Dominion

by Bentley Little

  He turned, caught the last of the men looking at him, and quickly sprinted down the hallway toward the exit. There’d been five men altogether, and each of them had been carrying scrolls and white cloth—just like Holbrook. Dion didn’t know if he’d been invited to a Klan meeting or what, but there was something about the situation that didn’t sit right with him, and he did not stop running until he was outside the building and on the sidewalk headed toward home.

  Pastor Robens looked out over the half-empty church. He tried to smile, though smiling was the last thing he felt like doing at the moment. Three weeks ago, when church attendance had started to drop, he’d attributed it to a flu bug that was going around. Two weeks ago, he’d blamed the playoffs. But last week, as his flock continued to dwindle, as the number of people coming to the already poorly attended fellowship fell to single digits and as the spaces between people in the pews on Sunday became bigger, he’d had to admit that there was something seriously wrong.

  He’d spent the last five days trying to nail down the problem, trying to determine what was happening. He’d gone over his notes for the past two months, looking for anything offensive he might have said in one of his sermons, something that might have driven people away, but he had found nothing. He’d even called some of the longtime parishioners who’d quit attending Sunday services and asked them if anything was the matter, if there was some reason why they had stopped coming to worship. To a person, they said everything was fine and promised to show up on Sunday.

  None of them were before him now.

  And six other churchgoers were missing.

  Pastor Robens folded his hands and smiled at the people who had shown up as the organist finished playing. His smile was false, a mask. He did not feel happy today, he did not feel at peace.

  He was worried.

  The last notes of the hymn faded.

  Pastor Robens bowed his head. “Let us pray.”

  *

  Polly Thrall gobbled the wafer and enthusiastically gulped the wine.

  Father Ibarra smiled at her, gave his blessing, and moved to the next person, Bill Bench. He looked over Bill’s head at the empty pews, then down at the double row of kneeling men and women. Overall attendance was down, but participation in communion was up.

  Way up.

  He should have been happy about that. But he wasn’t There was something about the eagerness with which his parishioners drank their small sip of wine which seemed to him sacriligious, almost defiantly so. They were performing the most holy of rituals, enthusiastically going through all of the proper motions, but there seemed something wrong about it, something blasphemous, and he found their enthusiasm both unhealthy and unchristian. They appeared to be more interested in the wine than the ritual, though that did not make any sense to him.

  Bill ate the proffered wafer, greedily swallowed the wine.

  Father Ibarra smiled, gave his blessing, and moved on.

  He didn’t like the way things were going.

  He didn’t like it at all.

  The restaurant was nothing like he’d expected. From its name, and from its stately, rustic, vaguely European exterior, Dion had imagined the Foxfire Inn to be a tastefully elegant eating establishment, a dark dining room filled with Victorian table settings, expensive chandeliers, and dimly heard classical music. Inside it was dark, all right, but file booths were covered with red and rather shabby naugahyde, and the plain walls were decorated with sportsmen’s memorabilia: moose heads, antlers, guns. Through the open doorway which led into the smoky bar, he could see neon beer signs and could hear the hyperactive jabbering of a sports announcer from a too-loud TV.

  Things were not turning out the way he’d planned.

  But Penelope was taking it all in stride. In his mind he had mapped out every moment of the evening, had practiced each intended topic of conversation, and so far nothing was occurring in the way he’d foreseen.

  The perfect romantic evening he’d envisioned was turning out to be a series of barely avoided misadventures.

  But it didn’t seem to matter. Penelope had merely laughed when he’d left his wallet at the Shell station and had to turn back for it. She’d politely ignored the fact that when he’d come to the door to say hello to her mothers, his zipper had been down. She’d registered no disappointment when she saw the inferior interior of the “nice”

  restaurant he’d promised to take her to and for which she had worn her best dress.

  The logistics of the evening had turned out to be a nightmare, but Penelope had turned out to be better than he had dared dream.

  The food, to be fair, was not bad, and they ate slowly, talking. He told her of his life, she told him of hers. Their rapport was immediate and instinctually trusting, and even though this was only their first date, Dion shared with her thoughts and feelings that he had never shared with anyone else, that he thought he would never share with anyone else. He felt he could tell her anything, and that both scared him and made him feel exhilarated.

  Two hours flew, by.

  After they’d finished eating, the busboy cleared everything but their water glasses, and their waitress returned. “Is there anything else I

  can get you?” she asked.

  Dion looked questioningly at Penelope, but she shook her head. “I guess not,” he said.

  “I’ll be back in a minute with your check.”

  Dion nodded and smiled, but as he looked at Penelope across the table, he realized that he didn’t know how much money to leave for a tip. The dinner had gone surprisingly well, much better than he had expected or had reason to hope, but he had another chance to blow it right here. If he left a tip that was too small, she would think him cheap and miserly.

  On the other hand, if he left a tip that was too large, she would think him foolish, since she already knew he wasn’t rich. But how much was too little in this instance? How much was too much?

  “I’ll get the tip,” Penelope said.

