Beverly retrieved her robe in the kitchen and prepared an elaborate lunch. After setting the table, she found Carl dressed and in her office playing with the computer keyboard.
"You've got to turn it on if you want to produce anything." She giggled from the doorway.
She saw Carl glance at the drawing that she had left next to the keyboard. Every curve, every shading was in place.
"Come on, Carl. Lunch is on the table."
She was already seated when Carl entered the dining room.
"Slowpoke," she teased.
At the table Beverly kept staring at his hands.
"How do you get those things?" She asked, a forkful of pasta poised in front of her lips.
He looked at his cut and callused hands. "I bury things."
"Bulbs?"
"What?"
"What do you bury? Are you planting a garden? God, it's been, what, eight months since I've been at your place. Remember? It was the day I signed the lease for this house."
Carl nodded.
"Can you imagine? We've been neighbors now for eight months and lovers for seven of them.''
Carl smiled at her.
"And it's been days since you smiled at me like that."
"I'm sorry, Beverly. I'm under some stress right now."
"Is that why you've been working so hard in the yard?"
He laughed. "As a matter of fact, that's exactly why I've been digging."
"You want to talk about it?"
"No!"
Beverly looked down at her plate and realized she couldn't finish the pasta.
"You're a special person," Carl said as he reached for her hands. He squeezed them tightly. "I have to go."
"Please, Carl. You never wanted to leave in the past. You would spend as long as a week with me and go home reluctantly to check on your place. Now I can't get you to spend a single day with me. Why?"
His eyes seemed to shimmer under salty tears that never fell. As he got up, she watched his linen suit fall in wrinkles around his robust body. He still had the body of his youth, and Beverly assumed it was due to his penchant for digging. She watched him walk to the threshold of the dining room and stop. His hands reached up and grasped the lintel. He hesitated. Beverly rushed from her seat and threw her arms around him. She could smell his body through the cloth, rich and heady, stifling her breath.
"I love you, Beverly, but . . ."
She waited for the "I can't make a commitment," which never came. He merely reached down to his right trousers pocket, almost slid his hand in, but stopped. Instead, he patted the pocket and pulled away from her.
Beverly watched him walk down the gravel path until he was hidden by the fir trees. When she brought her hands up to her face to rub away the tension, she smelled the garlic embedded in her fingertips and remembered that she had to clean the dining room after the half-eaten lunch.
After completing innumerable petty chores, she decided to hunker down to write. As she entered the office, she noticed that the drawing was missing. She searched the floor around the computer table, hoping that it had fallen. It was not there. Beverly sat on the hardwood floor and felt hot tears streaming down her cheeks.
That night, in bed, Beverly lay naked upon her cotton sheet, the tan of her body emphasized by the white of the material. Her dark eyes penetrated the dimness of the moon-sprayed room. The ceiling fan whooshed the air above her head, and her mind settled on that sound for comfort as she closed her eyes. Whoosh . . . whoosh. It became a lullaby amid the hyacinth smell of night. Beverly's limbs softened on the verge of sleep, when suddenly her breath halted and she found herself panting for air as her head turned toward the open French doors leading to the garden. She swallowed and choked, then with her hands she pushed her body up off the bed, scrambling to the floor. Finally, she was able to stand and move to the garden.
The summer heat, cooled by the moon's full glow, hugged her body. Her breasts, stimulated by the night chill, ached as she sucked in deep breaths of air. A dream, she said to herself as her breath started to come again. A dream, a nightmare, she thought.
But sleep never came that night, and it seemed that over the next few days she dozed lightly only at the keyboard or while reading on the garden swing. Deep, dreamy, reviving sleep never came. Neither did Carl.
One morning after her shower Beverly stood in front of the full-length mirror that hung behind the door to her bedroom. She had been skipping meals, and when she did sit to eat she barely touched her food. However, her body seemed to be swelling. There was a gnawing inside her gut, a steady nibbling at her intestines. As she belched, she tried to push on her stomach. Then she noticed the nail on her right index finger was loosenot just a portion of it, but the entire nail was coming free of its bed. She swung the bedroom door open and rushed to the bathroom for a bandage.
"Shit," she complained and wound the strip tightly around the finger.
When she looked in the mirror, she saw two reddish, bloated cheeks beneath the dark semicircles that sagged under her big eyes.
She had been pondering the possibility of an allergy or asthma, but these new symptoms frightened her. Could her ailment be more severe? If Carl did not come today, she would have to try to reach him. He had no telephone and no road led to his house, but she knew if she just kept walking upstream along the water's edge she would reach his place. But she didn't have to, because at midday, as the sun was peaking, he arrived.
He looked refreshed and even smiled when he saw her. Beverly moved awkwardly toward him as he entered her house. Her body felt full; her skin was pigmented with splotches of dusky red tint. A stale, eggish odor emanated from the folds of her flesh.
