by Edward Lee
The keep gave him a high look. “You’re visiting Lockwood, huh? And just who might you be visiting?”
“The Slaviks,” Martin began, but then he thought, To hell with it. He got up to leave.
“Hold up there, buddy,” one of the guys at the bar said.
And the keep: “You’re that writer fella. Gonna marry Ann, Josh and Kath Slavik’s girl.”
“That’s right,” Martin told him. “How the hell do you know—”
“Come on back, home,” the keep invited. “Just that we’ve had some trouble with outsiders. This here’s Wally Bitner, Bill Eberhart, and Dave Kromer.”
Martin didn’t quite know how to gauge this sudden change of attitude. What the hell’s going on? “I’m Martin—”
“Martin White, that right?” Dave Kromer said.
“You’re some kind of writer, huh?” Bill Whateverhisnamewas added.
First they’re practically booting me out the door now they know my name, Martin pondered.
“Yeah, we’ve heard about ya,” the keep said. “From Kath and Josh. You kind of help Ann out with Melanie, on account of Ann’s lawyer job, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” Martin said. He wondered what else Ann’s mother had said about him. Probably nothing good. “We came up from the city today, to see Ann’s dad.”
They all nodded glumly. “Damn shame, it is,” Wally Whoever bid. “Josh is a great guy.”
“And Doc Heyd,” added the keep, “he says there’s not much hope. Poor guy. We’ll all sure miss the hell out of him.”
This was not cheerful talk. Before Martin could shift subjects, they did it for him. “Name’s Andre, by the way. Any friend of the Slaviks’ is a friend of ours. You drinking beer or hard stuff?’
“Uh, beer,” Martin faltered. Now came the dreaded question of any beer snob in a place like this. “Do you have any imports?”
“Nope. No imports. No domestics either.”
What else is there? Martin thought.
“We got LL,” the keep said.
“That’s one even I’ve never heard of.”
“Lockwood Lager. Can’t get any fresher—I make it right here, right in back.”
A local microbrew, Martin thought. This was unique. In a place like this he’d have expected the cheapest, and worst. “Pour me one,” he said.
“No bullshit here either,” Andre said. “I grow my own hops and barley. Age each keg about sixty days. And I won’t sell to the other towns—let ’em have their piss. I make our own vodka, scotch, and gin too.”
Andre set the mug down. Martin reached for his wallet, but Andre put his big hand up. “No way, friend. That there’s a tin roof.”
“A tin roof?”
“Yeah, man. It’s on the house.”
Andre and his three locals broke out laughing.
Martin took a sniff and a sip. A full, robust taste, very malty without being sweet or overpowering. “My compliments to the brewmaster. This is great. You ought to bottle it, you’d make a killing.”
“Not my speed,” Andre said. “Ann’s mom, Kath, you probably know she’s kinda like the mayor here, and none too keen on alcohol. That’s why there’s no package store in town. I been brewin’ fifteen kegs a month for the last fifteen years. That does us just fine.”
This beer really was good; Martin was amazed. A brewmaster of Andre’s skill could become a millionaire in today’s U.S. microbrew market. In the back, Martin noticed wooden, not aluminum, kegs, and an ice line instead of a keg cooler. When it came to authenticity, Andre didn’t fool around.
“Yeah, Ann, she’s a great gal,” Andre went on. “I knowed her kind of when she was growing up. Real smart.”
Wally Whatever offered, “She’s a real legend around here. Most Lockwood gals, they stick home. We’re all rootin’ for Ann out there in the big city.”
“We truly hope that things work out for yawl,” added Bill Whateverhisfuckingnamewas.
“Thanks,” Martin said. He continued to survey the bar as he drank. There was no falseness here: this was a place where the working class came to drink when they were done in the fields. There were no Bud Light clocks, no Beefeater coasters, and none of the phony bar eclecticism found in the city. The Crossroads was real. Just a roof, some stools, and a bar. Martin didn’t even notice a cash register in the place.
