by T. M. Wright
"Tim, try to understand." She started to button up her blouse, stopped. "Try to remember what it was like for you—your first time, I mean. Then multiply whatever agony you felt by a hundred, a thousand."
Tim did remember: It happened when he was fifteen. He was visiting a friend whose parents were divorced. An overnight visit. A little past midnight he had gotten out of bed to use the bathroom, and, on his way back to the bedroom, was confronted by his friend's mother. "You have bedroom eyes," she told him, and Tim thought that that was an odd thing to say. "Thank you," he said, and felt her hand on him. The next two hours were, she told him later, his "initiation to manhood." However true or false that was, he thought now, she had given him one of the most marvelous nights of his life.
"Yes," he said to Christine, hoping his he wasn't obvious, "you're right. It was agony. I'm Sorry."
"All I'm asking, Tim"—she put her hand on his shoulder—"is that we go slow. You don't gulp down a bottle of Dom Perignon, do you?"
"I don't drink Dom Perignon," he said.
"Well, how do you know you're not about to?" Tim liked that, clumsy as it was. "You're a good talker, Christine." It was a challenge.
He watched several emotions sweep across her face—nervousness, fright, passion. Suddenly, she was breathing noticeably deeper. Her hands went to the third button, then the fourth. She hesitated. "They're not much," she said, and in that instant Tim felt an overwhelming affection for her. She unfastened the last button and pulled the blouse open.
It was not the first time he had seen her breasts. She did not wear a bra, and from his vantage point above and behind her when he pushed the wheelchair, he had sneaked more than a few impulsive glances. He felt sure she had known. Now, seeing her face and neck turn a soft shade of red, he realized she hadn't.
He cupped a breast in each hand; they fit nicely. "They're priceless," he said. Her small brown nipples erected almost instantly. He bent over, kissed her left breast, then her right. A tear hit his cheek; he looked up. She was crying.
"Oh, Christine, I'm sorry. Please . . . forgive me." He sat up quickly, cast about in his mind for something to say.
"Sorry for what?" said Christine. She looked pleadingly at him. "Sorry for wanting me?" She quickly pushed herself to a prone position, unzipped her skirt down the side. "I'm protected," she said.
"Protected?"
"I've been on the pill for months, ever since we . . . . Well, I guess I foresaw this evening."
Tim smiled. "Do you mean you can—"
"Tim, I'm not sterile; I'm paralyzed."
He bent over her again, pulled her skirt off, started on her panties, hesitated. "It's not too late," he said. "Yes it is," she said.
And it had gone badly from there. Not until the second week of their marriage was Tim finally able to complete the act. Misplaced guilt, and the feeling that he was being somehow perverse, that he was actually using her in a selfish, animalistic way, took their toll immediately. It amazed him: He had thought himself more stable than that.
Now, eight months into the marriage, it seemed they often slipped back two steps and went forward only one. This process of acceptance and confidence and sharing, Tim thought, was both hellish and wonderful.
"Tim," he heard, "I'm very horny."
He pulled her to him. Later he would wonder if there was a place in the Guinness Book of World Records for the longest-sustained ecstatic lovemaking.
Chapter 7
Brett Courtney whispered, "Shit!" Where was his secretary this morning? Then he remembered: It was Sunday. "Shit!" he repeated.
He felt a twinge at the back of his neck—a migraine just starting. He hurried into his office, sat behind his desk. And waited. The migraine would last at least an hour, and in that time he would be able to do nothing but suffer through it.
He heard a knock at his office door—just one, and soft. A woman, he thought immediately. He decided to wait; maybe whoever it was would go away. The knock came again, and again, slightly louder. Brett grimaced. "Who is it?"
A woman's voice answered, "May I see you, Mr. Courtney?"
Brett, agitated, went to the door, pulled it open. "Yes?" And couldn't help staring. The woman was almost impossibly beautiful. The word stunning occurred to him, but he rejected it immediately; it implied a momentary shock, a quick surge of deep appreciation that soon dissipated, and this woman's beauty was so much greater than that.
