She was appeased so much that she took his hand as they walked into the kitchen.
Small hands, he thought, slender. The veins protruded more on the right hand than the left, the knuckles bulged a little, the nails were ragged . . .
9 - Look at Me!
The attentive round eyes glowed in her direction. They observed her while the small nose twitched the whiskers underneath. Slowly the upper flap of its mouth eased back, revealing sharp teeth between which Beverly could see the saliva glisten.
"You can almost taste me," she whispered.
The rodent rested on its haunches, the six-inch tail curled beside its body. It smelled the rotting flesh but had seen Beverly move, so it was being cautious. Ten feet between them, the air dripped with the scent of carrion.
Beverly waited a few more seconds until she saw the rat's back legs tense, ready for the jump. Before the rat could pounce, Beverly, with all the force left to her, flung a crystal vase at the rat. The rodent scurried through the open French doors and into the garden. Six feet from the house, the rat stopped and turned to stare at Beverly briefly before rushing into the bushes. It would be back; how much longer could she exist?
Beverly walked toward the French doors, not feeling the glass underfoot as it sliced open the soles of her feet. She hated to close the doors, since her sense of smell seemed to be fading and the only consolation she had was the garden, especially the hyacinths. However, for her own safety, she had to close the doors at night. She thought about how disappointed the rat must be to see the doors slam shut against it. Beverly pulled aside the curtain on the chance that she might see the rodent again under the moonlight. Nothing rustled the garden except a thin breeze, which hardly touched anything.
This was the first time she had confronted the creature in her bedroom. Normally, the rats had stayed in the bushes, watching. With time, they were becoming brave. At least one had. A scout for the rest, she speculated.
Beverly paced the house, not knowing what to look for or do, but wanting to reinforce in her mind that she was alive. There was no longer any need for sleep. She was never tired but always languid. Her motions were limited by decay and the fear that more of her would vanish from her bones with any sudden movement. The flesh was so worn away on her forearms that she could see the veins winding down her naked elbow joint to the folds of flesh hanging about her wrist.
She stopped in front of her bathroom mirror. She had been unwilling to destroy the looking glass that enabled her to measure her time in the world. The top of the skull was bare now, the forehead pronounced, the eye sockets settled deep in her face. The cartilage on the bridge of her nose was squishy to the touch and was spread across the upper part of her cheeks. The lips were a pale purple. The chin was starting to blacken.
She spread the palm of her hand across the mirror and softly rubbed her reflection, leaving a filmy scum of cells to mar the glass. Suddenly she could see Carl's features, rough, uneven, yet handsome, resting against her pillow. His eyes were shut against her face.
"Look at me!" she screamed in the highest whisper her rancid throat would allow, but his face seemed to turn away from her into the softness of the pillow.
"Damn you! Look at me! Look at what you did?
Her heavy sobs choked off her breath, and she panicked. Panting for air, she threw open the bathroom window. The buttery hue of the moon crossed her countenance, penetrating the threads of skin on her lower jaw, revealing the meaty rawness of what was underneath.
Beverly breathed in the dew of the night, clearing her vision and allowing her lungs to tuck into their decaying sacs some precious oxygen. Without warning, an animal jumped down upon her naked head, scratching the blackening skin into open pockets. With both her hands, Beverly flung the rodent against one of the tiled bathroom walls. Dazed, the animal quivered as Beverly reached for its tail. She smashed its head against the porcelain tub until its brains smeared a path on the whiteness of the tub's surface. Then her hands went limp, letting the rat fall to the floor.
A high-pitched gurgle ushered forth from Beverly's throat as she backed out of the bathroom. She wondered where the violence in her came from. Was it always there? Or did it come from Carl? Had she taken on his indifference to the lives of others?
No, she knew it was her instincts keeping her alive, keeping her prepared, although she did not know for what.
10 - Beauty Mark under Right Breast
He looks so confused and frightened, Megan thought as she took Carl's hand. It was like leading a little boy into play. Megan gathered the oranges and found the juicer while Carl stared. His shoulders drooped and his face looked haggard. It was probably not the best time to probe into his past.
"How about I wash the oranges while you squeeze some?" She wanted his participation to keep him busy and to divert him from his thoughts. "A few of these are badly bruised. I hope they're still usable."
Megan washed an orange, then handed it to Carl, who barely remembered to reach out for it. After washing the second orange, Megan turned around to see Carl standing behind her, a whole orange in his hand.
"Let's see. The knives are in this drawer, right?"
Carl came alert and opened the appropriate drawer, which happened to be to the right of the one Megan selected.
"Slow learner," she said, pointing her index finger at her forehead.
When Carl made no move to take out a knife, Megan did. She wasn't sure whether she should cut the orange herself or ask Carl to do it. This decision she didn't have to make, because Carl took the knife from her hand and went to the cutting board, which lay beside the juicer.