  He stared at her. It was as if she had read his mind. But he shook his head anyway. “No,” he said.

  “You paid for the meal. It’s the least I can do.” She opened her purse, took out three one dollar bills, and placed them on the table.

  Three dollars.

  Relaxing now, he picked up the bills and handed them back. “No,” he said firmly. “I’ll get it.”

  She smiled. “Macho guy.” But she put away the money.

  They had paid the bill and were halfway to the door when Dion heard a woman’s voice call out, “Young man!” He looked toward the source and saw, off to his left, an elderly woman seated alone at a small table.

  She was in her late fifties or early sixties and was wearing a tight brightly colored dress inappropriate for both her age and the era. Her dyed blond hair was frozen in an unattractive beehive, and even in the dim light he could see the thick texture of her makeup. She winked at him.

  He thought uncomfortably of his mother. It was too easy for him to see her as this old woman, alone and desperate, trying pathetically to recapture days that had long since passed her by.

  “Young man!” the woman repeated. Her voice was high, hoarse.

  Dion turned to go.

  “She’s talking to you,” Penelope said. “Go see what she wants.”

  “No. She’s talking to someone else.”

  “Young man!”

  “Go see what she wants. Be nice.”

  Dion walked across the carpeted floor of the darkened room to the old woman’s table. She was wearing no bra; he could see her large breasts and the points of her nipples beneath the tight material of her dress.

  He was disgusted at himself for noticing.

  “Sit down,” the woman said, gesturing toward the chair next to her.

  He shook his head. “We have to go.”

  This close he could smell the liquor. It hung about her table like strong, cheap perfume, permeating everything, and when she spoke it doubled in intensity. The woman grabbed his arm with bony
fingers. He saw liver spots on the wrinkled flesh beneath her bracelet. “See that fish up there?” the woman asked. She pointed to an oversize plastic marlin mounted on the wall behind him. He was aware that people at the tables nearby were looking at him, giggling. His face felt hot.

  “See that fish?”

  He nodded dumbly.

  “The owner of this restaurant caught that fish.”

  He looked toward Penelope for help, but she was merely looking at him, her face unreadable.

  “He caught that fish on the wall.”

  “Yeah,” Dion said.

  “The owner caught that fish.”

  “Well, I have to go now.” He tried to pull away.

  The woman’s grip tightened on his arm. ‘That same fish right there.

  The owner caught that fish.”

  And suddenly he wanted to smack her, to hit her in the face. The old woman continued to babble drunkenly, inanely, her eyes glued in their fixed position, her mouth open and closing like that of a ventriloquist’s dummy, and he wanted to punch her hard, to feel his fist connect with the bone beneath her skin, to hear her cry, to hear her scream as he beat her.

  The smell of the alcohol was making him dizzy. He pulled away. “That fish is plastic,” he said.

  “The owner caught that fish!” The woman sounded as though, she was about to cry. Her breasts shifted beneath her tight dress. “The owner didn’t catch that fish. That fish is plastic. And you’re drunk.” He hurried across the room to Penelope. He heard people at the tables behind him giggling.

  “He caught that fish! That same fish there!”

  “Come on,” Dion said. He took Penelope’s hand and pulled her toward the front door.

  “Have a nice night,” the hostess said as they hurried past her and outside.

  The night air was cool and crisp, fresh and clean. The sounds of the restaurant were cut off as the heavy wooden door closed behind them.

  “What was that about?” Penelope asked.

  Dion shook his head, taking a deep breath. “The old woman was drunk.”

  “I know, but I mean why did you overreact like that? I thought you were going to hit her.”

  “Did you?”

  “It looked like it.”

  “It was just … I don’t know, claustrophobia, I guess. I have a slight headache. I had to get out of there.”

  She looked concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” The cool air was already making him feel better. “I

  don’t know what came over me. I just couldn’t stay in there.” He shook his head, smiled at her. “Let’s go. It’s a school night, and I need to get you home.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Hand in hand, they walked down the sidewalk to the parking lot, the sound of their heels loud in the quiet. Dion glanced at the news rack as they passed by. >

  And stopped, holding his breath.

  On the front page of the paper was a photo of a man with a mustache.

  The man who had spent the night with his mom.

  He did not have to read the headline to know that the man had been murdered.

  “What is it?” Penelope asked.

  He realized that he was squeezing her hand, and he lessened his grip. He licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. “Nothing,” he said. He stared at the picture, thought of meeting the man in the hallway at night, thought of seeing his mother in the kitchen the next morning.

  Thought of the blood on her sleeve.

  He took a quarter from his pocket, dropped it in the machine, and opened the cover to grab a copy of the paper.

  “What is it?” Penelope asked, reading the headline. She looked at him.

  “Do you know that man?”

  Dion folded the paper, put it under his arm. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

  He led the way across the parking lot to the car.

  His mom was gone when he came home, and there was no note left for him on the refrigerator. All of the lights in the house were off, which meant that she’d left while it was still light outside, probably only a little after he had.