"Oh, Carl, I need you."
Carl held her and swept his long fingers through her thinning hair.
"I don't know what's happening to me. It started the day you left. I've had trouble breathing and"
Carl pressed his lips to her mouth and thanked her.
"What for?" she asked, moving her head back slightly so she could see him.
"For what you're doing."
"I don't understand, Carl."
He moved her back through the hallway to her bedroom and sat her on the bed. He knelt before her and undid the buttons on the front of her dress. His hands caressed her shrunken breasts and his tongue circled the hardened tips. Beverly was embarrassed, amazed, and soothed. Carl pulled the dress completely open and let his lips slide down to kiss her distended stomach as if she were pregnant from his seed.
"Do you know what's wrong with me?" she asked.
He nodded.
"You've taken my place in the grave, Beverly."
"What are you talking about?" Her voice was louder than she meant it to be.
"I'm so afraid of dying, Beverly. I'm afraid of the brown earth encasing me, swallowing me. Several years ago, when I found out that I was terminally ill, I traveled the Amazon, where I learned a trick, a means to stay alive, from a small tribe that lived in the dense rain forest. To forestall death, the tribal headman would carve out an exact replica of someone in an enemy village. Then he would personally bury the reproduction deep in the soil. The deeper he buried it, the longer the spell would last. At times, it's lasted as long as fifteen months for me."
"My God! What are you talking about?"
"The drawing, Beverly. I buried it after I left here last timeI had to do it. I could feel the maggots starting to eat away at my innards. I would have bloated like you and"
Beverly screamed and grabbed her stomach with her hands. Her shoulders hunched upward as her body tilted forward to release a hoarse cry. Carl held her tight and kissed the auburn hair already lying rootless on top of her head.
"I love you, Beverly. That's why I almost gave you the drawing. But it was too late for me to find someone else. Neurological control had dissipated in my hands to the point that I couldn't draw a straight lineand it had to be created by my hands. A photograph wouldn't do. The original drawing was made when we first slep
t together. Then I didn't mind the idea of using you, but later it preyed on my conscience. I thought of how I would miss youbut this is the greatest act of love you could give me, and I realize you've always been braver than I. Probably loved me more, too."
"Carl, stop it. Why are you telling me this stupid story?"
"Because I thought that if you knew the truth you'd allow me to help. I can make your passing gentler."
"Passing? Are you saying I'm dying?"
"Oh, no, Beverly. You are dead. Now the decay starts."
"I don't believe you. How could you make light of my illness?"
"Beverly, you are beyond illness. Look at your hands."
She spread her fingers in front of her face. There was a black cast to her right thumb. Was it a bruise? she wondered. Her touch did not cause pain, but the skin began to scale. And what of the roil inside her body? Her hands returned to her stomach.
"What about me, Carl? What about my life?"
"I'll always think of you, Beverly. When the time comes to take your remains down to the river, I promise to pray for you. I built an elaborate casket for your image. It's sturdy; it should hold up for quite some time. It'll make the decay take place more slowly. Give you time to settle any matters you think are important."
"What if I go to the police?"
"And say what?"
Beverly swung her body down across the mattress and rolled over onto her right side while still clutching the churning life in her stomach.
"I lined the casket with the best white satin I could obtain and smoothed the drawing across the bottom among some rose petals. Before closing the lid, I kissed your image, and I sang a hymn as I lowered the coffin into the grave. It was a moving ceremony, really. This is the first time I've ever buried someone I loved."
Beverly was screaming. Was it inside her head or coming up through her body? She was too confused to know for sure. Carl rolled her over onto her back, and she felt him trying to enter her. Her hands beat against his head. She pounded and kicked to release herself from this bringer of death.
From far away she heard him say that he was leaving; he couldn't stand to see her like this.
"You did it! You did it!" she yelled and watched him walk out of the room.
She slid off the bed and stumbled into her office. Alone in the house now, she sat at her desk, remembering every detail of Carl's face and form. She tried to duplicate him on paper but failed. If only her hands could mirror the image in her mind. All she could see were the pronounced cheekbones, the straight, slender nose . . .
What the hell am I doing believing this crap? She flung the paper and pencil on the floor. She needed medical help, not ridiculous voodoo.
She wrung her hands together, and as she did sheafs of skin dropped onto the desk blotter. Her howling reached as far as Carl, who was about to push his boat into the river.
2 - At the Grave
Carl ran his boat into the water and jumped inside. The cuffs of his trousers were wet. He had been in too much of a hurry to roll them up. He was thankful that he had left his shoes in the rowboat, where they now lay behind him, dry. The oars lay across the bottom of the boat. Carl looked up toward her house and heard the scream. She was angry, wanted more than he could give, and yet she refused the tokens he offered as lover and friend. No understanding from this woman, who had wrapped her legs around his body and promised to be his eternally. Now she was, but she spoiled it with her anger.
