The First Principles of Dreaming

by Beth Goobie

  Catching the bra between his teeth, George grunted, “Yeah, I want to play.” Then he grinned, the weak grin of someone trapped in a turn-on nightmare, and the room began to breathe differently—shadows leaning in, the nebulous light of the lava lamp touching any which way it wanted. Taut and predatory, Dee leaned over the boy on the bed, a faint red glow haloing her head. For a moment it was all locked eyes and staring thought, everyone hesitating on the threshold of intent. Gingerly, Jez edged in beside George and slid her hand onto the leanness of his belly. He was at their mercy now, the knowing slurred in his eyes, but even so she couldn’t pull back from the taunt of her hands—their delicate stroke across his nipple as he lay, mouth tightening, trying to hold sound in.

  But nothing was going to hold sound in here—Jez knew this as she knew the animal in her skin that was opening its mouth onto the boy’s throat and sucking his startled pulse, counting heartbeats, letting him know she knew the rapid thud of each one. Dee was again at his mouth; Jez could hear the give of their lips as Dee kissed, pulled back, scolded gently, and kissed again, George swearing, “It’s a habit, a goddamn habit!” Leaving the shadowy beginnings of a hickey on his sweating throat, Jez journeyed the maze of George’s ear on the tip of her tongue, whispering obscenities, all the soft obscenities she whispered only to herself alone in bed, because that was how alone this boy was now.

  “Shi-shi-shit,” he muttered endlessly. “Shii—” Drifting a dreamy pulse across his cheek, Jez watched Dee hover above George’s mouth, conversing in the endless monologue of loneliness that was the game of her lips, and then the other girl was beckoning her in, George pulling convulsively at the nylons that bound him as Jez’s hair slid down around his face and she began kissing him softly, so softly you would think she was barely there at all.

  His tongue shot out to catch her—frog after a fly—but the tease was full in her, murmuring, “Uh-uh.” Trapped and helpless, George grinned, begging for more, but suddenly she was filled with the thought of his left nipple and had to run her tongue over it, just had to, choreographing each of his whole-body shudders with her soft, sure licks. More obsessions followed, Jez flitting tangential as a butterfly from nipple to belly hair to the large chestnut birthmark just inside the musky-scented waist of his jeans. Once again at his mouth, Dee was still coming and going, but kissing longer now that the boy’s tongue was staying put, learning its place under the whimsy of girls. Licking a languorous trail up George’s chest, Jez paused, her face an inch from Dee’s, and they observed one another through heavy-lidded eyes, their mouths puffy with kissing, their breathing sultry and sweet, exquisite with knowing.

  “You slut,” whispered Dee.

  “You wish,” Jez smiled, and the other girl retreated, leaving her the stretched-out boy. Sliding full onto him, Jez kissed and kissed his mouth with an abandon she gave only her pillow, slipping her tongue into his whimpering cries, both of them sucking and straining, wild to go deeper, deeper in. From behind, she felt hands tugging at her waist, pulling off her jeans and panties, and then a fully naked Dee was edging her off George and straddling his hips, laughing down at the quivering pulse that was his mouth.

  “C’mere,” she said, pulling Jez onto his hips in front of her so they both sat facing him, Jez taking the full weight of his stare as Dee hooked her arms and pulled them back, stretching her as taut as the watching boy, both of them an offering laid out and begging for mercy.

  “Watch, George, watch,” Dee whispered as she gathered Jez’s hair off her shoulders and twisted it behind her back, cupped her hands under Jez’s breasts, and stroked the blue lace bra. Placing a thumb in Jez’s mouth, she let her suck, then circled a nipple, wetting it through the bra. “Like this, George,” she sang softly, her bare hot nipples pressed to the skin of Jez’s back as George rocked under them both, his eyes riveted to the thumb and its wet circling. Mouth gone slack, Jez arced backward against the other girl, her face buried in Dee’s hair, her hands curved helpless with wonder at her sides. Between her legs beat a dense slickness; her face kneaded Dee’s neck; slowly, slowly the blue lace bra came undone, George crying a single dusky “Duh!” as Jez’s sobbing mouth found Dee’s and they were kissing kissing kissing, George’s hips insistent against them both.