Andre looked about fifty but in good shape; in fact, all of them did—physicalities and demeanors honed by lifetimes of hard, honest work. Andre wore jeans, a black T shirt, and a buck on his belt. He had wiry hair and a big friendly face, but a hardness about him too, like you could sock a 20 sledge right into his barrel chest, and all it would do was piss him off. Martin set aside his first impression. He liked this place, and he liked these people.
“You guys all from around here?” he asked.
“Aw, no,” Andre answered. “We all just kind of found our ways here, and Kath, she gave us a break. Me, I had a little trouble down South”—he chuckled—”so Kath, bless her, she gives me the job right off, and a place to live to boot. Same story for all of us pretty much. Bill here, he does engine work, and Wally runs a thresher.”
This was odd, though. Martin couldn’t figure it. If they’d been local, that would be different—localities were adhesive. But why would men like this, with serviceable skills, come to a town like Lockwood? The farmland was small, and Martin doubted that Bill Whateverhisnamewas was fixing more tractors here than he could in a big farm belt.
“I work for Micah Crimm,” the guy named Dave said. He laughed. “He’s the fire chief, and I’m the fire department. Hang around awhile, the rest of the boys’ll be in shortly. We’ve all been wantin’ to meet ya.”
“I will,” Martin accepted. He finished his LL, and Andre poured him another. “I haven’t even been here a day, and already I’m starting to really like this town of yours.”
«« — »»
Melanie strolled the outer residential streets. This was so different from the city. Quiet, peaceful. The woods ran opposite Hastings Street; she could hear crickets, a sound like waves. Small, neat houses stood off the road; a few even sat up in the woods. There was no traffic, no commotion, just tranquil twilight.
Melanie couldn’t picture herself ever living here; it was too far away from things. But she liked visiting, she liked the change. Melanie never really understood why her mother didn’t like to bring her here. Lockwood was almost like a different world.
“Hi. You’re Melanie, right?”
Melanie stopped. At first she didn’t even see who’d said it. What were they doing there, standing in the dark?
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“We’ve heard all about you,” came another, younger voice. “You’re the Slaviks’ granddaughter.”
The darkness at the edge of the woods seemed misty. The two girls looked like slowly forming ghosts. “My name’s Wendlyn,” one of the shapes said. “And this is Rena.”
Melanie squinted.
Rena looked younger. She was willowy, slim, and nearly breastless, while Wendlyn had a bosom that made Melanie slightly jealous. They wore plain pastel-ish sundresses and sandals. Both had hair the same light brown as Melanie’s, but Wendlyn’s was short, and Rena’s hung perfectly straight down past her waist.
“Your mom’s a lawyer, right?”
“Yeah, she just made partner,” Melanie responded, though she still didn’t quite understand that. It sounded to her that partners made more money but did less work.
“Rena’s mom’s a nurse. She’s staying at your house to look after your grandpop,” Wendlyn informed. “My mom runs the general store on Pickman Avenue.”
“What do your dads do?” Melanie asked.
“Mine died,” Wendlyn said.
“Mine ran off,” Rena said.
“So did mine, but my mom’s going to marry—”
“Martin,” Wendlyn cut in. “He’s a novelist or something, isn’t he?”
“Poet,” Melanie replied. But who were these girls?
She’d never met them before—yet they knew all about her. They seemed nice, though. In the city, people never went out of their way to be nice.
They began walking down the street. “What grades are you in?” Melanie inquired.
“I’m in eleventh, like you. Rena’s in ninth. There aren’t many girls our age in Lockwood.”
“What about boys?” Melanie asked.
Both girls laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Come on,” Wendlyn cut in. She took Melanie by the hand and led her into an opening in the trees. Melanie was too startled to object. The darkness cloaked her yet somehow she could see the path’s outline quite well in the starlight. Soon they led her into a cramped, moonlit grove.
“This is our place,” Rena said.
“No one knows about it,” Wendlyn added.
Melanie still didn’t know what was going on. The two girls sat down on a log.
“Sit down. We don’t bite.”
