Dominion

by Bentley Little

  “If it does,” Mother Margeaux told her, “we do not want you to use any form of birth control.”

  “What?” Penelope glanced up, shocked. She looked from one to the other, but though her mothers were smiling at her tolerantly, it was clear that they were totally serious. She felt embarrassed and confused at the same time. Disoriented. She did not know what to say or how to act.

  Mother Janine grinned. “Have you thought about his cock?” she asked.

  Penelope stared at her. She had never heard any of her mothers use profanity, aside from an occasional “hell” or “damn,” and the sound of such a base word in one of her mothers’ mouths sounded disgustingly obscene.

  “He has a big one. It’s nice and long.”

  “That will be enough,” Mother Margeaux said sternly.

  Penelope looked around the semicircle. Her mothers were not outraged, as she would have expected. They were calm, unruffled, acting as though this sort of conversation occurred every day.

  What was going on here?

  “Don’t use any contraceptives,” Mother Felice said kindly.

  Mother Margeaux and Mother Sheila nodded in agreement.

  Mother Margeaux smiled. “Invite him over,” she said. “We want you to invite him over for dinner tomorrow. We haven’t really had a chance to meet him.”

  She glanced from mother to mother, confused. One moment they were being totally crazy, the next they were behaving like typical concerned parents. She shook her head in disbelief. “Is this some kind of test or what?”

  “Test?” Mother Margeaux laughed. “Heavens, no. And we don’t mean to put any pressure on you. But, as you know, we have brought you up in an atmosphere of complete honesty and openness, and we just want to state our position at the outset. I’m sure you will agree that acknowledgement of the reality of this situation is preferable to the clandestine deceit and denial practiced by most families. You are now a woman, faced with a woman’s choices, and we recognize that fact.”

  “It’s big.” Mother Janine grinned. “His cock is big.”

  “Janine!” Mother Margeaux shot her a withering glance which wiped the smile from her face. She turned back toward Penelope.

  “Will you ask him to dinner?”

  She nodded, still too stunned to know how to react. “I’ll ask him. I

  don’t know if he’ll say yes.”

  “He will.”

  They were all silent for a moment, looking at one another.

  Penelope stood. “Is that all?”

  “Yes. You may go to bed.”

  She left the room and started up the stairs. Halfway up, she heard Mother Janine’s off-center giggle. A moment later, they were all laughing hysterically.

  Even Mother Felice.

  The house was dark when Horton arrived home. The bulb in the living room lamp attached to the timer had obviously burned out. He braille-scanned the metal contents of his key ring on the stoop of the unlit porch, feeling for the smooth roundness of the house key. He found it next to the blocky squareness of the key to his long-discarded Thunderbird, and he used it to open the door, automatically flipping on the light switch as he walked inside.

  The house smelled old and closed, of dust and dirty clothes, of previous meals. He walked across the dark shag carpet of the living room. Though the light was on, there was still a dimness about the room, a yellowed hint of shadow which stubbornly fended off all attempts at cheerfulness.

  It looked, he thought, like what it was. The home of a bachelor. Despite the fact that the rooms had been decorated by his ex-wife, that initial woman’s touch had not been updated, re’freshed or renewed, and an air of lonely maleness hung over the house. Last night’s can of Coors sat in a dried ring of condensation on the crowded coffee table next to a pile of newspapers, a stack of half opened junk mail, and an empty potato chip bag. Yesterday’s socks were balled up at the foot of the couch. The only sound in the house was the muted hum of the electric clock on the cluttered knickknack shelf above the hi-fi, and he quickly turned on the television, grateful for the noise and companionship it offered. His gaze fell upon the framed family photograph atop the TV, and as always his eyes scanned over it without looking.

  He walked into the kitchen. Taking a frozen burrito out of the freezer, he slit the plastic wrapping and popped it into the microwave. He grabbed a beer from the fridge.

  Sometimes he wished he didn’t have to eat or sleep. Sometimes he wished he could work nonstop. He hated his job, but truth be told, he hated his time off even more. At least when he was working his mind was kept busy, he had something to think about besides his own life.