  “You want me to take this one?” asked Dee, and Jez pleated at the raw knowing in her face. Swiftly, the other girl unzipped George’s jeans and slid herself onto the full reddish-purple cock. “C’mere,” she whispered again, guiding Jez through a half-turn on George’s hips so the two girls sat facing each other. Reaching around Jez’s buttocks, Dee pulled her in and they rocked in sync, quick jabs that had George gusting toward a wild climax, then a shuddering, gasping quiet.

  “Shh,” murmured Dee, “he’ll be hard in a sec,” and he was, the girls riding more deliberately this time, paying the boy no notice except for the way he anchored them together, their hands clutching each other’s asses tight. “This is the way, George, this is the way,” Dee crooned, the red halo darkening about her head as they started in on the third fuck, George grunting his repeated “Shishit,” everything going deeper, full of slow, fierce moaning. Briefly then, above Dee’s head, Jez saw it—the skinned-raw ferret face of her demon, manifesting clearly and peering down at the three of them like a demented celestial guardian. At the same moment, Dee began to babble, her voice tiny and high, whispering, “Can you find me? Can you find me? Can you find me?”

  Without warning, George started thrusting violently, the girls clinging so tightly, Jez found bruises the next day. After he had climaxed, Dee slid off him into a shuddery fetal ball, and Jez followed, wrapping the other girl’s body with her own until Dee had moaned her way into a strange drop-off sleep. Slowly then, almost reluctantly, Jez turned back to the boy on her other side and saw his stretched-out body, cock again at full length. Their eyes met and she realized he had opened onto some new place; tears tracked his face; he stared as if her hands had dipped beneath his skin and stolen trinkets of his flesh.

  “Ride me, Jez,” he begged gruffly. “Would you just fuckin’ ride?”

  It was then that it came to her, finally, the gift Dee had laid out for her: the body of a boy wondering and helpless, a boy opened as deep as the rape at Dinky’s party had opened her. No, deeper; this soft seeking, this gentle, merciless finding out had teased the two of them further and further into themselves, deeper than fear. Rising onto her haunches, Jez took his cock into herself and touched its tip to her inside place like a promise. Healing groans rose from her, the cries of the damned; she rode the boy like a resurrection—the end of everything, everything she knew.

  After, she lay beside him, stroking the sweat from his upper lip as he breathed and breathed. “Jez,” he whispered, his closed eyelids fluttering. “Cut me loose, would ya? Please?”

  Rising, she pulled the jackknife from its guardian position in the door and cut the nylons from his wrists. Then, arms around her knees, she watched from beside Dee’s sleeping body as George dressed and left without a backward glance for her, the bed, or the gloating depths of the cave-like room.

  Nine

  After the first several years, there was a period during which my mother’s prophecies occurred less frequently. A visitation from the Tongue of Fire could no longer be expected weekly—indeed, it often materialized no more than once a month; the signs that foretold its coming, however, remained unchanged. Midweek, my mother’s pupils began to swell and she would pace the house, stopping for long periods to stand staring into that high, bright kingdom visible only to her. By Friday, the trembling overtook her and she would sit by the living room window, her limbs consumed by small shudders, even her closed eyelids quivering as the thousand delicate wings in her skin struggled to lift free. This shuddering gradually increased, until by Saturday afternoon she was overtaken by major tremors, her eyes rolling back and spittle flying from her lips as my father tied her wrists and ankles to their bed with soft cloths to
keep her from rolling to the floor. Curiously, each Saturday evening, her symptoms deserted her; as the moon rose, her tremors ceased and my father untied her, leaving her free to creep about the house, hiss-whispering as she pursued her divine nocturnal quest.

  The following morning, she was generally still tremor-free, but based on the signs of the past few days, my father would call ahead to inform Pastor Playle that the Divine Sister looked ready to prophesy. The Hamilton family then made the crosstown drive to church, my mother wearing her best white felt hat and a pronounced quiet radiance. Upon arrival, my father would tell me to make myself useful distributing Sunday school papers to the various basement classrooms, and he and my mother would climb the stairs to Pastor Playle’s second-floor office, a spacious room with windows overlooking the church parking lot but none in the door that faced the hall. At age eleven, this left me with no way to spy on what happened next—the door was unusually thick, and the walls conducted only vague sounds that could not compete with the grumble of cars in the parking lot and the bustle of church members arriving in the downstairs lobby.

