Dominion

by Bentley Little

  He realized that his fists were clenched, and he unclenched them. He shook his head to clear it.

  What was happening to him?

  Penelope stood up, straightened her hair and her T-shirt. “It’s getting late,” she said.

  Dion nodded, and the two of them walked back inside.

  All of the mothers walked with them to the door to say goodbye. Dion thanked them for a wonderful time.

  “Why don’t you come back next Saturday?” Mother Janine asked sweetly as he took his keys out of his pocket.

  He looked at Penelope, who looked away. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

  Penelope closed the door to the bathroom and locked it. She felt tike crying. Life was so unfair! She pulled down her pants and unrolled a foot or so of toilet paper, which she doubled and used to take out her maxi-pad. Why the hell did she have to have her period now? She wrapped up the pad and dumped it in the garbage.

  She remembered the way Dion’s hand had felt on her breast, the way his tongue had felt in her mouth, the way his erection had felt against her thigh. She had wanted him then, and when his fingers had slipped inside her pants she had wanted them to get in all the way, had wanted to feel his fingers touch her vagina.

  Why had her period come now?

  She looked down at the soak of red blood through white tissue paper.

  Although she hated the fact that she had to have a period at all, hated the pain and discomfort, the accompanying pimples and mood swings, the blood itself didn’t bother her. Of the entire ordeal, in fact, it was only the changing of the pads she enjoyed.

  She saw a smear of crimson on the tip of her index finger, and she put it to her nose. The blood smell made her invigorated, almost excited.

  She felt like going out and raping Dion right now.

  She sat down on the toilet, feeling a little lightheaded.

  She shouldn’t have touched that wine. It was making her behave strangely, making her think weird thoughts.

  She stood, took out a new pad, affixed it to her panties. Before pulling them up, she breathed deeply, inhaling the musky fragrance. She touched her breast, remembering how Dion’s hands had felt through the thin T-shirt cotton. For a moment there, when she had made him stop, it had seemed as though he had almost wanted to hit her, to force her to comply to his wishes.

  And for a moment, a brief moment, she had wanted him to do just that.

  Dion pressed down on the gas pedal as he drove away from the winery.

  There was a burning in his crotch as he sped down the darkened rural road toward home, a painful aching that demanded to be released. He was hard, extraordinarily so, but there was no pleasure in it. Rather, the feeling was one of extreme discomfort. His penis seemed supremely sensitive, and each turn of the steering wheel caused his erection to chafe against his underwear. It hurt, but at the same time it made him stiffer.

  The pressure on his penis increased as he pushed farther down on the gas pedal, hurrying, speeding up, desperately anxious to get home.

  He thought of Penelope, thought of the way her panties had felt against his fingers, the cool silk and smooth skin soft to his touch.

  His erection throbbed.

  He couldn’t take it anymore. He swerved off the side of The road, shoved the gear shift into Park, and fairly threw himself out of the car, leaving the engine running. He lurched into the bushes as he frantically unbuckled his belt, ripped open the button fly of his Levi’s, and grasped his engorged organ. He held it hard and began pumping, his hand sliding quickly up and down the shaft.

  He came almost immediately, a shower of thick, milky white semen falling on dirt and dead leaves.

  He kept stroking his penis until it hurt, but he could not come again.

  His erection, however, remained as hard as ever.

  Oh, God, he thought. There really was something wrong with him. He needed some kind of help. Medical or psychological or both or … He bent over and threw up into the bushes, his throat and stomach working in sickening tandem, clenching and unclenching until there was nothing left to disgorge.

  He wiped his mouth and walked slowly back to the car, buttoning his pants, buckling his belt. He had not cried, had not felt like crying in … he didn’t know how long. Years, probably. But now he got into the car, locked the doors, made sure the windows were closed, and leaned his head against the steering wheel.

  He sobbed like a baby.

  “Miss. Daneam?”

  Penelope turned around. Her eyes quickly scanned the crowded school hallway looking for the owner of the voice before locking on Mr.

  Holbrook, standing in the open doorway of the teachers’ lounge. He beckoned her over. She gave Vella a quick look of apology, then walked over to where the mythology teacher stood.

  “Penelope,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Penelope.” He stretched the word out, rolled it on his tongue. “A good name. A classical name.”

  “Yes, I know. Penelope was Odysseus’ wife.” She looked impatiently back toward Vella.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know the origin of your last name, would you?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid my family was never big on geneology.”

  “Were your ancestors Greek by any chance?”

  She shrugged. “Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just curious. The real reason I called you over is because I was wondering if you were related to the Daneams of Daneam Vineyards?”

  She nodded. “It’s my family’s business.”

  “I had some of your wine the other night. Remarkable stuff. Very interesting indeed. I was wondering if perhaps you could arrange a tour of the winery for me.”

  “We don’t give tours.” She frowned. “And how did you get a bottle of our wine? It’s not sold around here.”

  “A friend of mine, a lady friend, let me try it.”

  “How did she get it?”

  “I believe she bought it at the liquor store.”

  “Here? In Napa?”