She introduced herself: "My name's Andrea Ferraro. I'd like to talk with you, Mr. Courtney."
He held the door open, watched her step into the office. She studied it briefly.
"Very functional," she said. "I like that, Mr. Courtney." Her voice was high-pitched but exceedingly pleasant; it reminded Brett of his mother's voice.
He gently pushed the door closed. "What can I do for you, Ms. Ferraro?"
She smiled. His migraine, which had been lingering at the edges of his consciousness, vanished. He felt a smile come to his lips.
"Thank you," she said, "but I don't mind the word Miss. I've always thought Ms. was an affectation." She paused, considered. "In fact," she continued, "I'd really prefer that you called me Andrea."
She crossed the office, sat in a black Naugahyde chair to the left of Brett's desk. Brett watched appreciatively as she adjusted her plaid skirt around her knees—he had always liked plaid skirts—and made herself comfortable. He felt certain her little feminine motions were being done for his benefit; it made him feel good.
"Uh, yes, Miss Ferraro—"
"Andrea," she corrected, her tone a gentle, almost inviting rebuke.
"Andrea. What can I do for you?" He strode quickly, arms straight at his side, to his desk chair, sat, felt a warm, delicious pain he hadn't felt in years. Embarrassment mixed with pleasure flooded through him. Not since his college days had he achieved an erection merely by watching a woman. . . .
"Mr. Courtney?" he heard, and became aware that Andrea had been saying something. "You seem preoccupied, Mr. Courtney." There was no puzzlement in her voice. Her tone was one of recognition, knowledge. I know what preoccupies you, Mr. Courtney, and I'm flattered, her tone said.
The phone rang—once, twice.
"Mr. Courtney," said Andrea Ferraro, nodding, "your phone—"
"Oh!" He grinned apologetically—"Yes, excuse me" —snatched the phone up, as if in anger, and swiveled his chair around so that his back was to his visitor. He had a good idea who was calling.
"Brett Courtney," he said.
"Brett?" It was Marilyn; he'd guessed right.
"Yes, Marilyn, what is it?" He found that he was speaking in a low, secretive tone.
"It's about Greg. Remember that . . . distasteful matter we discussed last week?"
"Distasteful matter? What are you talking about?" Then he remembered. "Oh, that. Yes, I remember." "Well, I'm afraid it's come up again."
"Marilyn, I thought we decided to forget it. The boy is nearly ten years old; things aren't the same as when you and I were that age."
"That's very progressive, Brett, but he's my son, too, and if you're unwilling to give me some constructive ideas—"
"My idea is to let it alone, Marilyn. It's normal, it's natural, it's probably even healthy, for Christ's sake."
"You're swearing at me, Brett."
Brett sighed. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to. I've got one of those damned migraines." It was close to the truth.
Marilyn chuckled shortly, derisively. "Only women get migraines, Brett. What you've really got is a severe case of apathy. But that's all right. You want me to handle this situation, I'll handle it."
"Marilyn, can you at least wait until I get home?" "It's unwise to put off punishment, Brett."
"Marilyn, for God's sake!"
"Good-bye, Brett." She hung up.
Brett slowly replaced the receiver, swiveled his chair around.
Andrea Ferraro was gone.
"Miss Ferraro?" He stood, went to the office door, opened it. "Miss Ferraro?" Nothing. He turned,
glanced about his office as if this were a game of hide-and-seek she was playing with him. He felt suddenly foolish.
He pushed the door closed, felt the ache beginning again at the back of his head. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered.
He went to his desk chair and sat very slowly. The migraine was fully upon him now.
"Honey?" Tim called. He opened the door to his studio, stuck his head out. "Honey, I've got to go down to Hahn's. I didn't realize how low I was on developer." He waited There was no reply from below. "Honey?" Again nothing. He opened the door, stepped onto the landing, and leaned slightly forward over the wooden railing. He glanced around the living room. "Honey?" He saw that she was in the wheelchair, her back to him, in front of the window that faced the Courtney house. "Christine?" Still nothing.