  He downed the beer in three quick swallows, but he found that it wasn’t enough. He needed something stronger.

  The microwave timer rang, and he took out his burrito, dropping it on a plate and pulling off the wrapper. He opened the cupboard above the refrigerator alcove and withdrew a bottle of scotch. He thought of getting out a glass, but decided against it. He didn’t need another glass to wash.

  He sat down, ate a bite of burrito, drank a swig of scotch.

  The burrito and the bottle were finished at almost the same time.

  In the light of morning, with an all-news station reciting a litany of last night’s events on the radio, with the smell of fresh coffee permeating the kitchen, the idea that his mom could have been involved in someone’s death seemed not only far-fetched but ludicrous. He stood in the doorway, watching for a moment as his mom, her back to him, stood at the counter, spreading cream cheese on toast. If she had killed that man, he realized, she would have had to have done so between two o’clock, the time he’d met the man in the hall, and six o’clock, the time she’d come down for breakfast. She would have had to have done so without making a noise, and to have disposed of the body just as silently.

  He was thankful that his suspicions had faded. If he had still suspected his mom, he would not have known what to do. Would he have turned her in? Told the police anonymously? Confronted her? Done nothing? He did not know.

  His mom either heard him or sensed his presence, for she turned around.

  There were dark hangover circles around her eyes. She tried to smile at him but only partially succeeded. “I’m sorry about last night,” she said. She would not meet his eyes.

  He nodded silently, equally embarrassed, and busied himself looking through the refrigerator for orange juice.

  “I went out with Margaret and Janine and a few other friends after work, and I guess I had more to drink than I thought.”

  He frowned. Hadn’t she seen the newspaper? He glanced over at her. She appeared chastened, ashamed, but not to the extent that he would have expected. He cleared his throat. “That guy was murdered,” he said.

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Your friend. The guy who spent the night.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t you even read the paper?” He shook his head at her and strode purposefully out to the living room, but the newspaper was no longer on the table.

  “What did you do with the paper?”

  “What paper?”

  “The newspaper I put there last night!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It didn’t just get up and walk away.”

  “Dion—”

  “I left it there for you!”

  “Why?”

  He was angry at his mom suddenly. “Because that guy you fucked was murdered! I thought you might be at least mildly interested!”

  Her expression hardened. She advanced on him, but he backed up behind the couch. She stopped, pointing at him with a furious finger. “Don’t you ever speak that way to me again.”

  “Fine!” Dion said. “I won’t speak to you at all!”

  “Fine!”

  The two of them glared at each other for a moment. Then his mom turned and stalked back into the kitchen.

  Bitch, he thought. Fucking bitch.

&nb
sp; He went down the hall to his bedroom and slammed the door.

  Dion wiped his sweaty hands nervously on his pants and pressed the doorbell. From somewhere inside the huge house came the sound of chimes.

  A moment later, Penelope opened the door. “Hi,” she said shyly.

  He smiled. “Hi.”

  The door opened all the way, and he could see, standing behind Penelope, her mothers. The women, all of them, were wearing identical green dresses—tight dresses which accentuated their figures. He could see dark nipples through the sheer fabric, faint triangles of pentimento pubic hair, and he realized that none of the women were wearing underwear. The knowledge embarrassed him.

  Penelope too was wearing green. But her dress was looser, less revealing, and made of a different, thicker material.

  All of them were barefoot.

  He felt awkward. He was wearing blue jeans and a white shirt, with black tennis shoes, and he felt as though he had committed some type of fashion faux pas.

  “Come in,” Penelope said. “You didn’t have any trouble with the gate, did you?”

  He shook his head. “No problem.”

  “That’s good.” She smiled and gave him a private bear with-me look, then gestured behind her. “Dion, I’d like you to meet my mothers. All of them this time.” She pointed, one by one, at each of the women in line. “This is Mother Margeaux, Mother Felice, Mother Margaret, Mother Sheila, and Mother Janine.” She motioned toward Dion. “Mothers, this is Dion.”