Again, both girls laughed.
Melanie sat down on a log opposite them. “How come you laughed when I asked about guys?”
“There really aren’t any,” Wendlyn said. Rena bent over, digging at something. “Most of the men are old, married, or they just work their jobs. No one our age.”
“Except Zack,” Rena said.
For the third time, both girls, inexplicably, laughed.
“Come on, what’s so funny?”
“Zack’s nineteen. He’s the janitor for the church.”
“He lives there,” Rena added.
What was she digging at?
“He lives at the church?” Melanie questioned. “What about his parents?”
“He doesn’t have any. He’s, like, an orphan or something. Your grandmother sort of adopted him, took him in. She’s done that with a lot of the guys in Lockwood. Likes to help people in need.”
“You’ll meet Zack.” Rena giggled. “You’ll like him. He’s hung like a horse.”
“Rena!” Wendlyn objected.
Melanie blushed slightly. If she knows that, she must’ve… She couldn’t help but put two and two together. She felt odd. She’d only just met these girls, yet for some reason she did not feel too inhibited to ask the next question. “Have you ever done it with him?”
“Bunch of times,” Rena admitted. “We both have. Zack’s our toy.”
Toy? Melanie thought.
Rena had lifted up a big flat rock. There was a hole underneath, and from the hole she had extracted a cigar box. Next, her face glowed orange for a moment—she was lighting a cigarette, or a joint.
Wendlyn passed it over. “Try some. It’s leahroot.”
Melanie’d never heard of it. Leahroot? “What, is it like pot or something?”
“No, it’s an herb. It gives you a good buzz, but it doesn’t make you stupid like pot. My mom grows it behind the store.”
It looked like pot to Melanie, which she’d only done twice, and didn’t like. Pot gave her tunnel vision and made her eat like a pig. But when the smoke wafted over, it smelled nice. It smelled sort of like cinnamon.
She took a light drag. In a moment she felt woozy, relaxed.
“See?” Wendlyn said.
“Have you ever done it?” Rena asked.
“What, this stuff? I’ve never even heard of it.”
“No, I mean have you ever gotten laid?”
“Rena! That’s none of your business,” Wendlyn scolded.
“I say she hasn’t.”
“Rena, shut up!”
“That’s all right,” Melanie said, and it was. She felt good now, and she liked Wendlyn and Rena. “And to answer your question, no, I haven’t.”
“That’s good,” Rena said. “You shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause you’re special,” Wendlyn said.
Special? Melanie thought. What did that mean? Their comments were so odd, but just as odd, Melanie didn’t care. “I could have a couple times, but I was afraid. You know, AIDS and herpes and all that.”
“We don’t worry about stuff like that here,” Wendlyn said.
What a crazy thing to say. Were these girls stupid? She must mean they use condoms.
Melanie took another drag. Now she felt really good. The buzz titillated her. What had they called the stuff? A pleasant heat seemed to caress her chest.
“Feel it?” Rena asked.
“Yeah,” Melanie said.
The moon felt cool on her face. She could not account for the beat of thoughts that next filled her mind, nor the feelings. She looked at the two girls sitting across from her. They were looking back, grinning at her in the moonlight.
“I have to go,” Melanie said.
“We know,” Wendlyn replied.
“My mom’ll get pissed if I m late.”
“See you tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure.” Melanie rushed off. She could not define her feelings. As she wended down the path, she could hear Wendlyn and Rena laughing.
—
Chapter 14
“Dooer, dooer,” croaked the voice.
Wet lips sipped from the cup. The cup looked full of blood.
Shadows hovered. Firelight flickered on the earthen walls and she sensed a great heat.
“Dooer,” she heard, and then distant, soft singing.
Women…singing.
The emblem, same as that upon the cup, seemed huge behind the shadows, as if suspended in the air.
The flurry of hands roved over sweating skin, stroking the tight, distended belly. Hot mouths licked off rivulets of perspiration; she felt milk being sucked from the painfully swollen breasts. Then voracious tongues trailed up her legs, up her thighs to the radiating, wet inlet to her womb.