He took the elevator to the first floor, hesitated a moment, and stepped out. "Christine?" he repeated. But she remained motionless, silent.
Was she asleep? he wondered. "I've got to go to Hahn's," he repeated, moving slowly toward her. "I'm nearly out of developer." He put his bands on her shoulders, leaned over. "Christine?"
Silence.
He moved to the side of the chair, put one knee to the floor, his hand on her hand on the armrest.
Placid, he thought. Her face was placid, at rest. She could be asleep, and yet her eyes were open. Not wide, but as if she were thinking something pleasant, as if remembering something that gave her pleasure.
He put gentle pressure on her hand. "Christine?" He stood, grasped her left shoulder, shook it. "I've got to go to Hahn's," he said again, almost desperately. "I'm nearly out of developer."
Silence.
He lowered his head. "Christine," he murmured.
He stood abruptly, crossed to the phone, picked up the address book. What was her doctor's name? After a moment it came to him: Tichell. He found the name and number, set the book down, picked up the receiver, started to dial.
"How's it going?" he heard.
He froze for a second. Then, being sure his body blocked Christine's view, he quietly replaced the receiver. He turned. She had craned her head around and was looking questioningly at him.
"Going?" he said.
"Up there." She raised her head to indicate his studio.
"I've got to go to Hahn's." It was a forced monotone. "I'm nearly out of developer."
She maneuvered her chair around to face him and smiled perplexedly. "What's wrong, Tim?"
"I hate to run out of materials right in the middle of a project, that's all. Especially when I'm on a deadline." He went into the foyer, got his coat, shrugged into it. "I won't be long, just a few minutes."
"Who were you calling, Tim?"
"Calling?" He reappeared in the living room doorway. "No one. Just time-temperature."
"Oh?" She wheeled herself to the middle of the room, flashed him another perplexed smile, but now it was mixed with accusation. "Something's wrong, Tim, and I wish you'd tell me what it is."
"No. Nothing. Just this crap with the developer."
"You're sure?"
He went to her, leaned over, and kissed her lightly on the forehead. 'Tm sure."
Greg Courtney was too numbed with fright to cry. He didn't know what he'd done, precisely, but it didn't matter. This place mattered, because it was dark here and chillingly damp, and if the house itself had always made him uncomfortable—although he had lived in it all his life—the cellar had always scared him silly. The reason was simple: There were things in the cellar that couldn't live above ground, things that came into it from the earth surrounding, things that crowded into the darkness once the light was turned off and the door closed—once the cellar was left to itself. Cellars were for dead things because cellars were below ground.
Greg started to shake uncontrollably. He realized that he was scaring himself, that it was a stupid thing to do, that cellars were just places where furnaces were put, and boxes and old furniture. Sometimes cellars flooded, and then it was a real hassle getting them cleaned up again.
He wanted, needed to cry. The shuffling sounds of the things slipping toward him in the darkness would be covered by his crying But he was still too numbed, disbelieving, frightened. He thought suddenly how wonderful it would be if he could go to some small point in his mind where the reality of this place would be far beyond him, where he would be out of its reach—invisible, inside himself.
He knew there was a light above him, that it would be easy to reach, but quickly discarded the idea of trying, because the numbing fear in him now was better than what the sudden turning on of the light would show him.
He knew what he should be thinking—about other things, silly things: clowns, unicorns, barber poles. But he found that he could only think the words, and they were really code words for the things that existed in cellars, the things that were slipping toward him in the darkness.
He lashed out suddenly with both hands. The back of his right hand connected with something metallic, and a hot pain settled into his hand and arm. He swore—"Shit!" and realized it was the first time he had ever used the word. If his mother heard him . . . Pain overcame his thoughts. He knew he had hurt himself. He stumbled toward the cellar stairs, found them, started up. "Mommy?" he called, tearfully. "Mommy!"
The cellar door opened; the sudden light blinded him momentarily. "Mommy, I hurt myself." His eyes adjusted; he saw that the doorway was empty.
