by T E. D Klein
And yet… And yet by the end of their weekend together, she had been resigned – no, more than resigned, she had been determined to sleep with him, if not there at the farm, then somewhere else. She'd known it ever since that first evening together: that he would be the one. She had been ready then – and she was ready now.
And how pleasant it would be to he with him tonight, knowing he was there beside her in the darkness, keeping her company in the suddenly empty apartment; to feel his naked skin pressed against hers, warm between the cool of the sheets. Neither of them would have to get up early tomorrow. They could sleep together late into the morning.
The day had so far shown no signs of drawing to a close. Light continued to stream into the room around the tattered edges of the shades; the shades themselves glowed yellow in the sun, and heat had made a prison of the unmoving air. As she knelt to steady the contents of her book cart, Carol felt herself perspiring beneath her blouse, while through her ran a tiny flicker of foreboding. If it was this bad so early in July, what would the rest of the summer be like?
She piloted the overloaded cart through a delirium of aisles and shelves and tables, her mind far from the routine tasks, her footsteps keeping time to the regular squeaking of the wheels. Entering the little glassed-in office to complete a series of subscription forms, she thought that at any moment she might faint: the air conditioner was still broken from last September, and with three desks crowded side by side the room seemed even smaller than it should have, and twice as cluttered. Her own desk lay buried beneath a stack of old Library Journals and an assortment of damaged paperbacks; its lower drawer was stuck fast, its wooden surface clammy to the touch. Carol ran a hand through her damp hair and slumped back in her seat. It was going to be a warm night for making love.
Later, bringing an armload of returned books upstairs to help fill in the hour left of work, she passed between the ranks of children's classics and inspirational works that lined an aisle near the doorway: Little Women, retold for younger readers; King Arthur and His Merry Men, with Victorian illustrations; Great Teens in History, a girlish
Joan of Arc on the front. Dog-eared and skinny, with brightly colored covers and ragged spines, the volumes seemed repositories of a kind of innocence that, after tonight, she'd be unable to share. She paused beside the reference desk to study the photos on a Girl Scout poster, relic of some long-ago recruiting drive, and found herself face to face with a racial mix of laughing little girls. They, too, seemed inhabitants of another, more innocent world, a world already receding into the past. She wondered if they'd laugh for her tomorrow.
Enough! she told herself. She must keep things in perspective. What, after all, were a tiny patch of skin and a few drops of blood to St Agnes's beheading, Catherine on the spiked wheel, Ursula ravished by the Huns, Marcus stung to death by wasps? Why pretend the thing she'd do tonight had any mystical significance?
Moving toward the front of the room, the day's heat at last beginning to lift, she deposited her books on a return table by the windowsill. Downstairs this area was where the ten-cents-a-day bestsellers lay piled; up here the books were sooty, and faded by the now-departing sun, but a scattering of gold Newbery medallions gleamed among their covers like symbols of purity.
Purity! Once more it rose in her, that absurd feeling of regret. This was a world she'd be leaving tonight. She felt like one condemned to death, gazing upon all she encountered as if for the last time.
Around her children were reading aloud to themselves, mouths laboriously shaping the words, while others puzzled in silence through the more difficult books or roamed up and down the aisles in a temperature-induced torpor, pulling out volumes at random and putting a few of them back. Most of the children, absorbed in their reading or daydreams, took little notice of her or Mrs Schumann; those who were bored made it obvious, unlike their elders downstairs, leafing impatiently through picture books or disputing with their friends. Still, the second floor was quiet at this hour, the atmosphere unusually subdued, and there were few real fights to settle; the room echoed with a soft gabble of voices punctuated only by laughter and the occasional high-pitched complaint. Carol found it a curiously restful sound.
Just before closing time, she was about to replace a handful of books on a shelf at the back of the room when, turning down the farthest row, she came upon a pale, skinny little girl, underpants below her knees, in the act of lifting her dress above her waist. Two small boys who'd been crouching in front of her jumped to their feet and dashed noisily up the aisle, disappearing around the other end. Carol heard the patter of their footsteps as they raced across the room. One of them made straight for the doorway and vanished down the stairs; the other paused only to snatch up a baseball cap and glove before hurrying after him.
