"Good Lord, no. That's not what I meant."
"Besides, Mr. Lockhart's business is none of ours."
"True. True. Still, if something happened to him. He's the first real luck we've had in a long time, my girl." Lamont rarely called Velma his girl, but when he did she felt like a 19 year old again, young and fresh faced, eager for the years ahead.
Velma moved a little uneasily in her chair. She went silent, not willing to extend the conversation about Mr. Lockhart any more than necessary. Instead, she tuned her ears for the tenant's stealthy movements as he would return to the house and to his room. She could hear him, she was sure of it. The front room door was closed to keep out any lingering fog and keep the warmth of the fireplace trapped with them. Yes, there were the footsteps now, going up the stairs. He was back.
The sounds escaped Lamont's hearing, for he was already continuing his talk. "It's not safe for decent folk to be out in this weather on this kind of night, Christmas season or not. Unless of course something has to be done that can't wait until tomorrow, I guess." Lamont looked to Velma for her approval, but she had resumed to looking at the fire. He was on a roll and was determined to work through these thoughts.
"I've a right good mind to say something to him about it. He should be warned that the streets aren't safe, not to mention that terrible Hangman. That monster would make quick work of someone like Mr. Lockhart --"
"Lamont Barnes, you shut that talk up right now!" Velma said, her volume low but her words full of fury. It came on quickly, and it startled the man. "I'm sorry, Lamont. I'm sorry, dear. I guess I'm on edge too, but I just don't want to think the worst. Besides, I think I heard him go up to his room just now."
She wondered if he'd actually gone to his room or to the experiment room as he now called it. Lamont had moved on already.
"It would be quite a fright to run into someone like the Hangman in the fog, you know?" Lamont's words had an almost pleasant tone to them, as if the thought thrilled him in some way.
Velma shook her head and rose from her chair. Why couldn't they talk about the kind of things they talked about before this Hangman nonsense... before Mr. Lockhart arrived?
Lamont returned to his paper and Velma moved about the room quietly, putting a few things away. She would have to get supper ready for Lamont and her. She thought she would make grilled cheese sandwiches and heat up the remainder of the vegetable soup she had canned. They were Lamont's favorites, especially on a dreary night such as this one. Comfort food, he called it.
But instead of heading into the kitchen to get supper underway, in a sudden pivot of thought and movement, opened the door and stepped into the darkened hallway. It was quiet and she stood still, as still as possible in the shadows and listened.
At first, there was nothing to hear. But then, slowly her ears picked up on the sounds of someone moving gently around the upstairs room directly above her. Mr. Lockhart's bedroom. She tried to figure out what he was doing but it was too difficult, given the cadence of his steps.
A few moments later, she heard him open his bedroom door. The stairs soon creaked thereafter. He was on his way up to the experiment room. From what she could tell, he hadn't spent much time in that room for almost two weeks. Well, perhaps a little less than two weeks, she quickly corrected herself.
It seemed utterly strange to her that he would choose such a cold and clammy night to work in a room that had little to no warmth to carry out his experiments.
In the dark, her eyes barely adjusting, she reached for a chair in the hallway, positioned right outside the front room and took a seat. She felt exhausted, as if she had gone a great distance and was finally at the end of her travel.
Lamont was right: Mr. Lockhart brought a great deal of luck to their home. He showed up at their most dire moment. She would never forget that.
And Mr. Lockhart had awakened or reactivated something in her that she thought had long since left her. She could never forget that.
As Velma sat there, she thought what it would mean for them -- for Lamont and her -- when Lockhart did finally leave. It would mean financial ruin for them, almost certainly. Mr. Lockhart remaining with them would mean continued prosperity. If she could continue keeping him content, perhaps he would stay indefinitely, giving them security and stability.
Maybe that was why she had been so quick to give herself to him those times. It was a way to try and keep him here. Was it? She shook her head in the darkness, just wanting to forget those things.
Velma found herself thinking of Mr. Lockhart's money. He never received letters or packages in the mail, yet he had income. Perhaps he drew money out of the bank when he went out from time to time during the day. It was rare, but perhaps that was the sole purpose of those daylight excursions.
Her mind began to swing from Mr. Lockhart to another: The Hangman. Such a bizarre name for a killer. But there was a sense of justice in the name. The hangman was the one who brought justice in the end. Certainly such a killer with such a name would reach a point where his murderous quest for justice would finally be over? That he would have finished his efforts once and for all?
She shifted her thoughts back to Mr. Lockhart. It was such good fortune that he seemed so happy with the rooms, his landlord and landlady. He had absolutely no good reason to ever leave, she thought.
Velma stood from the seat, trying hard to shake the terrible sense she had of both discomfort and worry. She felt for the door handle and opened the door to make her way to the kitchen.