He moved quickly up the stairs—the darkness behind, the light ahead, the pain pushing him. And vaulted through the kitchen, into the hallway, then to the entrance to the living room.
Because the curtains were open, he could see that a light snowfall had begun. And he could see that his mother was at the other side of the large room, near the windows, her back to him. "Mommy?" He noticed that the pain had ebbed, that his band felt merely numb. "Mommy, I hurt myself. So I came upstairs. It's okay, isn't it?"
Marilyn said nothing. Greg saw that she was holding something in her left hand—a sheet of paper.
He moved forward a few steps, stopped. "Mommy?"
Marilyn spoke, her tone even but tense: "I forgave you before, Greg. I sent you to your room, but it was necessary. You had to be punished before you could be forgiven. You understand that, I'm sure. You're a smart boy. You're my son. But this time you have deliberately, deliberately defied me. And I cannot countenance that. You understand why, don't you? You understand that if I let you do what you wanted to do, you would eventually destroy me? You understand that, I'm sure." She moved her left hand backward a few inches to indicate the piece of paper she held. Her tone became crisp, demanding: "I see from this . . . this obscenity that you have started to destroy me already, to put me out of your heart. And I don't blame you, Greg; it's the animal in you that I blame. And that animal has to be brought under control. Do you understand that, Gregory?"
"My hand hurts real bad, Mommy."
"I'll explain it to you; you'll understand. You're a smart boy. You're my son." She crumpled the piece of paper slowly as she talked. "You are going through what's called puberty. It means you're becoming . . . a man." Her tone softened very slightly. "It's a natural thing, Greg. But it's evil, too, because it destroys the child in you, my child. Do you understand?"
Greg did not understand. He mumbled something unintelligible, then fell silent.
"I am letting you come up from the cellar, Greg, but only under one condition." She held her hand out behind her, the crumpled piece of paper in it. "This is the evil in you coming out, Greg—an evil we must keep inside you. So, it's clear what you must do, isn't it?" She turned halfway, looked Greg squarely in the eye. "It's clear," she repeated, her tone crisp, demanding, "what you must do, isn't it?"
Greg said nothing. He moved quickly across the room, took the piece of paper from her. He glanced out the window. The snowfall was much heavier now. A storm was coming.
He put the crumpled piece of paper into his mouth, let his saliva work on it.
"That's right, Greg. I told you you wer
e a smart boy. You're my son." She walked halfway across the room, stopped, turned. "There'll be nothing about this to your father."
Greg nodded.
"Good." She paused, then continued: "Supper will be ready soon, and I want you nice and scrubbed before you come to the table. That cellar is filthy."
Greg nodded again.
Marilyn smiled and left the room.
Five minutes later, Greg swallowed the ball of mush that his letter to Coni Weeker had become.
Chapter 8
Christine tried to make herself comfortable, but realized the room wouldn't allow it. She had felt the same way several days before when first entering the Courtney house with Tim, that it disliked visitors, that it was a showpiece not meant to be lived in. Entering this room today, she had been aware of the paths the wheels of her chair made in the expensive oriental rug, and she caught herself glancing at Marilyn Courtney for signs of disapproval. But the woman had been almost cloyingly gracious from the moment Christine appeared at the side door.
Now, regardless of Marilyn's apparent cordiality, Christine sat very stiffly, the corners of her lips turned slightly upward in what she knew was not really a smile.
There was a cup of tea on a spindle-legged cherrywood table to her right, but, in fear of spilling it, she knew she wouldn't touch it. Marilyn sat cross-legged on a velvet rococo couch between the living room's two front windows.
"It's really very good to see you again, Christine. I very much enjoyed you and your husband's visit the other day. Your husband's a charming man." The condescension in Marilyn's tone was almost palpable.
"Thank you, Marilyn. I think he's all right."
Marilyn grinned; her teeth, Christine noted, were large, straight, and healthy. "That's a nice thing to say, Christine. You and your husband seem to have—what's his name again? Tim?—you seem to have what I call a playful marriage. And that's all right. In time —you're both quite young—I'm sure your relationship will mature."