  In spite of these obstacles, on Sundays when the signs were clear, I settled myself resolutely onto the floor opposite Pastor Playle’s door and refused to budge until my mother emerged from the office. Pleas made by Sunday school teachers and offers of Freshie or cookies were to no avail; if force was exerted, I returned it with such desperation that the well-intentioned deacon or Women’s Auxiliary Prayer Group member admonished me with a flustered “Well, keep quiet and don’t bother none of the classes,” and left me with my eyes glued to the closed door. I could not have explained then why I felt the way I did—although I had witnessed the solstice angels pass over Pastor Playle, as well as the white-winged entity that had invaded my mother’s body, no direct evidence yet implicated the good pastor in what I considered to be my mother’s demise. Still, I knew that some kind of changing spell had been cast upon my family; since we had begun attending the Waiting for the Rapture End Times Tabernacle, my parents and I had altered greatly, and every difference in our lives seemed to point directly to Pastor Playle.

  So on Sundays when the signs augured well, I hunkered down in the upper church hallway opposite Pastor Playle’s office, convinced that nefarious deeds were being perpetrated upon my mother therein. Though only muffled undefined sounds came through to me, my suspicions were confirmed the moment the door opened and the good pastor and my father emerged with the stranger who had once again been installed in my mother’s place—the Divine Sister, her face drawn and stricken, tremors haunting her limbs. As I rose to my feet, Pastor Playle and my father would glare, but my mother remained oblivious, leaning heavily on both men’s arms and taking minute shuffling steps along the hall.

  Several times I rushed after her, tried to take her arm and help lead her, but she did not even turn her head as my father tore my hand unceremoniously away. Once, however, Pastor Playle had to return to his office for something he had forgotten, and I quickly snatched up the Divine Sister’s empty, twitching hand. Instantly, a current leaped between our palms, and I felt an energy shift inside the woman beside me as if some kind of struggle was taking place. Slowly, her face turned toward me and she knew me; my mother touched me on the cheek and whispered, “Mary-Eve. You are my lovely Mary-Eve.”

  But at that moment Pastor Playle returned, pulled her hand firmly from my face, and said, “Divine Sister, the Lord waits. We must not tarry.” For one raw second, I watched fear rise up and sear my mother’s face. Then distance fell across it, and she was again gazing into that faraway shimmering landscape that called to her alone. Without protest, she allowed herself to be led into a small room behind the sanctuary where a contraption known as the red velvet box was stored—a velvet-covered, wheeled wooden cubicle containing a bench that had been constructed after her first national-conference prophecy session, due to concerns over the unsightliness of the Divine Sister’s convulsions. Alone in the hallway, I waited, and within minutes saw Pastor Playle wheel out the box, its red velvet drapes closed so nothing of its interior could be seen. Right on the good pastor’s heels, I followed the velvet box’s progress along the corridor and into the sanctuary, where it was positioned next to the podium. Here it remained, as it did every Sunday, drapes drawn firmly closed while my mother waited inside its cloistered darkness so no member of the congregation would be distracted by her facial grimaces and tremors until the moment of divine inspiration arrived.

  For much of the service, the drapes remained shut. Hymns were sung, collection plates passed around, Scripture read, and all that was noted of the Divine Sister was an occasional thud from the box or a ripple passing through the velvet drapes. Each time this occurred, the congregation paused, their collective gaze fixing on the box as they awaited further signs, but when none came, they continued staunchly on, working themselves deeper into the customary rituals of faith. Morning could wear into early afternoon, the women halfway through packages of peppermints and the men trying for another chorus of “Amen!” and “Hallelujah, brother!” as Pastor Playle sweated and pounded the pulpit and I sat motionless in the third pew, stalked by fearful thoughts: What if she’s dead? What if she’s lying cold and pale at the bottom of that box with a dead stopped heart? What if…

  Eventually, however, the red velvet box would begin to quiver and the drapes would draw slowly open. All eyes then converged upon the Divine Sister, displayed from the waist up by the box’s front half-gate, her head banging erratically against the back wall and her body rigid and jerking. Finally, like a dove flown straight from the mind of God, the Tongue of Fire appeared above the box, its white fire beautiful and terrible to behold. Immediately, the Divine Sister called out to it, always at the same pitch, as if that note was its secret name, and the great light descended to rest upon her head.