Megan felt better now. The buzz from the wine had turned into a mellow glow that warmed her to life and especially to Carl, who suddenly had appeared so vulnerable.
"Want to split an apple turnover with me?"
"With orange juice? Shouldn't we be having milk instead?"
"I guess you're right, but I don't think these oranges will last much longer. The apple turnovers, at least, will last till breakfast."
She continued to wash the oranges and to pass them on to Carl, who sliced and squeezed alternately.
By the time there was enough juice for two glasses, Megan had just about finished rambling on about the first day of her trip and Carl was showing some interest.
"What's your goal on this trip, Megan?"
"To see as much as I can and make friends," she said, clinking her glass into Carl's.
"To our friendship." Carl's eyes were a soft, silky blue that made Megan smile.
"Something wrong with the juice, Megan?"
Carl had just taken a swallow of juice without removing his gaze from her.
Megan felt her cheeks sting and knew she was blushing.
"No. Wait, there's a seed," she said, looking into the liquid.
"Here, let me get it out for you," he said, putting his glass on the table. His callused fingers and abraded palm encircled her hand, which was holding the glass. Smoothly he reached into a nearby drawer and pulled out a spoon. The seed bobbed as Carl immersed the spoon into the juice. Megan giggled while Carl persistently failed to scoop out the seed. She began to think he narrowly missed the accomplishment of his task on purpose as his grasp around her hand became firmer. She was warm and uncomfortable.
"A straw! That's what I need," she said, trying to find some relief from the heat of his nearness.
"I know another way."
Carl brought her hand up toward his lips so that he could take some juice from her glass. Then he lowered her hand and brought his lips to Megan's. Hypnotized by the process, Megan parted her lips. His plush lips barely touched the surface of her own when she felt a trickle of liquid pass into her mouth. Her tongue reached out to lap at the sweet, acidic flavor. His tongue penetrated, sliding across, under, and around her tongue, engaging her in a sensual duel.
After his hand released hers, she could feel the weight of the glass lighten and knew that he was taking the glass from her. Once free
of the container, her hand traveled up the length of his shirtsleeve, settling down on one broad shoulder. He pulled her close to his body and pressed her into him. She could feel the fullness of his appetite for her.
Her breath was ragged when he moved from her lips to cover her face with kisses. Her eyes shut to allow his lips to skim her lids. His mouth passed from her lids to her cheek, and then softly reached to the side to nip one of her earlobes.
What was happening? This man was old enough to be her father, but Megan didn't know how to pull away from his hold. He pressed a hand against her buttocks, making her feel dizzy and unsteady. Megan was not a virgin; however, she prided herself on not being easy. She had just met this man and would probably not see him again after tomorrow. Yet as these thoughts swam inside her head, she never attempted to stop his hands as they unknotted the cord around her waist, nor when he pulled open the robe and began exploring summits and angles of her form. Instead, she lowered her hands from his chest so that he could skim the robe from her white shoulders. The nubby material slipped across her sensitive skin, chilling her while she broiled from within.
He picked her up and carried her from the kitchen, passing by the closed bedroom door. Only briefly did Megan recall the hyacinths. Of course, he would not choose a room that reeked of the fragrance so attached to a former lover. Megan pulled closer into the strength of his embrace while she undid the buttons on his white cotton shirt. She slipped a hand across one of his nipples and sensed a shudder rippling through his muscles.
Carl placed her down upon an old frayed silk rug, which lay before the empty fireplace. As she stretched out, Megan noticed the color of the faded rug. Had it once been a deep red or a strong orange? Now it was hard to tell, since the color appeared to be a strange apricot. Had he made love with the other woman on this rug? she wondered. And why had she left such a desirable man? That thought was immediately replaced by the splendor of Carl's naked body descending upon her. She reached out to accept him, but he stopped midway to appreciate her body. She was thrilled by what she saw in his face. As he stared down, she could see the reflection of her form in his pupils. He seemed pleased and awed by what he saw. Impishly, she spread out her limbs so that he couldn't miss a curve or the secret beauty mark just under her right breast. He didn't miss it. Carl touched it, smiled, and licked it lightly with his tongue.
11 - How Long?
Beverly heard a faint scratching at the bottom of the French doors. She walked to them, pulled back the curtain, and peered down at a brown rat, its claws tapping out a call for entrance. It stopped momentarily to gnaw on a loose piece of wood.
''Sharpening your utensils for dinner, eh, you bugger?"
Her bare foot kicked the bottom of the door, frightening the rat away but causing considerable damage to her first three toes. The skin bulged out and the bones seemed to sink back into gelatinous cartilage.
Beverly squatted down until she barely felt the wooden floor beneath her. Sensations were weakening now. Her nerves, she supposed, were slowly dying. Gently she reached out to touch the damaged toes. She brought one hand up to her lips, kissed the fingers, then lowered the fingers back down to the toes.