When they had purchased the house, Velma took it upon herself to renovate the basement. She turned it into a clean area, whitewashing it and with Lamont's help, moved in a gas stove, a black iron and polished steel number.
The gas stove was large, almost as large as some of the gas stoves they had used when employed.
Velma set down the lantern she used in the space on the thick wooden table where she prepared food and placed her bowls, dishes, cups and other kitchen utensils.
She turned on the gas and blew out the lantern. Lighting the gas rings, she placed a frying pan on the stove. As she stood up, she thought she saw Mr. Lockhart standing there, fully nude. She gasped, only to find nervous relief in that it was just her imagination playing tricks on her with the abundance of shadows in the room.
What was his secret, she asked herself. What was the reason for his peculiar behavior? Why did he seem to have an almost hypnotic effect on her at times, especially those times when she found herself sexually helpless at his touch?
Her thoughts turned to Mr. Lockhart's bag, the one that he kept locked up in the chiffonier. She suspected that her tenant had not only removed the bag, but he had taken it out with him into the fog. She shuddered at how she sensed such a thing, how she *knew* such a thing.
She pushed the thought of Mr. Lockhart's bag away forcibly in her mind and went back to thoughts of his income and how little hassle he gave them. He was odd, no doubt about it, but that oddness worked in their favor, for if he were of a normal sort, the chances he would take up a room in an area of Charleston that was predominantly black, well, those were slim to none in this day and age. Chances would have been he'd find a nicer locale in the more affluent parts of the city, or with a friend from his own social standing.
With these thoughts bouncing around in her head, Velma went about cooking: slicing the cheese, shredding it, adding butter, very precisely and very neatly.
As she toasted the bread for the melted cheese, she heard the sounds that made her heart begin to beat fast, filling her stomach with nervous dread:
Those shuffling, stealthy steps, creaking down the stairs. At once, Velma looked up and listened with all her might.
Surely Mr. Lockhart wasn't going to go out into the cold, fog-filled night... again?
No. The sound of his footsteps didn't go to the front door.
Velma was listening so hard that the bread she had at the end of her toasting fork was blackening. She noticed it and immediately pulled it asi
de, annoyed with herself.
The footsteps were coming closer. Mr. Lockhart was about to do something he had never done in all the time he lived in Velma's house: He was coming into the kitchen.
The soft thudding sounds were growing nearer, becoming heavier on the stairs leading to the kitchen. Velma's heart beat in rapid counterpoint to the steps, as if responding to them.
She turned off the gas ring, without concern for the food she was preparing. She turned and faced the door.
The handle rattled and a moment later the door swung open, to reveal Mr. Lockhart.
He looked even more strange than usual. He wore pajamas, which she'd never seen him wear before. At least he wasn't standing there in the nude, as she had imagined moments before and as he had that time before when she entered his room.
He carried a lit candle in his hand.
When he saw the kitchen lit up, and Velma standing there, Mr. Lockhart nearly leapt out of his pajamas. His eyes went wide.
"Yes, sir? I didn't hear you ring," Velma said, her lips quivering nervously. She stood firm in front of the stove, taking an indignant stance with the tenant.
"I d-didn't ring, Mrs. Barnes," he stuttered nervously. "I didn't know you were down here. I apologize for the intrusion. My gas stove upstairs has stopped working, so I came down here to see if I could make use of the kitchen stove. I wonder if I could use it tonight for an experiment I need to conduct."
Velma's heart beat faster and faster. Something was wrong, terribly and horribly wrong. She could sense it. Why couldn't his experiment wait until morning? She looked at him with caution, as if he was coiled to strike. But the look on his face made her feel sad and compelled to... no! She looked away from him, breaking the spell. She felt like a tiny bird that had managed to escape the snake's hypnotic gaze.
"It's very cold down here, sir," she said.
"Oh, it seems warm down here to me," he said, his voice full of honey and bonhomie. "Much warmer here compared to my room upstairs."
Velma doubted that. This kitchen was like a freezer compared to the upstairs rooms, even with the gas stove busy cooking.
"Tell you what, Mr. Lockhart, I'll make you a fire. We rarely use the fireplace, but it's kept in order. The first thing I did after we moved into this house was have the chimney swept. It was some kind of dirty. Could have set the house on fire." She was in full housekeeper mode now. "Now that I think of it, you ought to have a fire in your bedroom on such a cold night as this."
"No," Mr. Lockhart said, taking a step back. "I don't want a fire. I dislike fire, Mrs. Barnes. I thought I told you that." He frowned at her, a glum and strange figure, his candle still burning in his hand, standing in the doorway like a specter.
"It wouldn't take long, sir," Velma said. "No more than 20 minutes. You could come down then. I'll have everything nice and tidy for you. Is there anything I can do to help you further?"
