A Killer Stole My Love
Just like my tale about Roy Bedding, Abbey Bass is a fictional name as well as any other potentially identifying details in this story.
While attending University of Arkansas, I met Abbey Bass. She was a dear, little lady, which I would describe as a “hippy chick” in the slang of that era, 1970s America. Her hair was jet-black, down to her waist, and very wavy. Her large eyes matched her hair color, which were set off by the palest of skin tones. She wore long, colorful skirts & lots of bangles, rings, & necklaces. Abbey was quite thin, but not gaunt, short but not petite. She was never shy with me, but tended to hang back & hold my arm just above the elbow when we talked to new people.
I saw her here and there in the university hallways, in the shady spaces where students hung out between classes, and, of course, at weekend parties. At one gathering, she stayed around me longer than normal & kept leaping up spontaneously & hugging my neck, which caused me to blush with delight. The pressure of her lithe figure & all that beer was giving me all kinds of naughty ideas.
Just as I was about to suggest we go elsewhere, Abbey whispered in my ear that she wanted to go home with me! This was an utterly pleasant surprise that made my heart beat like a drum. With little more ado, we climbed into bed at my apartment & explored each other’s bodies w/ enthusiasm. At the point I intended to mount her, she struggled to a seated position & explained: she didn’t use the pill or other device, but used the rhythm method & now was not a safe time for her. I had no condoms; as Willy Nelson jokingly responded in the movie, Half-Baked, ”How much did rubbers cost in the 60s? I don’t know. We never used them!”
Feeling great chagrin & aware of my image of myself as a gentleman, I was not about to force myself on her & had to be satisfied with another method. She made a tube of her stacked hands & gave me release that way. The evening was a not a complete loss, especially when she kissed me goodbye & said we’d definitely get together for the full measure next time. Yow!!
You can imagine my disappointment when I seldom saw her anywhere for the weeks after our get-together. I was really looking forward to our promised assignation, but we met mostly on a come-and-go basis. Then I missed her altogether. No sightings on campus or at beer busts, no passing blown kisses.
Finally, I came across Randy Goldman, one of the rare Jews on campus. He was a fairly heavy-set guy w/ thick, smeared glasses that he constantly adjusted as if they pained him. His nystagmus always gave me pause, as if this trait of his was hard to remember. He was a Hatha Yoga teacher of all things, & led the class seated the entire time while giving posture directions. Abbey attended his class now & again.
“Collie, I have bad news! You know Abbey, right? Abbey Bass?”
“Of course, Randy! I haven’t seen her around for a while. What happened?”
“The police found her dead in Little Rock, in an apartment not far from the big live music venues. Someone strangled her w/ a Venetian blind cord that they found still wrapped around her neck.”
I felt like I was falling & staggered a little. Randy grabbed my arm, and exclaimed, “Are you all right?”
I wiped my face w/ my hand & said, “We were pretty close friends, Randy… Are they sure it’s Abbey?”
Randy stared at me & wrenched his smudged glasses about. Then he said, “Her parents were here last week to identify her body & took her home to Austin, Texas… to bury her.”
“Thanks for telling me, Randy. I will really miss her. What a shitty thing to happen…What… They haven’t caught anyone, charged anyone w/ her murder?”
“There was a story in the paper, but it said the police had no leads at this time. She left with the wrong guy she met at the bar, I guess. No one seems to have seen anything. Drinking crowd. Lots of coming & going.”
Randy announced her death at his next yoga class & we had a few moments of silence in her memory. Over the years, I think of that wistful face & our one evening together intermittently. I think of the absolute waste of a life just beginning, of a sweet person who probably had not one enemy in the world, & yet such a sorry, pointless thing was done to her. At my lowest point in remembering her, I wondered if she had denied her murderer her full favors like she had me, & he took it as a rebuff, not a request to allow her to be carefully responsible about the life she might otherwise create. I felt ill at the thought of a sick animal ending her life without one moment’s consideration about what else her request might have meant besides, no, I don’t want to, not with you, but I’ll lie to a loser like you just so you’ll feel better. As he choked the life out of her, did he rage about how stupid she was to expect him to believe such a thing? Was his self-hatred so deep that he couldn’t think of her choice in the matter as anything but rejection? She confirmed his unworthiness, his unattractiveness, or insulted his male sense of privilege, and so she paid the ultimate price.
When I was in psychotherapy, I brought up Abbey’s killing, wondering aloud why it came back to me, again & again. She simply said, “ Sex with someone forms a deep connection.” If this is so, is this why so many habitual murderers keep “trophies” because they lack the ability to form a deep connection & the dead person’s jewelry, ID card, or other possession serves as a memory device, & a memory is the best they can do? This makes me fear, then, that the lack of a deep connection to other people is what made a killer steal my love.
