by John Maclay
But, as I said, what others thought wasn’t the problem, just as Lynn’s face wasn’t, anymore. It was my face, and how she, alone, saw me.
To end the suspense, she still hasn’t said a word about what I did to myself, but she loves me exactly as before. It isn’t more, as if she’d wanted me to share her disfigurement—or, horribly, less, as if she’d needed someone who was “normal.” What was inside was what counted, indeed.
But I had to know. And now, when I look in the mirror with her standing beside me, the last barrier has been removed.
That’s because my face is beautiful, too.
Yes, the real horrors are the worst ones. The scars are still painful. And when they relate to the erotic, they’re worse still.
But maybe, in the end, some of them aren’t bad at all.
NIKKI
Nikki was a small, slender woman of about forty, with short dark hair. She was a fashion designer in New York, and wore her own creations, always in black, and with a hint of Goth. Tom first met her at an exhibition of his thirty-year-old son’s paintings in a Soho loft, along with some of the latter’s other friends. When they all went on to a restaurant afterwards, Nikki sat next to Tom, and talked animatedly about how talented his son was. But as she did so, she emphasized her points by squeezing Tom’s arm, or putting her hand on his knee.
Tom was in his fifties, and was up overnight from Philadelphia, where he was a symphony musician. He was happily married, but his wife, his son’s mother, hadn’t made the trip this time. The contrast between himself and Nikki couldn’t have been greater, since he was a big, sandy-haired man. But while his wife was more like him, he’d always been attracted to small, dark women, and they apparently to him. He figured it was some sort of opposites rule.
There’d been his high school sweetheart, then an absolutely tiny woman in college, then one with whom he’d had an affair, long ago. Most recently, there’d been a neighbor with whom he’d distantly fallen in love. And now, if the signals were valid, there was Nikki.
When everyone left the restaurant, she even arched up and gave him a kiss. But back in his hotel room, Tom was perplexed. How could he chance an affair now, not to mention with one of his son’s younger friends? He’d seen movies where that had happened and the son had understood, but the father had always been divorced.
But the next time he was in New York, Nikki was there again. And even though his wife was up this time, she went back to the hotel after everyone had been at the restaurant, but Tom went on to bar-hop with his son and his friends. Moreover, even after his son had called it a night, he stayed, with Nikki and a few others. And while he thought, given his age and relationship, that he might be embarrassing them and himself by doing so, that didn’t seem to be the case.
At any rate, they drank on until his first up-all-night, New York dawn, and Tom, surely out of to his confusion at the situation, drank too much. The bottom line was that, after having danced with Nikki at one bar, and even having seen her tattooed lower back, in her latest, low-cut creation, when she flaunted it from a bar stool, he blew whatever else might have been.
In short, she herself had to put his staggering, incapable self into a cab. But he did, however, make some sense.
“You’re the one I want,” he later recalled saying, as he did kiss her deeply. “Maybe another time.”
“Yes, another time,” she echoed, with what he thought was more than just kindness.
And when he got back to his understandably-censorious wife at the hotel, Tom even confessed making that pass, as he did later, too, to his son. So that back in Philadelphia, and with his son in New York, all of it could simply be humored as the folly of aging man.
The next time after that when he was in the city, Nikki wasn’t there. Another woman friend of his son’s, who’d also been at the all-night thing, told him, smiling knowingly when he asked about her, that she was on a tour with a rock band, working on their costumes. This only left him to wonder even more how he could actually be with her.
But the next time, it was as before, with Tom sitting across from her at a restaurant table, and their eyes provocatively meeting, not to mention their feet. It didn’t even matter that his wife was actually sitting beside him, since she seemed now to be concentrating on other things.
“It’s truth,” little, dark Nikki seemed to be saying, with her eyes, or maybe it was more in his. “You only need to go with it, against any likely restraints.”
And when they surreptitiously kissed again, outside the restaurant, she said, “We’ve had some bizarre times.”
