly and feeding its parts into the disposal.
This pleased her very well, and he was forgiven.
Two weeks went by and he kept nightly vigil over his creation. He
talked to her, wrote her poetry, read to her from Keats and Yeats,
played to her the music of the great composers. He thought of it as her
education, she would need to know these things, would need to converse
with him about culture and agree with him on politics. He promised to
show her the world. She was appreciative in his thoughts. In his dreams
he made love to her tenderly, passionately.
The days were surreal but always tainted by the presence of the large
gray cat which always seemed to be lurking just outside and just beyond
his reach. It shredded his morning papers, ate the flowers from his
garden and exercised its toilet in the most inconvenient of places. She
frustrated and annoyed him, always priming herself, washing and combing
her fur. He wondered why any beast so unlovable would bother with such
an elaborate grooming routine. She was always watching him with her
blue green eyes.
At last his wounds had healed and he put on his bowler and headed into
town. This time he would go to the spa, a place for divorcees and
widows to drown their troubles in champagne and massage oil. His
perfect girl had told him what to wear, and what to say, but tonight
she would not go with him. She said it would be too difficult to see
him with another girl now, she loved him too deeply. He understood, but
felt empty without her voice and the warmth she gave him. He would have
to be quick in his selection.
He found the woman relaxing by the pool; her face was that of a prune
from the sun and from sorrow. She had long spidery black hair and her
stature was that of an awkward adolescent. But she had long pale legs
with perfect little feet and polished red nails. He thought of how easy
it would be to prepare them. He spoke to her kindly and found her to be
childless, her only family an aging aunt suffering from Alzheimer's
disease. He coaxed and chided, flirted, invited her to dance with him
in the bar. He bought her rum drinks until she could hardly stand
straight. He even kissed her to seal the deal before inviting her to
come home with him with words so sweet she blushed protest before at
last giving in.
At his home she excused her self to the powder room immediately. He
took the opportunity to prepare for her a drink with a little twist. He
was so satisfied with his selection, with the ease of her capture, with
his performance. She came stumbling from the bathroom, giggling like a
girl.
"Your cats are so sweet." She fell into a chair, exhausted. She had
stripped off her dress and was now in a slip with a slightly torn
hem.
"My what?" he asked incensed almost spilling the tainted
beverage.
"Your cats: one gray, one orange. They are in on the bed." She giggled
and winked and tried to pull him down onto her body, "I took a peek."
He pulled away and charged into the bedroom. The bed was perfectly
made. No sign of cats. He felt a little chill, but dismissed it and
struggled to regain his composure.
"You've had a little to drink, my dear." He laughed and returned to
gently kiss her neck and run his hand over the creamy white thigh.
"Here, this will help." He handed her the glass.
"No, No," she said breathlessly, "I've already had too much."
He scowled for a moment, and then said deeply and seductively, "You
can never have too much. I promise, once I have you, I will only want
more."
She blushed deeply, took the glass and drank it completely in one
quick gulp. Satisfied, he fell to his knees, caressing her legs and
holding her feet in his hands. She sighed as he kissed them, stroked
them, and nibbled them until at last her body fell limp and cold.
He placed her with the others, at last satiated from the weeks of
waiting. His perfect girl came back to him and spent her time singing
and dancing through his thoughts, twirling on perfect red toes. She
begged him to teach her the tango, the two-step; he laughed and
promised to begin her lessons in the morning. He wrote in her note: My
legs were saved. He arranged the room once again and returned upstairs
where he fell, exhausted, into a deep sleep. He dreamed only of his
perfect woman in his arms dancing the night away.
When he awoke in the morning he felt refreshed. He stood gazing
triumphantly from his window at the world outside, so full of
possibilities. He looked away to fill his kettle for tea and returned
to find the form of a large gray cat which arched its back and growled
from the window sill outside. His perfect girl again began to shriek
and curse. She threatened to leave him forever if he did not rid her of
these awful beasts, and she left him to deal with them. He turned and
grabbed a knife from the drawer and started to run from the house after
it but his feet caught something and he fell to the floor slamming his
chin against cold ceramic tile. He looked back to find a tiny black cat
at his feet which then turned and ran down the basement stairs. He
pulled himself off the floor and darted after it.
It was dark in the basement, and cold. He pulled the string to the
single floating bulb, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light. It was
then that he saw them: three glass cases, broken and empty. A rage
filled him as if he would choke; there was no air in the room. He
called to his perfect girl, but she did not answer him, his mind was
empty of her. He could not remember her voice, or see her face. The
cats, he thought. He would kill them all in horrible ways if he could
find them, and he would find them. His grip was so tight on the handle
of the knife that his knuckles throbbed.
He turned and thundered up the stairs in a fury prepared to do
unthinkable things but was startled to find the basement door shut and
jammed tight. It would not open, he tugged and pulled at it, screaming
with rage before sinking the knife deep into the surface of the wood.
He pounded the door with his fists until at last he was spent and he
returned to the gloom of the basement. The sweat rained into his eyes
which burned from the salt and from the frustration. He needed his
revenge. His beloved was gone. Nothing left but shards of glass. How
would her ever find her? They had such little time together; he had
taken so much of it for granted. He was lost in his anger and his
despair.
It was then that he heard them. The gentle purring, the self satisfied
curling of the tails: three cats, one small and black, one large and
gray, one fat and orange, each sitting proudly atop a crude and
provisional grave. A chill crawled up his spine as he stared in
disbelief at the fat orange cat.
"I killed you," he whispered. "I killed you!" he screamed. They stared
at him with intent eyes. The gray cat licked her soft pawn and ran it
over her ear. "Stop that!" He wailed. "Stop that primping! You are an
ugly creature." He lunged at the three happy felines with all his
venom. His body hit the floor with the hard wet thud of packing meat.
The single bulb burned out.

It was two weeks before the police were called. The grass was knee deep
and news papers cluttered the porch steps. A thin layer of dust covered
the furniture.
"The neighbors say he was a nice man," the officer confided in his
counterpart. "Quiet. Say he kept to him self mostly. No wife or
children. Pity." He shone his flash light under the bed but found
nothing. They searched the house thoroughly before at last entering the
basement.
"What do you think this is about?" He drew his partners attention to
the knife stuck in the back of the basement door. The two officers drew
their guns and descended the staircase with great care.
"Hello? Is anyone down there?" But there was no one to answer.
On the floor they found the shattered remains of three carefully
designed glass cases, a bowler hat and a hand written note which simply
read: He was not perfect or beautiful and could not be saved, not even
his soul.