Suddenly Carl realized his shoulders were slouching. He arched his back and threw forward his chest muscles. Feeling better already, he breathed in the moistness of the river air and exhaled all that had rotted within him. At last the oars were in his callused hands. The steady splash that they made as they hit water set a rhythm. He was a machine, steaming through the steely glare of daylight, pushing through his life to maintain the vigor that belonged to him.
Swiftly he rowed. The sun at its zenith caused him to perspire profusely, yet he enjoyed the reprieve from the tension. Water splashed against the sides of the boat. His arms were not as stiff as they had been. He was rowing farther and farther away from his grave. His eyes sparkled with an unsmiled grin. Life was awaiting Carl just up the river.
The chimney of his house came into view. He could almost feel the cold cushion of his wingback underneath him. Better than this sun-heated wood plank, he thought as he looked down at the knotted board upon which he sat.
When he reached his landing, Carl lifted the boat onto a dry patch of grass and covered it with a tarp. As he wound around the path to the door of his house, he detoured briefly to check Beverly's grave. The petunias and daisies were still fresh, and the mound was untouched. Satisfied, Carl returned to the path and continued on up to the house.
After running a warm bath, Carl stripped naked. He stood in front of a full-length mirror that was attached to the back of the bathroom door. His chest was well-tanned, with only a hint of a burn across the shoulders. The muscles of his arms were taut from the workout of rowing up the river. The stomach muscles were flat and his hips were still narrow like an adolescent's, but the tumescence of his manhood was definitely fully matured. His thick thighs spread farther apart as he appreciated the reflection before him. Already he could feel the organs rejuvenate, while his muscles and skin bulged with Beverly's gift of life.
Carl's slender feet padded across the small, round bathroom tiles to the tub. He dipped one bulbous toe into the water. Too hot. After adding some cold water, he re-tested. Perfect. Each foot plunged into the water in its turn. Carl issued a breathy sigh as he lowered himself into the tub. The water almost poured over the edge. When it steadied, he noticed the water was still a half-inch below the top of the tub. He wasn't going to worry about it, for he could always mop it up later.
Carl grabbed a bar of his homemade lye soap from the stool at the head of the tub and started scrubbing his body, massaging new life into flesh that once had been nearly putrid. He used a terry washcloth to skim off layers of old epidermis, to be replaced by the pink shine of fresh skin.
After a good forty-five minutes of preening himself in the bathroom, Carl moved into the bedroom to slip on fresh jeans. As he slid the denim over his hips, he saw a photograph of Beverly on the nightstand. Damn good-looking woman, he thought, blocking from his mind the vision of how she last had looked. He picked up the frame and forced the photograph out, laying the frame back facedown on the nightstand.
With photo in hand, Carl moved to the study, where he opened a leather-bound album. He flipped through several pages of pretty and stunning women. No ugly ducklings. Finally, on a dated page he glued four black fasteners and poked a corner of the photo into each one. He waved an index finger across Beverly's form and remembered how warm and receptive her body had been. No more, unfortunately. Never mind, he thought, celibacy would help heal his still-warm frame.
Carl had kept photographs of all the sacrificial women, but hardly ever looked at them. He had learned how to move on, not love. Although Beverly had been different. The god had almost sacrificed himself for the lamb, he thought. Then he shook himself. He was no god, and she was no lamb. A pleasant woman, easygoing, insatiable, he thought with a chuckle. Often she was quite brilliant during their conversations, too opinionated sometimes. However, she had loved him, no doubt about it. She should have allowed him to make love to her one last time during the transition while she was giving her ultimate for love, he thought. Carl imagined the sexual pull of this love, taking from him the source of his life-giving power while allowing her own life to flow out to him. Damn that woman! he cursed as he slammed his fist down atop her photograph.
A chill swept through his body. Carl closed the album with a thud and exited the study, walking toward the front door. When he opened the door, he noticed that the sun was setting. He moved back to the hall closet and grabbed a flashlight before leaving the house. Carl followed the path midway, then swung off the dirt to plod through high grass. In the distance, he could see the mound wit
h the flowers. The daisies were starting to wilt on the edges. The petunias were sturdier.
''I'm sorry," he whispered. His vision was blurry. Carl ran his right forearm across his eyes. He had never been so drawn to a grave before. He kept having to inspect it, make sure it was in place, that he really had done it. Carl had hesitated so dangerously long before he had buried the drawing that he needed reassurance.
"I loved you, Beverly, maybe not enough, but I did love"
The daisies died before his eyes. They turned into scrawny stems with brown ashes at the tips.
He sucked in air. He was going to be sick. The acid from his stomach was gurgling up his esophagus. Carl bent over and held his stomach, trying to breathe deeply. It was no use; the force was too great. His day's intake spewed out at the foot of the grave.
Mary Ann Mitchell - Drawn to the Grave.html Page 2