But Tom could only think that wasn’t an unkind valedictory, but that it hinted of more.
How could he pursue this? he thought to himself, back home. If he got Nikki’s phone number from someone, and arranged to go to New York and meet her alone, that would be an absolute going off the deep end from everything that had safely, more as harmless fantasy, happened thus far. His son would find out through the other friends, his wife would find out, to total disaster.
But perhaps because he was at his age, with his chances at whatever varieties of life shrinking, he simply couldn’t turn away. And from small, dark lady life, to boot. Besides, most everyone involved was artistic, and wasn’t there a special dispensation for such?
So Tom did get Nikki’s number from an obscure source, and did make a day trip, claiming long symphony rehearsals to his wife, to New York again. And she did agree to meet him, probably out of curiosity, if nothing else.
And so they sat there, in the stark daylight this time, across yet another restaurant table, she in her latest, very exotic black creation, and he in a prosaic brown jacket, slacks, and tie.
“This is bizarre,” he couldn’t help but say, as he now reached out to take her small hand.
“But I don’t think you know,” she responded, “which is why I said that, just how bizarre it can be!”
Then, as if in dream, they were in her loft, amid countless yards of material, satin, lace, tulle, in purest black. And Nikki was smilingly, and meaningfully, laying aside her latest, to expose, to the truth, her small breasts, tight figure, and dark-surrounded sex.
And Tom, with much embarrassment, was finally exposing, especially, his middle-aged paunch.
But also, his fully-responsive manhood.
She lay back on her pillow-strewn bed, and he entered her, with a sharp intake of breath on her part, thrilling to her tightness, as he had before to such as hers. But even as they went rhythmically toward other worlds, and even as they just enjoyed the physical, he spoke.
“I’m still awed by what must be your experience, compared to mine,” he said.
But, “Don’t be,” she laughed, even as, with a marvelous rush, they went over the top together. “Because experience—is now.”
And he knew that was true, especially since his “nows” had been dwindling.
“Also,” she concluded, “you must have known, as I have, that this isn’t ‘improbable’ at all, because of something more we have sensed in each other.”
And so it was now, too, as they lay back naked together, more than friends, reveling in the deep, post-sex intimacy that might be greater than even the act itself, and with no thought to outside ties, or past or future, that Tom did notice something more.
At the bar a couple of times ago, Nikki, in one of her black creations and flirting with exhibitionism, had showed her tattooed lower back, nearly to her cleft. And just an hour ago, they’d talked about “bizarre.”
But what he saw now, clearly, was a pentacle there. Not to mention, now that the totality of her flesh was revealed, other arcane, esoteric symbols all over it. Such as linked triangles, a square and compass, a T, a point in a circle, two columns, an eye, a cross, a rose, and an Isis figure, which he was familiar enough with current literature to recognize.
“You knew I was Goth,” Nikki said, when s
he noticed his gaze.
“But I didn’t know you were Wicca, or a Freemason,” Tom blurted out. “And in the flesh, as it were.”
“Not just those,” she responded, without skipping a beat, though his heart did, and coming warmly and so exotically again into his arms. “It’s beyond any labels, and if you’ll let me, I can indeed show you so much more.”
And so she did, as his heart now thrilled. Because, possibly due to something that had guided his life, he’d found his true small dark lady, at last.
Nikki began by getting up and dancing for him, moving as to some inwardly-heard music of the spheres, as in some Ancient Mystery or Dionysian Revel. And as she did, she explained to him that in lost ages, the earthly sexual union of a man and a woman had been treated as a gateway to the Divine, as in Tantric Yoga, and even in the possibly male-chauvinistic tradition of Sacred Prostitutes.
“Aren’t you feeling even happier now?” she asked, coming back down to earth, and rejoining him, nakedly, on the bed.
“That’s an understatement,” Tom laughed, especially as his manhood had risen again.