The girl, however, was frozen guiltily to the spot, her eyes wide. She'd had time to yank the underpants up over the crumpled pink of her dress but was still clutching the waistband with both hands. Abruptly she let the elastic snap free, attempted to smooth back the dress, and cried, 'Didn't do nothing!'
Nor had she, of course. There was certainly nothing to punish her for, and though Carol couldn't resist giving her a brief, whispered reminder on How Some People Take Advantage of Other People's Innocence, she said nothing at all when, a few minutes later, the girl's irascible-looking mother came to claim her.
In fact, though she was slow to admit it to herself, Carol was amused – and in some dim, disreputable way, even somewhat aroused. She couldn't get the sight out of her mind: the child's brazenly hoisted dress, the sunlight on her legs, and the two boys hunched like worshipers before that frail, hairless little tuck of skin no bigger than a fortune cookie. There was a kind of power in it. It reawakened memories of her own, playing doctor with the neighbors' boy, and body magic in the loft above the garage, and -was it a painting she'd once seen? That group of men who stared in fearful wonder at the bound and naked body on an altar: had she seen it in a picture book? Maybe it had only been a dream.
Only a dream. But in the shower that evening, as she prepared herself for Jeremy's arrival, the vision remained, and she stood with head thrown back, the hot spray beating sharp against her skin, obscurely stirred as she felt the water on her, and the eyes.
Jeremy arrived more than half an hour early, muttering about the heat and noise outside and the trash in the hallway downstairs. The restaurant hadn't found his book bag, nor had it been returned to his apartment, and the couple who were subletting the place had treated him, he said, 'like a stranger in my own home.' He'd met a friend for drinks, but the conversation had quickly turned boring. He looked at Carol expectantly, as if waiting for her to set things right.
She was fresh from the shower and still in her robe, her wet hair wrapped in a towel. She'd been rather put out that he'd come so much sooner than planned, and after buzzing him in downstairs she had struggled into a bra and panties and had raced through the apartment gathering up loose clothes and flinging them toward a closet, wiping the crumbs from the kitchen table and her hair from the tub, and squinting at her features in the steamy bathroom mirror. She'd thought she looked disconcertingly pale, though it was hard to tell in the bad light; just to be safe she'd pinched her cheeks the way Scarlett O'Hara used to do before meeting a beau.
But Scarlett O'Hara had never found herself parading around in a terrycloth bathrobe and turban, and no beau of hers had ever shown up with sweat stains on his shirt and liquor on his breath. The whole evening seemed to be getting off to a miserable start – at least that's what she'd thought – until, settling himself on the living room couch, Jeremy eyed her up and down and said, 'You know, you look damned nice right now.'
She waited for the derisive little smile which was often the only way he signaled he was joking; but his mouth, and his eyes, remained serious.
Nervously she tightened the sash. 'I suppose I'd better get dressed.'
'Hey, don't go doing that for my sake!'
She laughed. 'I thought y
ou wanted to go out for dinner.'
'Of course I do, but what's the rush? Come on, sit down here a minute.' He slapped the cushion beside him, then pulled away his hand, as if surprised at his own audacity.
Surprised at hers, she sat.
They were silent for a time, as if each were pondering the implications of this new development. Carol heard her breathing coincide with his. Seated so close to him, she was exquisitely aware of how little she had on beneath the robe. Her skin still tingled from the shower; he would find it clean if, by some chance, he were to reach out and touch her right now.
At last, with something like a sigh, he reached out and scratched his knee. 'Jesus,' he said, 'remind me never to drink on an empty stomach.'
'Do you want me to make some coffee?' She was already getting to her feet.
'No, no, sit down, it would just make things worse. One cup and I feel like I'm in the Boston Marathon.' He patted his heart. 'And after the second I'm awake all night. Even without it, these days, I seem to be staying up later and later. My whole schedule's screwed up.'