"Make it all better," she sadly whispered.
Letting go of her toes, Beverly wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth. It was so lonely sitting in the house waiting to die. Carl hadn't told her how long it would take. The last time he had seen her, he did say that she couldn't die from a bullet, a knife, or water because she was semi-dead already. Still, he hadn't mentioned fire. Beverly's bloated face creased into fearful lines. Fire. Hardly the way she wanted to go. And what if that couldn't kill her? How would he know when she was dead? When she was nothing but bone or ash?
Beverly looked over at her brass bed and thought of the number of times Carl had shared it with her. She had known he was independent, yet it had always been difficult for him to leave her, except near the end, when she had found it impossible to read him.
How long had he been living this life? she wondered. Should he have died years ago? Did this ritual prevent his aging, or would he have died a young man, unable to do her harm?
"Why didn't you die?" she huffed, her breaths coming in short, rapid spurts.
What of that young girl she had seen him with? Was he lying with her now, memorizing her fine lines and curves? Was the child luxuriating in his passion and prowess?
Beverly reached out and pulled the Amish quilt from the bed. She brought the material to her nose and tried to find his scent, but it was already stale and rancid like the flesh falling from her bones. Holding the quilt to her cheek, she attempted to remember Carl in the beginning of their relationship, his depth, his virility, his warmth and support when she was depressed. The blues always came to her when she was in the midst of writing, but he could banish them easily with one toss on or under the quilt. She hadn't thought she could cry anymore until she saw a few salty dots settle on the material in her hand. They gave her joy in the knowledge that a part of her was still human and alive.
12 - Ladybug, Right Ankle
After the lovemaking, Carl held Megan briefly, but seemed agitated and withdrawn. Megan wondered whether he was thinking of the hyacinth woman. What had that woman been like and how did she compare to her? She knew she couldn't ask. Not then, not after the immensity of the pleasure they had shared.
Megan let her fingertips travel across his chest and marveled at the balance of his muscles. Not one was out of proportion to the others. He was certainly fit, she thought.
"You'd better get some sleep." He spoke softly and nodded toward the hallway that led to the bedroom.
"I'm comfortable here," she said, knowing he would not enter the bedroom that night, not with the hyacinth odor lingering in the room.
"You won't be in the morning when your bones are aching."
"I'm getting used to that."
"Ah, but I thought that was the reason I had enticed you to stay here." His smile was mischievous.
"Initially." She held her head coyly, wondering whether she could seduce him into another bout of love play.
"O Lord, save me from young, nimble, sexy girls."
"You don't want to be saved. You know that."
"I'm beyond salvation, Megan." His voice was sad, and Megan wondered what she had done or said. Perhaps it was too soon for him to make love again, and she was being too aggressive.
She saw his shirt lying on the floor within reach and grabbed at it.
"What are you doing?"
Demurely, Megan held the shirt up to her breasts.
"Is it okay if I put this on?"
Carl pulled the shirt from her hands, balled it up, and threw it across the room.
"I always want to see you like this. You look best undressed."
"They say most people don't."
"Neither of us is most people, Megan."
She laughed, a little self-conscious about the compliment.
"Will you really let me read your journals, Carl?"
"That would take time, and I thought you were in a hurry to move on."
"If you don't mind, I'd like to stay awhile to read about all the places you've been." And the other women you have made love with, she silently added.
"Stay, Megan." Carl ran his hand across her full, round breasts, down her flat abdomen, and across the slender hips. Her thighs held no flab. Her calves bulged from their firmness. Within Megan, there was a rising pride as she stretched out her body.
"What is that?" he asked.
"What?" She followed his gaze until she saw the small dark spot on her right ankle. "Oh, that's my tattoo. One day at school, several us went a bit loony and decided to get one. I got the smallest and least offensive. Sylvia, a friend, got a giant bridal bouquet tattooed on her left buttock. She hoped it would send a hint to her boyfriend. I think it turned him off; he dropped her soon after that."
As she was speaking, Carl had moved down to the tattoo and was fingering the
flat ladybug staining her ankle for life. Did he like it, or did he think she was goofy?
"Pretty, isn't it?" She was hoping she could sway his opinion.
Carl spread his hands up her shins and looked at her face.
"Everything about you is pretty."
She tousled his grayish-blond hair and wished he were closer to her age. If he were, would he be as enticing?
Carl started to nibble on the flesh of her abdomen, teasing her, though she was already excited.
"Yes, please," she whispered as he took her again.
Later, a sated Megan rested in Carl's bed without Carl. She was disappointed that he had chosen to go to the study at such a late hour. He claimed he had work to do, but wouldn't disclose to her what the work was.
Mary Ann Mitchell - Drawn to the Grave.html Page 6