“Good,” she echoed, actually leaping onto it. “And this time, I want you to envision even more.”
And so he did, as Nikki, even in the act, narrated what they also were experiencing. She told him of an ancient race from beyond, that had engineered a quantum leap in humankind, giving them sacred knowledge, including that of architectural and scientific marvels. She went on to speak of the Alchemical union of man and woman, and of elements and properties.
But most of all, and just before they again went over the top, she told him of the lost gold, the Philosopher’s Stone, or rather the white powder of gold, that had only recently been rediscovered by scientists to be able to take one to parallel universes, beyond space and time, and even beyond physical death.
Just as now, she concluded, as she triumphantly lifted off him, they’d just been lifted beyond, since wasn’t that exactly what one felt, at the moment of orgasm, and as at the moment of Creation itself: a timeless, spaceless sailing as a universal being, joined as such, too, with God, among the stars?
“‘That may be a little more information than I wanted,’” Tom quoted a recent saying, as they now lay back again, totally satisfied whatever, beside each other. “What I do know, is that that was the best sex I’ve ever had.”
“But even that’s enough,” Nikki replied, not being at all offended. “Since we do need to live in this present, everyday world, as well.”
Whatever, they now got dressed, and he left her loft, exchanging a deep kiss with her at the door.
“Will this happen again?” he ventured, as he embraced her, with a closeness he’d never before imagined. “Not to mention, no offense, that this obviously isn’t a permanent relationship.”
“No, not between us,” she sweetly answered, as he’d somehow known she would. “But it surely will, between others who’ve been mystically attracted, as you and I have been.”
“But will anyone know we had sex, which would screw me to no end?” he pursued, since for good or ill, he did have an earthly life to protect.
“Oh, yes!” Nikki replied, chilling him for a moment, until he realized what she meant. “But only implicitly, in their own encounters, since that’s how the lost secret is spread.”
Then Tom went back to Philadelphia, and to his life as usual, though knowing at last, blessedly, in what context, far beyond, it really was lived. And he never again fantasized about his surely fated “dark lady,” because by being true to his vision, he’d found her, along with her mystical secret.
“Dark lady,” even, possibly, “black magic”—but really, the light.
In due course, they did see each other again, at Tom’s son’s art exhibitions in New York. But now just their eyes, across some restaurant table, and the formation of their mouths, ineffably reflected the all-seeing eye, and pronounced the secret, sacred word of all Creation.
Just as the memory of their actual encounter, as exchanged through their eyes, evidenced a total fulfillment that hopefully everyone, someday, would know.
THE ONE THING TO FEAR
I never thought Marcia’s death would hit me so hard. Sure, I’d been prepared for it, after the two operations, and at the beginning I bore up pretty well. I did the things fifty-plus widowers were supposed to. Sank myself in my work, went to peer group meetings. But it didn’t take me long to find out it wasn’t any good.
Because, like a lot of childless couples, Marcia and I had been so close. We’d become one person over the years, and now part of that person was gone. The other half, me, was left to walk around like a ghost. There wasn’t any question of my marrying again, getting involved with new things. Or, as I realized one day, of staying involved at all.
So I took early retirement, and started to spend all my days in the old, drafty house we’d called home.
It wasn’t so bad, living alone. You come to terms with that pretty quick, and you do it by making a routine. For me it was breakfast, the morning paper, the mail, “The Price Is Right.” Then lunch at the deli, a couple of hours in the shopping center, the afternoon soaps. Then dinner, the evening news, one or two movies on HBO, and bed. It wasn’t much compared to what I’d had before, but it seemed like enough.
But it was the being alone that was the problem. I’d always thought I was the strong one, the macho man to my delicate wife. Apparently that wasn’t so. After a few months without Marcia, without my contacts at work, I found myself getting jumpy. I’d get up from the afternoon TV to see if the passing school kids were threatening my house. In the evening, I’d leave HBO to investigate odd noises I heard in the street. And despite my double-locked doors, my new Rollins alarm, the nights just weren’t peaceful anymore with no one in bed beside me.