Carol nodded. 'Mine too. I guess I'm still not used to having this place alone.'
She watched the final minutes of sunshine inching steadily up the wall and was struck by how shabby the apartment looked even in the waning light. The living room still smelled faintly of Rochelle, especially by the couch where they were seated. Rochelle had slept on it whenever she was home; unfolded, it became a bed considerably wider than her own. Carol thought of all the men this couch had seen; she had already decided that this was where the two of them would sleep tonight.
'My roommate was one of the noisiest people I've ever met,' she said. She wondered briefly why she'd used the past tense. 'Sometimes, just as I was turning off my light, I'd hear her snoring. And when one of her boyfriends was over… ' She made a face. 'I could hear them even with my door closed. I guess that's why the silence feels so strange. Lately I just can't seem to get to bed before two or three in the morning.'
'Oh, really? You sure went to bed early enough that night at the farm.'
His voice was edged with resentment. God, she thought, how ridiculously selfish he can be! But at least he still seemed interested.
'I was tired from all that driving,' she said. 'And I didn't get much sleep there anyway.'
'Yeah, I remember. Nightmares, you said. Hell, I'd get nightmares too, with all those Bible pictures hanging over my head! Next time, why not stay out back with me?' He gave her a sly look.
'Who knows?' she said. 'Maybe I will.' She saw that she'd surprised him and felt an urge to laugh. 'That is,' she added, 'if you promise I won't have any more bad dreams.'
He shook his head. 'I only wish I could. But I promise I'll be there when you wake up.'
'You don't say!' Smiling, she leaned closer to him. 'And just what good do you think that'll do?'
'Oh, I don't know. I'll be there to talk to you, comfort you a bit. And I can always do this.'
As he put his arms around her, her nervousness returned with a rush. She couldn't understand it; she was proud of her slim body. This was supposed to have been a time of letting go, of shedding inhibitions; her natural passions were supposed to take control. Soon she would he back and become the woman she wanted to be, and Jeremy her true lover; the walls were about to be breached, the mystery revealed. Yet instead she could feel herself grow rigid against him, her heart pounding furiously, her hands beginning to tremble. What in heaven's name was the matter with her?
It wasn't as if she hadn't had time to prepare for this; she'd had nearly a quarter of a century. She knew perfectly well what would happen now, or at least what was supposed to: the things he was going to do to her, and how she was expected to respond. It was like knowing all the answers without ever having been asked any of the questions.
'Come on, now, Carol, please don't tighten up,' he said, his voice close to her ear. She'd never heard him sound so gentle before. 'Just sit back and relax. I won't hurt you, honest. I won't even budge.' His hand came to rest above her hip; she felt it pressing lightly against her robe, like a living creature that moved when she moved, breathed when she breathed. 'Come on,' he whispered. 'Talk to me.'
'What should I talk about?' Her voice dismayed her; it sounded so breathless and frightened that she barely recognized it.
'Talk about anything you like. Tell me a secret. Or tell me a dream.'
She willed herself to relax. 'I save my secrets for confession,' she said. 'And I never remember my dreams.'
'Except the one at Poroth Farm… Remember?'
'A little, yes. Not all of it.'
'It doesn't matter.' He drew her closer. The towel loosened from her hair and slipped softly to the couch. 'Go on. Tell me.'
'I'm sure it all had something to do with those weird cards Rosie gave you,' she said. 'I couldn't get some of those images out of my head.' Reluctantly she cast her mind back. 'I remember being in a kind of jungle – an awful place. The undergrowth was all ropy and thick, and the air was steamy hot and hard to breathe, and in the distance I could hear wailing flutes, and drums just hammering and hammering away without a stop. It was night, I'm sure of that much, but all around me everything was shining like it was on fire.'
She felt his hand stir almost imperceptibly.