Her orgasm jolted her, followed by a string of smaller yet longer ones. It felt as though every inch of exposed flesh was either being caressed, licked, kneaded, or sucked. Beyond she noticed other shadows, which seemed to be men. Men, watching before a stoked fire. Forms of other figures seemed to squirm on the dirt floor, naked, coupling legs wrapped around backs, faces buried between legs.
“Dooer, dooer,” she heard again as her own orgasms pulsed down and the contractions began to throb.
“Join us.”
Two hands formed a basket between her legs. Squeals rose, in joy, in awe. The great, gravid belly shuddered, pulsed, shuddered, then collapsed very quickly. She felt something leaving, pushed from the womb into open air. Wet and stirring, the baby was held aloft. It began to cry at once.
The hands and mouths came away. Dozens of eyes looked up at the newborn.
The eyes were wide, glittering.
Staring up as if in reverence.
«« — »»
Ann churned awake. The bedroom’s dark felt like a crushing weight, a blanket of hot, wet cement. She lurched up.
The clock read 4:12 a.m.
The nightmare, she thought. Again.
Martin snored faintly beside her. He’d come home late, enthusing about his excursion to Lockwood’s only bar. “What a great bunch of guys,” he’d said. “You’ll never meet people like that in the city. Real people, you know? They have their lives and they live them in their own honest way.”
He rambled on happily, not drunk, just feeling good. It pleased Ann to see him so happy. It was hard for him here, she knew, in a place so different from the world he was used to, especially with the shadow of her mother’s cynicism constantly over his head. “It’s strange,” he’d gone on. “I’ve been here a few times in the past, but for some reason it’s different now. I wouldn’t even mind living here, to be honest. I feel at peace here.”
He’d made love to her when they’d gone to bed. She’d straddled him, touching herself between their hips. She’d wanted so badly to come with him, but as usual it hadn’t happened. She’d had to pretend again. Thank God he didn’t know.
The nightmare haunted her now. Its crisp images and vivid heat seemed to linger in the dark. When she got up, her sex tingled�
�the giveaway that she’d come in her sleep. How could she know so little about herself? She felt desperate without Dr. Harold. The dream’s scenario always roved like a camera lens, escalating to perversion. Why? What had Melanie’s birth proposed to Ann’s subconscious? Rampant lesbianism. Orgies beneath the birth table. Occult undertones, and that cryptic warped double circle.
She crept out of the room and closed the door. A faint beeping unbalanced the dead silence of the house. She peeked in on her father. Milly Godwin, the nurse, had dozed off in a chair with a book in her lap. A Lifepak heart monitor blipped green, rather slowly. Her father lay still beneath the sheets.
Next, she peeked into Melanie’s room at the other end of the house. Melanie’s bed was empty, but a quick glance up showed her daughter standing before the high, narrow window, gazing out.
“Melanie? Are you okay?”
At first her daughter didn’t respond.
“Melanie?”
She turned very slowly. Like Ann, her nightgown stuck to her from sweat. Her eyes looked glazed.
“Mother,” she said.
“What, honey?”
“The moon is pink.”
«« — »»
What had she been dreaming?
She’d been smoking that weird stuff with Wendlyn and Rena. Yeah, they’d been smoking that stuff—Leahroot—and they’d been looking at her, and there was something about that, wasn’t there? Something about the looks on their faces. Something…knowing.
Melanie knew too, but she didn’t admit it to herself. How could she imagine such a thing? So she’d left abruptly, hadn’t she? Yes, she left Wendlyn and Rena in their little hidden moonlit grove, and she’d gone home. She’d gone home and gone to bed.
And in bed she dreamed.
She dreamed of the little grove again. In the dream she was still there, with Wendlyn and Rena, smoking that stuff. But it hadn’t been like before.
“Yeah, Zack’s cock is almost ten inches,” Rena was saying.
“We made him measure it once,” Wendlyn came in.