"I don't need the kitchen just yet, thank you, Mrs. Barnes... Velma." He said her name. She looked away again, fearing to be mesmerized. What if he took her again, this time on the kitchen table? She looked at the thick wood. What if Lamont came in? She shuddered.
"I'll come down later, after you and your husband are in bed. I would appreciate it if you would send for the gas people to come tomorrow and take a look at my stove. I'll pay for whatever repairs are needed. I will be out tomorrow so they can work while I'm gone."
"Mr. Barnes could take a look at it. He's rather handy with those kinds of things. I could go ask him right now. He's just reading his book." She made to walk past the tenant, but he stepped in front of her to block her exit.
"No. No, that won't be necessary. I don't want any busyness in my rooms tonight. Besides, I'm something of an expert when it comes to gas stoves and I know that it requires a professional. I've done all I can. I trust yours is in fine working order?" He looked at her with his piercing eyes, as if searching her mind.
"Yes, of course. I was about to use it, just now," Velma said.
"Oh, good. My experiment will take some time this evening. I will pay you for the use of your stove, Mrs. Barnes, I insist."
"Think nothing of it. I wouldn't dream of charging you. We don't use the stove that much anyway. I'm never in the kitchen a minute longer than I can stand, what with this chilly weather."
"Yes, but it feels warm in here," Mr. Lockhart said, still looking into her eyes. She couldn't look away. "Mr. Lockhart?" she asked in a faraway voice. "Will that be all?"
"You said your husband is reading? In your bedroom?"
"No, in the front room... why, sir?"
"Because..." he said, stepping closer to her, setting the candle down on the edge of the table. "I must have you, Mrs. Barnes. Velma. I can't deny it, no matter how hard I try. It keeps me up at night, which is why I walk the streets. Being near you, it's intoxicating. And after being with you..." His hand went to her arm, cold to the touch. "I can't resist you."
"No, Mr. Lockhart. I'm married, sir. I regret what happened. I'm sorry. I let myself get carried away..."
Her voice trailed off and again, just as the times before, she found herself plunging her body to his and they kissed. Their lips locked as their hands moved over each other. Mr. Lockhart lifted her gingerly off the floor and laid her down on the thick wooden table. She lay back, in a fog, unable to gather any cohesive thought. She looked down and saw that his massive manhood was protruding from his pajama bottoms. It glistened. She reached for it and began stroking it, sending his face up toward the ceiling. "No," he whispered, gently moving her hand away. Instead, he lifted her skirt and removed her panties.
Then, he kneeled before the table and drew her thighs around his head and buried his face between her legs, pressing his mouth against her already wet pussy. His tongue began to gently probe her lips, finding her clitoris and tonguing it. Velma felt her insides turn volcanic and she arched her back, biting her lip, trying hard not to cry out at the burst of uncontrollable pleasure she felt at the touch of his warm, wet tongue, licking her, entering her. She shivered and felt goose bumps break out all over her.
Her hands found his head and she stroked his hair, gently pushing him deeper. He obliged, his tongue covering every inch, filling her. His tongue even dared to go lower, finding her asshole. Suddenly, he rose, lifted her again and flipped her over until her soft brown ass was in the air. He spread her buttocks and began licking and poking with his tongue in her ass. Going back and forth, between her anus and the edge of her pussy.
She couldn't control herself any longer. She gripped his head and pushed him further into her ass, grinding against him as he penetrated her with his tongue.
One of his hands squeezed her buttocks as the other began stroking his cock. A low, small moan escaped her and she bit her lip once more, bucking against Mr. Lockhart as he continued going deeper with his tongue.
"Put it in my pussy, put it in my pussy," she whispered, looking over her shoulder as his head shimmied between her buttocks.
He rose from where he'd been working on her and looked at her, saying only one word. "No. Not now." With that, he placed his cock between her buttocks, using them to stroke his member. His saliva created enough lubrication that he cock glided effortlessly between the satiny skin of her ass. She could feel the heat of his cock and it made her feel flushed.
Within a few moments, he came across her buttocks and lower back. As he finished, he poked the tip of his cock into her asshole. It went just a few millimeters, enough to cause her to let out a gasp, but she slowly slid to the table surface as he wiped her off with his pajama shirt.
She rose, slipping her panties back and lowering her skirt. She turned to him, but didn't look at him. "I..." was all she could manage.
Strangely, she felt calm. When she was in Mr. Lockhart's presence, her worries, fears and concerns seemed to drift away, always there but it was as if she disconnected from them when he was with her... in her. He was quiet as he straightened himself and slicked his hair back with his hands
before retrieving the candle. He looked at her, his piercing blue eyes illuminated in the golden light of the candle. "Velma, I can't get you out of my thoughts. You’re in my skin. I... I want you to run away with me."
Sugar in Her Bowl Page 15