  The women bowed to him in a strange, awkward looking half curtsy, a movement that seemed familiar to him but that he could not quite place.

  “We are very pleased that you accepted our invitation to dinner,” Mother Margeaux said. “We have been told so much about you and have been looking forward to formally meeting you.” She smiled at him, a wide white toothpaste-commercial smile that he knew was supposed to be welcoming and ingratiating but which instead made him feel slightly uncomfortable.

  “Why don’t you all go into the other room?” Mother Felice suggested.

  “You can talk for a while while I get dinner ready.”

  “We’re having lemon soup and chicken with goat cheese,” Penelope said.

  “I hope you like it. I guess I should have asked you first.”

  “it sounds delicious,” he told her, and it did.

  Mother Janine grabbed his hand and pulled him away from Penelope, leading him toward the doorway into the next room. He could feel her smooth fingers lightly pressing against his knuckles. “I’m so honored to finally meet you,” she said. “I’m so thrilled.”

  He looked back at Penelope, but she only smiled, shrugged, and followed them.

  “Do you have dreams, Dion?”

  “Everybody has dreams,” he said.

  Mother Janine laughed, a low, sultry laugh that somehow put him on edge.

  “I dreamed last night that I was a flea bathing in your blood—”

  “Janine!” Mother Margeaux said sharply.

  His hand was let go, and Penelope sidled next to him. “Sit close to me,”

  she whispered. “I’ll help you through this.”

  They walked into the sitting room.

  The dining room table was large and regal, the place settings formal.

  The room smelled of an unfamiliar odor, a scent at once organic and alien. Dion sat near the head of the table, next to Penelope. The pre-dinner conversation had been neither as awkward as he had feared nor as strange as he had expected. Penelope’s mothers had asked the usual parental dating questions, subtextually quizzing him on his intentions toward their daughter, and they seemed to be fairly pleased with his responses.

  Dinner appeared to be a different story. The moment they had stepped into the dining room, all conversation had stopped, as though they had walked through some sort of soundproof barrier, and the only noise had been the scraping of chair legs and the quiet slap of bare feet on hardwood floor.

  Now the only sound was the slurping of soup.

  Dion cleared his throat, intending to talk, if only to pay Mother Felice a generic compliment on the food, but the sound was so loud and out of place in the stillness that he immediately gave up the idea of speaking at all.

  Across the table, Mother Sheila picked up the carafe from between the twin soup tureens. “Would you like some wine?” she asked Penelope. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  The girl stared at her in surprise. “I’m not supposed to—”

  “It’s a special occasion. Besides, you’re nearly eighteen. You’re mature, responsible. I think you’re old enough to handle it.” She smiled teasingly. “You’ve lived in a winery all your life. Don’t tell me you’ve never sneaked a taste.”

  Penelope blushed.

  “I don’t think she should have any,” Mother Felice said, prim-lipped.

  Penelope smiled gratefully at her favorite mother.

  “She may have some if she wishes,” Mother Margeaux said from die head of the table.

  Mother Sheila poured Penelope a glass. “Here you go.” She looked questioningly at Dion. “Dion?”

  He shifted in his seat, feeling extremely uncomfortable. Having seen the destructive effects of alcohol close up, drinking seemed to him neither exciting nor adult. It seemed wrong and somewhat frightening. Still, he did not want to offend Penelope’s mothers. His heart was pounding. “Just a little,” he said.

  Mother Sheila smiled and poured.

  Dion took a sip. He had never tasted alcohol before, though he’d had ample opportunity to do so. It was milder than he expected and more pleasant. His mom had often left open bottles around the house, had breathed her drunken breath on him many a time, and after a while the smell alone had been enough to nearly make him gag.

  But this was good. He took another sip, a bigger one.

  The table had once again lapsed into silence. The other mothers continued to slurp their soup and drink their wine as Mother Felice went out to check on the chicken.