  He deliberately placed the paper on the front table— folded, photo up—where she would be sure to see it.

  He went to bed.

  He was half-asleep when she bustled into his room, drunk and crying, sitting down heavily on the side of his bed. He sat up. Through blurry, half-focused eyes he could see that the digital clock said one-something.

  His mom hugged him close, and he could feel beneath her blouse the softness of her body. She smelled sweetly of wine, sourly of breath, and he thought of the old woman at the restaurant. One of her hands massaged his bare back, and he tried to pull away, backing against the headboard.

  She let him go, stopped crying, and suddenly turned on him angrily.

  “What’s the matter?” she demanded, “Are you drank?”

  “No!” he said.

  “You better not be. If I ever smell alcohol on your breath, you’re out of this house. You’re old enough to take care of yourself now, and if you don’t abide by my rules, you’re gone. Do you understand me?”

  “Why?” He was getting ready to argue a position in which he did not believe, but he wanted to hurt her.

  “Because I say so. Because it’s wrong.”

  “It’s not wrong when you go out and get wasted and bring some guy home and fuck his—”

  She slapped him hard across the face, a slap as painful as it was loud.

  He angrily gathered up his covers, scooted to the opposite side of the bed. His cheek was stinging. Unwanted tears formed in his eyes.

  She sat there for a moment, inert, blank, then suddenly began crying again. She cried openly, unashamedly. Her face turned red. A torrent of tears rolled down her cheeks. A thread of saliva hung from her mouth, and she did not bother to wipe it away. “Don’t make the same mistakes I

  made.” Her words were distorted by her sobs.

  He could still feel the pain on the skin of his cheek. “If they’re mistakes, why do you keep doing them?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I could tell you. I wish I had an easy answer. But I don’t I drink. I smoke. I can’t help it. I wish I could say it was a sickness or an addiction, but it’s not. It’s something else. I don’t want to be this way, Dion. But I can’t help it.”

  He stared at her from the other side of the bed. There was an urgency to her manner that made him realize that she was not just drunk but that she’d seen his newspaper. It made him think of the man who had been murdered.

  It made him think she had been there when he’d died, *

  After Dion dropped her off, Penelope went into the kitchen for a drink of water. She could hear her mothers talking in the living room as she passed, and though she didn’t want to disturb them, wanted only to sneak upstairs and into bed, she heard Mother Margeaux call her name. She dutifully walked through the doorway to greet them.

  Mother Margeaux was standing near the fireplace. “Hello, Penelope. How was your date?”

  She shrugged. “Fine.”

  Sitting next to Mother Sheila on the couch, she saw a tall blond woman she didn’t recognize. The woman wore a short jean skirt and a tight white blouse which accentuated the fullness of her large breasts. The woman smiled at her, and Penelope looked away.

  “Where did you go?”

  “We just went out to dinner.”

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mother Margeaux smiled. “That’s good.” She looked at her watch. “We’re going to be talking a little while longer, but after our guest leaves, we want to talk about your evening.”

  “I’m tired. It’s late—”

  “It’s not that late. Take your bath and come back down.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Penelope.” Mother Margeaux’s voice indicated that she would tolerate no argument.

  “
Yes, Mother. I will.”

  Penelope retreated upstairs. She got her pajamas out of the dresser, and stole a People magazine from Mother Felice’s room, bringing it with her to read in the bathtub.

  A half hour later, she went back downstairs. She walked into the living room. The blond woman was gone, but all five of her mothers sat on the overstaffed couches, facing her in a semicircle. The arrangement was somewhat intimidating. None of her mothers were talking, none were smiling. They were all waiting patiently for her to join them. Mother Margeaux was still wearing the business suit she used when meeting potential clients, an ensemble intended to exude an aura of strength and confidence, and its message was coming through to Penelope loud and clear.

  She sat quietly down on the love seat.

  “We are going to talk about sex,” Mother Margeaux announced.

  Penelope blinked dumbly.

  “We have never had this discussion before,” Mother Margeaux continued, “although perhaps we should have had it long ago.”

  Penelope’s cheeks felt hot. She looked at her shoes, nervously playing footsie with herself. “I know all this,” she said.

  “Yes, but I don’t think you know about birth control.”

  “I already know.” She wished this agony would end.

  “Do you know about the pill? Do you know what an IUD is? A diaphragm? A

  condom?”

  “Yes,” she said miserably.

  “Well, where did you learn all this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “From school?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I just … I don’t know. From reading. Hearing people talk.”

  “Have you and Dion discussed this? Have you talked about birth control?”

  “Mother!”

  “You are a senior in high school, as is Dion. I assume you both have the natural urges universally shared by all young men and women your age.

  This means that you are probably going to have sex. Your other mothers and I simply want to know if you have talked about it.”

  Penelope looked embarrassedly away, said nothing.

  “Have you kissed him yet?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “It is our business. Have you thought about having sex with him?”

  “Look,” Penelope said. “It hasn’t gone that far. It may never go that far.”