  He nodded. “I think so.”

  “That’s strange. I’ll have to ask my mother about that.”

  Mr. Holbrook smiled. “Do you think you could ask about a tour at the same time?”

  “I’m sorry. We don’t give tours.”

  “Just thought I’d ask.”

  Penelope looked at him. “This isn’t going to affect my grade, is it?”

  He chuckled. “No,” he said. “You have the same C-minus you’ve always had.”

  “What?”

  “Just joking.” He laughed. “Don’t worry. You and Dion both have easy A’s.”

  “Well, bye, then.” She backed away from the door.

  “See you in class.”

  Penelope walked back across the now not so crowded hallway. Weird, she thought. Just plain weird. What was that all about? Did he want to meet one of her mothers? That was the only thing she could think of. Why else would he be acting like that? She tried to imagine Mr. Holbrook with Mother Margeaux or with Mother Janine but could not do so without laughing.

  “What is it?” Vella asked, stepping up to her.

  “He wanted to take a tour of the winery.”

  “Why?”

  Penelope shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to meet my mom.”

  She and Vella both laughed as they headed toward fourth period.

  Mel Scott drove home after work instead of going straight to the hospital. It was stupid, he knew, and completely illogical, but he wanted to change before he went to see Barbara. She would not care what he wore, she would not even know, but dressing up for her made him feel as though everything was back the way it was supposed to be, as though Barbara was still alive.

  Not that she was dead. She was comatose, had been so for the past nine months, but she was still alive, and the doctor said there was a slim chance she could come out of it one of these times.

  Although the possibility of that occurring grew slighter every day.
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  She had been hit on a Friday afternoon while walking home from work, a drunk driver ignoring a stop sign and not seeing her as she crossed a corner. He’d plowed into her from behind, and she had bounced over the hood before cracking her head on the asphalt, the blood staining one of the white crosswalk lines so badly that it had to be painted over.

  She was lucky she hadn’t died.

  Ironically, after the trial, after the man had been sentenced to fifteen years without the possibility of parole, Mel had turned to drink himself, and though he made sure he never drove drunk, he had often been intoxicated while visiting his wife in the hospital.

  He wondered if she knew that.

  Lately, he had switched from whisky to wine, and while this should have been an improvement, should have sharply reduced his intake of alcohol, for some reason he’d also begun drinking more. A lot more. He now found himself drinking wine not only after work and after dinner, but during dinner, for lunch, and, even more recently, for breakfast. He just couldn’t seem to get enough of the stuff.

  - This morning he’d even poured a dash of it into his pancake batter.

  He had thought about that all day. Part of his mind rationalized this latest act, told himself that it was no different than the cooking sherry Julia Child seemed to pour over everything, but another part of him warned that this was not ordinary behavior. This was obsessive behavior, addictive behavior.

  But he felt no compunction to stop.

  Amazingly enough, none of this had affected his performance at work, although even if it had, he was pretty well insulated from possible repercussions. He had less than a year to go until retirement, and the review and dismissal process would take at least that long—if it even got off the ground, which was a long shot for someone with his seniority and his well-publicized problems.

  At home, Mel took a shower, combed his hair, and put on his suit. He drove to the hospital, waved to the doctors and nurses in his wife’s wing, and went into her room.

  Her status was unchanged. As always, he felt a second’s flash of disappointment He’d known she would be unmoving, in exactly the same position on the bed, with exactly the same expression on her face, but part of him always hoped that there would be some response as he opened the door, that she would be sitting up groggily as he entered and ask where she was and what had happened, that she would be waiting for him with open arms.

  She was lying prone, however, tubes and sensors in place, machines and oxygen tanks flanking her bed.

  He patted his coat pocket. This past week he had taken to bringing a bottle with him to visit Barbara, a flask. He knew it was pathetic, the act of a pitiful, desperate man, but he needed the support. The nurses and doctors had objected when they’d found out, warning him about hospital regulations, but their protestations were perfunctory. They knew how much he cared about Barbara, they could see the toll this was taking on him, and they understood, even if they did not condone.

  He was under a lot of pressure.

  His hand found the flask and he pulled it out. He made sure no one was in the hallway outside the door and quickly downed the entire contents.

  He sat down on his chair next to the bed and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the wine do its work. When he opened his eyes again, Barbara looked changed. The hospital surroundings and medical paraphernalia now seemed extraneous, fake, and she appeared to him to be merely sleeping.

  “Barbara?” he called softly.

  She did not answer.

  He swallowed back the tears he could feel approaching. She was not merely sleeping. She was in a coma. A deep coma. And she might never come out of it.

  “Barbara?” he said again. He touched her cheek, felt warmth there but no life. He looked at the wall, tried to think of what he would have for dinner, tried to think of the assignments he had to complete at work tomorrow, tried to think of anything that would keep the tears at bay.

  He wished he’d brought another bottle.

  A lone tear escaped from underneath his eyelid and rolled halfway down his craggy cheek before he wiped it away. He sat there, unmoving. A

  moment later, the mood passed.