So I guess I was more than ripe for what started. Last week.
Monday. I was back from a stroll in the park, walking slowly around the yard, looking up at the house and worrying about some roof work. But suddenly, in spite of my recent fears, I felt happy. The school kids weren’t due yet. The sun was bright. What did I have to be afraid of? I decided to look down at the grass, think about nature. I’d heard that it helped. Maybe it would help me.
Tuesday. I didn’t go to the shopping center as I usually did. Instead I spent hours in the yard, full of my new idea. I was sorry I didn’t know more about nature, as Marcia had. She’d always been the gardener, while I’d tended to my office work and come home to approve. I couldn’t tell the difference between an iris and a fungus, I realized now, and I wished I could.
Wednesday. Back in the yard, looking at green things, so absorbed I hardly noticed the kids passing, the soda can they threw at me. Picked it up, called them, handed it back. They said they were sorry. Easy as that, I thought. If I was going to brood, better to do it about nature than my fears. Good things seemed to come of it. That night I stayed glued to HBO in spite of the street noises, and slept like a log with the creaks of the old house around me.
Thursday. A cloudy day, but even more time outside. Struck by the variety of nature, again concerned I didn’t know more about it. There was a gray thing at the base of the big tree. About six inches wide, amorphous-looking, without any of the usual leaves and stems. Soft and squishy when I touched it. Seemed to spring back. Maybe a fungus, I thought. Knew it could never have been there when Marcia was alive. She wouldn’t have allowed it. Probably had grown up in the months since she died.
Friday. Bright and beautiful, Practically the whole day in the yard, my recent routine forgotten. Waved to the school kids. Looked at the gray thing. It seemed smaller. Decided it mustn’t have liked the sun.
Friday night. Just when I thought I was making some progress, a bad one, the worst I’d had since my wife died. It started abut nine o’clock, right at the beginning of Romancing the Stone. Heard the police sirens in the street, but decided to
ignore them, thinking of my new daytime life in the yard. My determination, I guess, that my fears were imaginary. But just when Michael Douglas was going down the mudslide, heard a knock at the door. Got up from my easy chair, walked over, opened up. Outside on the porch, a young cop. Asked if I’d heard anything. Was tempted to go back into my old paranoia, tell him about all the sounds I used to hear outside. But tonight there hadn’t been any, and I told him so. He smiled, looked resigned. I asked him what had happened. He told me a house down the street had been broken into, an old man stabbed to death.
Friday night, later. For the first time in the past few days, couldn’t sleep. Wondered if my fears were real after all. Heard the creaking noises in the house again. Longed for Marcia in bed beside me. Tried to fight off my panic, even telling myself it didn’t matter anyway if I died. But it didn’t work. Finally, about four A.M., dropped off exhausted.
Saturday. Back in the yard, but somehow my heart wasn’t in it. At least the school kids wouldn’t be coming. I’d taken to pruning, trying to do what my wife had done, since the place was getting overgrown. But the shears hung limp in my hand. After an hour, decided to give it up, watch some sports on TV. On the way in, trying for some diversion, checked the fungus thing at the base of the tree. It was bigger, at least a foot across. Had to do something about that, I thought.
Saturday night, late. Suddenly, appallingly, the absolute worst time since I lost Marcia. Was asleep, with the help of a couple of beers, at about two A.M. Woke up to the sound of breaking glass, wood splintering, then the whoop of the ADT alarm. Rushed downstairs in my pajamas to hear running feet, and find the window on the front door shattered, the door loose on its hinges. Waited, standing there in terror in the cold hall, for the police sirens, welcome this time. For the same smooth-faced cop I’d met last night, who came in, sat on my sofa, took down what facts I could give him. On my part, as I sat there numb, I knew I couldn’t tell the facts from the fears.