'I didn't know who I was,' she said, 'or what I looked like. Maybe I was dead and no more than a ghost, because I seemed to be floating over the ground, gliding between the trees. The vines and bushes somehow opened up for me, and I passed right through without a scratch. The farther I went, the louder the flutes and drums kept getting, and the thicker the trees, but just before the end I began to see a kind of clearing up ahead. For the first time, I caught a glimpse of the sky. The moon was out, and… '
'And what?'
'It was shining like a spotlight on the center of the clearing.'
'All the better to see with.' Gently his hand slid toward her breast. She pressed it closer with her own.
'I wish I hadn't looked,' she said. 'It wasn't nice at all. In the center, all alone, stood a tree, and these men were gathered beneath it, watching something on the ground. Then they moved back, and I saw that at the foot of the tree was a kind of altar. There was a body on it – the body of a girl.'
'And then, I suppose, you saw that the girl was you. And woke up with a scream.' He was touching her breast, caressing it.
'No, it was nothing like that. It was much worse. Much worse.' She could feel her heart racing again; she wondered if he felt it too. 'I woke because I heard something fall onto the body, and lying there in the moonlight was this long white slippery thing, curling and uncurling… And then suddenly, as I watched, it arched up from the body and began to sway, faster and faster, and I could see that somehow it was dancing, heaving itself up and down to the music, like a great blind snake-'
'Uh-oh, you know what that means!'
She nodded and pulled away slightly. 'Yes, yes, I know. But this time I'm not sure it applies. Anyway, why does a snake always have to be a phallic symbol? What if it was simply – a snake?'
'It's possible, I guess.' She felt his hand slip beneath the robe. 'As a matter of fact, there's this crazy Bram Stoker novel-'
'Wait, Jeremy, what are you doing there?'
'Nothing.'
'That doesn't feel like nothing.'
'I'm not going to hurt you. Just lift yourself up a minute.'
'You mean… like this?'
'Mm. Do you have to keep both legs so – there, that's better.'
She watched what he was doing, still held passive by the dream.
'Try to relax,' he said. 'Tell me about the way it ended. About the altar, and the nonsymbolic snake. I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to.'
Her eyelids felt heavy. She took a deep breath and let it out. 'You don't understand,' she said. 'It turned out to be something else entirely. Something more. I only saw a part of it, I think – the part above the altar. I remember how the creature rose up and dow
n to the music, in time with the drumbeats and the whistling of the flutes. The other end seemed buried in the ground, there was just no telling how far under it went. Somehow I sensed that it was attached down there, that all I was seeing was the tip. And then F – she caught her breath, half curious as to what Jeremy was doing, half reluctant to think about it – 'I realized that the drums must be coming from the same place, from somewhere far below me, deep inside the earth… And suddenly it occurred to me, with absolute certainty, that all the things I'd been seeing – the altar, the clearing, the whole entire jungle – were a part of something else, something huge and hateful and alive.'
She could feel her panties being tugged down over her thighs, and liked the feeling, the fact that there was nothing she herself had to do. She could let her mind wander, back to that night…
'I knew, then, beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was there and all around me, stretching from one end of the night to the other, a single monstrous creature half as big as the world. The sound of the flutes was the sound of its breathing, and the drumming was the beating of its heart. That horrible white snake that thrashed back and forth on the altar was just a tiny artery, pulsing with its blood. But hanging from the tree was the most hateful thing of all, because that's where it sat watching me, the eye and the face and the brain-'
She was jerked upright by the sound of the buzzer. Someone downstairs was ringing to get in. Yanking up her underwear and closing the robe, she hurried across the room and pressed the intercom button. 'Who is it?' she called. Her voice was trembling.
There was no reply; the intercom hissed with ghost winds roaming up and down the empty halls. Freirs stirred impatiently on the couch.
She called again, louder this time. 'Who's there?' Something crackled tinnily, and at last, from the emptiness, came a faint, familiar voice. It was Rosie.
He prays he isn't too late. Yet as he stands there panting in the entranceway, waiting for the woman to admit him, his patient little smile never wavers; and no one who's been watching him from the street could possibly realize that it masks a howl of blind demonic rage.