  Grateful, he held Barbara’s hand and, as always, told her of his day. He described to her the minutiae which made up his life and shared with her the thoughts and feelings he would have shared had she been at home with him and cooking dinner. His mind filled in what would have been her responses, and it was almost like having a real conversation.

  He stroked her hand as he talked. He continued stroking her hand even after he had run out of things to say.

  He thought of all the times that hand had stroked him.

  He smiled. They had not done it all that much the last few years. They’d still loved each other, perhaps more than they ever had, but the sex thing seemed to have died down for both of them. They’d done it only infrequently in the past decade, and even then it had not always worked.

  But he’d discovered recently how much he missed that part of their relationship. In bed alone, he remembered their early years together, when they had done it almost every night—and when she had continued to please him even when it was her time of the month.

  He’d masturbated a lot lately.

  He held Barbara’s hand and looked at her face. Her slightly parted lips looked wet, full. Inviting.

  He closed his eyes. What was he thinking? What the hell was wrong with him? He let go of her hand. It was the wine. He’d had too much of it today. It was starting to get to him.

  He opened his eyes, looked again at Barbara’s moist lips, and felt a stirring in his groin.

  He stood up and, as if underwater, walked across the room and closed the door. He turned back toward the bed. The tubes were in her nostrils, he thought. She would still be able to breathe.

  And of course she would want him to be happy.

  No. This was crazy.

  He stood for a moment next to the bed, staring at her familiar face. He could feel his erection growing. He was hard, painfully so.

  He pulled down his pants, crawled on top of her.

  He heard the door to the room open behind him. He heard the nurse’s gasp. “Mr., Scott!” she yelled.

  But his penis was already in her mouth, and he was thrusting.

  Penelope was standing alone in the main hallway of the school. Only the school was empty, abandoned, the bare floor covered with the dust of age. It was night, and only a thin sliver of moonlight shone through the boarded windows, but it was enough to-show Dion that Penelope was naked.

  And that she was robbing herself.

  As he watched from the shadows, there came a growing, insistent flapping, like the sound of birds taking off or a helicopter landing.

  The sound grew, intensified, and from the blackness behind Penelope he saw a shifting shape emerge, descending downward through the color spectrum, growing lighter, grayer, white, a huge fluttering, whirlingly ill-defined creature that he identified to his horror as a monstrous swan. Even in the dark he could see pliant lips on an orange, ungiving bill, calculating human eyes within the tangle of feathers above. As if on cue, Penelope stopped fingering herself and dropped to her hands and knees, waiting on all fours.

  Behind her, Dion could see the swan’s massive penis.

  Penelope arched her back, baring her buttocks for the swan, which mounted her from behind. She screamed once, loudly, a horrible cry of agonized pain, and then the feathers were flying, the swan disintegrating in a rain of white which floated down on Penelope as a baby gruesomely pushed its way out of her exposed forehead, the skin below her hairline ripping, breaking open in a wash of blood that rolled cleanly off the emerging infant.

  The baby smiled at him, pulling the remainder of its body from Penelope’s head as she fell onto her side. “Father,” the baby said in a voice like thunder. “Son.”

  Dion awoke feeling strange. He sat up. The bottom half of his body seemed different, unfamiliar, as though it belonged to someone else. He close
d his eyes for a moment, opened them again. He found that he was afraid to move his legs, afraid they might not work, afraid they might work in ways to which he was not accustomed.

  He turned his head to look out the window. Outside it was still dark.

  From this vantage point he could see the rounded silhouette of the hill, backlit by the moon.

  He looked immediately away, frightened.

  What the hell was happening to him?

  He didn’t know, and it was a long time before he fell back asleep.

  Kevin and Dion walked past the school bus on their way to the parking lot. It had rained earlier in the day and the ground was wet, the sidewalk’s ostensible flatness belied by a series of off-center puddles.

  “You know,” Kevin said, “ever since you two got together, you don’t do shit with me anymore. Not that I miss having to drag your sorry ass around, but—”

  A paper cup filled with ice was thrown from one of the bus windows and landed on the sidewalk to Kevin’s right. “Pussy!” a boy’s voice called out.

  “Don’t tell me your problems!” Kevin shot back. He reached down, picked up the smashed cup, and threw it at the side of the bus. It hit with a wet splat.

  Dion laughed.

  “So what are you plans for tonight?”

  Dion shrugged. “I don’t have any.”

  “You’re not doing anything with Penelope?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So take a night off. We’re going to pay a visit to Father Ralph again.

  Paul’s been grounded for the past week, so this time he’s really going to get back at his old man. It should be great.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Come on, don’t be a flit.”

  Dion grinned. “Flit?”

  Kevin nodded. “Flit.”

  “Okay.” Dion laughed. “You talked me into it.”

  They met again at Burgertime. A guy Dion didn’t know had brought his van, so all six of mem could fit into it. This time there was a bottle in the car, and Paul lit up a joint. Dion frowned. Was it his imagination or did all of them seem a little wilder than usual, a little more on edge? The joint was offered to him, and he shook his head firmly.