  With its coming, she lost all contact with the congregation seated before her, no longer seeing or knowing any of us. Sometimes at these moments, her face contorted with terror, her voice rose in a wailing cry, and she scratched at her arms as if covered in boils or insects. Other times, she was joyful, laughing as her eyes focused on something that seemed to hover directly before her. But, these moments of bliss notwithstanding, my mother’s dry spells grew lengthier—so much so that by the end of my eleventh year they threatened to destroy her reputation as an inspired prophetess. What was most bewildering about these periods was the lack of divine illumination as to their cause or purpose; they remained a mystery as unexplained as the initial Tongue of Fire itself. Dissatisfied by the Divine Sister’s reticence on the subject, members of the congregation began to come up with their own explanations. Rumors abounded, and in an attempt to curtail speculation, Pastor Playle started meeting with my mother daily. National elders were called in for healing sessions, even an exorcism undertaken, but to no avail—the Tongue of Fire decreased its appearances to every other week, then once a month, and it seemed paler, a paltry whimper of flame rather than the fierce burning core it had once been. In tandem, the Divine Sister’s prophetic ability ebbed, and attendance at the Waiting for the Rapture End Times Tabernacle declined. Bible in lap, my mother continued to moan and call out from the living room couch, but nothing answered her, and at night the beings with which she communed seemed less luminous and the circuit throbbing in the house walls fainter, as if it were being called back to its source.

  One evening, after a five-week dry spell, my mother stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes and staring out into a vast snow-falling dusk. As I leaned against the counter beside her, holding a tea towel, there came a moment when I felt her slow as if coming into a profound internal pause; the very lungs of the evening seemed to stop breathing. Then, without taking her eyes from the world beyond the window, my mother reached into the drying rack and took hold of a bread knife. Calmly raising it to her cheek, she slashed twice before I was able to pull it from her hand. Bright blood streamed from her skin, and she sank sobbing to her knees a
s I ran, bread knife in hand, to fetch my father. When we returned, she was sitting quietly in a chair, staring straight ahead and showing no awareness of the bleeding gashes in her face.

  Still holding the bread knife, I danced around my father in terrified steps, waiting for him to rush to my mother and stanch the blood flow, speak, do something…but instead he stood motionless in the doorway, watching intently as the pupils of her eyes dilated. A tremor erupted through my mother’s limbs, followed by another, and still my father stood watching as thought crawled across his face. Finally, he turned without a word and fetched the first-aid kit, then cleaned and bandaged my mother’s wounds and led her to their bed. Within minutes, he returned to find me standing where he had left me, my body caught in its own quick trembling and my eyes wide and staring, fixed on the opposite wall.

  “Damn you,” he yelled, “don’t even think about it!” and slapped me hard across the face. Startled, I was knocked temporarily adrift, floating high above my body, but I was drawn irresistibly back by the harsh burn on my cheek and the sensation of gripping the bread knife so tightly that later my hand ached. As I descended once again into my flesh, a memory, almost forgotten in its two-year absence, returned to me, and I found myself standing between kitchen light and a dark, shadowy place, surrounded by robed chanting figures; in some deep, dream-laced trance, I raised the blade covered with my mother’s blood and tilted its slow, strange meaning toward my father’s throat. All of a sudden, he and I were struggling, his hands forcing the knife from mine. Only when it had been lifted free, when he had turned and thrown the bloody weapon into the kitchen sink, was I released from that dark inner place, and loud wails burst from my mouth.

  “Go to your room!” he shouted, and I ran for my bed, diving into its warm cave and the all-around thud of my heart.