  Dion finished his soup and, realizing that he was the first one done, made a concerted effort to sip his Wine slowly. He emptied the glass, and Mother Sheila quickly poured him another. He did not touch it. He felt strange, queasy, slightly dizzy, and as he looked around the table at Penelope’s smiling mothers, his first thought was that he had been poisoned. They had put a drug in his wine to kill him in order to keep him away from their daughter. But that was stupid, crazy thinking, and he at least had enough sense to realize that the alcohol was affecting his thought processes, impairing his judgment.

  Was this what it felt like to be drunk? If so, he didn’t like it.

  “Have some more,” Mother Sheila said, nodding toward the untouched wineglass.

  He shook his head. His brain felt heavy, full. “No, that’s enough.”

  “Come on,” Mother Janine told him.

  He felt a bare foot rub against his leg, caress his calf.

  It was getting hard to think. He glanced at Penelope, next to him, and she looked at him and shrugged, not certain of what behavioral clues to offer, “Don’t you like our vintage?” Mother Margeaux asked him.

  He picked up his glass and obligingly took a sip. He nodded. “It’s very good,” he said.

  He took another drink. The feeling in. Ms. brain changed, and now he found that he did like it. The heaviness, the queasiness was gone, replaced by a subtle sense of exhilaration.

  Penelope’s mothers smiled at him.

  Mother Felice brought in the chicken.

  They ate the rest of the meal in silence.

  After dinner, Penelope went upstairs, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and the two of them went out to the Garden alone. The air was crisply cold, but he felt warmed by an inner fire. The alcohol, he assumed.

  He wondered if he was going to be able to drive home.

  Penelope led the way over to the same stone bench they’d sat upon the last time they’d come here/Leaning against the wall behind it, Dion saw several long sticks tipped with pi
ne cones. He frowned. Like the women’s welcoming curtsy, they too seemed familiar, though he could not quite place the reason why.

  “Your mothers are nice,” he said. His voice sounded different to himself, louder, amplified. He wondered if Penelope noticed any difference.

  She nodded. “They are. Mostly. But sometimes they’re a little strange.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll give you that one.”

  They were sitting close on the bench, and Penelope drew closer. Their hands, lying flat on the stone, were almost touching. Dion put his fingers over hers and was surprised at their warmth. He leaned to the left until their shoulders were pressed together. Not knowing what to say, not knowing if he should say anything, he put his arm around her and pulled her to him. He licked his lips to moisten them, then-bent down to kiss her.

  She was ready, and she moved up to meet him. Lips parted, tongues met, and Dion felt an immediate reaction stirring between his legs. The kissing grew more passionate. Their mouths pressed harder together, their tongues intertwining.

  Dion pulled back. “Are your … can your, uh, mothers see us here?”

  Penelope reached around his neck. “No,” she said. “Besides, they trust me.”

  Dion felt her tongue slide deeply into his mouth, and he tentatively reached around her to cup her right breast in his hand. It was small but firm, and he could feel the raised bump of her nipple. She did not push his hand away but instead leaned into him. He began massaging her, his fingers moving in slow circles, and he felt her body stiffen imperceptibly.

  His hand worked its way down to her pants.

  This time she tried to push him away. “No!” she said, but the word was muffled in their kiss.

  Dion ignored her protestation, slipped the fingertips of his left hand beneath the waistband of her jeans, touched the cool silk of panties.

  She pulled away. “No,” she said firmly, removing his hand from her waist.

  “Okay,” he said, withdrawing. His face was hot and he was breathing heavily. “I’m sorry.” His words were apologetic, but he was aware that his tone was not. Part of him was embarrassed, embarrassed at what he had tried, more embarrassed that he had been rebuffed. But another, deeper, more frightening part was angry, angry at her rejection, angry at her attitude, angry at her. He wanted to hit her, wanted to hurt her, wanted to feel the warm giving elasticity of her skin as he struck her face, wanted to slap her across the mouth until her blood ran, wanted to throw her down on the hard stone fence and take her now by force as she screamed in pain and fear and longing.