Without turning, she reached around, her fingertips working over the front of his jeans, then loosened the belt. She did this with her eyes closed, feeling his presence around her, aching for him to be inside her. Soon, she told herself, soon enough…
When the clasp came free, she pulled the belt through the loops and turned around to face her husband, the strong wonderful man she’d married who was now pushing the old shirt completely off her shoulders.
VII
Vanessa
Vanessa lingered on the path at the edge of the woods. The line of trees was close enough to see every detail of their lovemaking, every muscle in the man’s bare legs as he held his wife by the buttocks with one hand, stroked his erection with the other. Vanessa imagined the woman was a writhing china doll in his arms as he thrust inside her, the two of them clinging to each other in passion and fear.
She watched, an observer in her long black dress concealed by the darkness around her and the silence she held so close, watching them, watching him. She fought the urge to undress, share in his sex, knowing her stark white body would practically glow under so much starlight. She couldn’t risk that. She only watched, enjoying seeing him, imagining the couple together, if only briefly, celebrating the sensations life could offer. There was so little time left. It would be a sin to distract him, tip the scales when he seemed so happy. Vanessa would become the wedge between them soon enough. It had to happen, to save him before an old man named Hank Cowles roared in and tore it all apart.
She imagined that their bodies might fit well together.
Postures eventually loosened; Corey lowered his wife from the railing, mumbling soft words Vanessa tried not to hear. The two collapsed against each other, spent. She didn’t move, let Corey enjoy his private happiness one final time.
Naked, satiated, he smiled in the glow of the kitchen light spilling across the porch. When he collected his cast-off clothes and walked into the house, the two came together inside with a less hurried embrace. Vanessa watched him a while through the window, rubbed her hands along her arms and finally turned away.
It hurt too much to watch any more.
SUNDAY
I
Corey
A buzzing whine drew Corey from a thin cloud of sleep. It didn’t take much to wake him these days. A sudden gust of wind, the creak of a floorboard. The new house shifted and settled, keeping his mind always alert. He hadn’t dreamed since moving here.
The sound continued. Corey opened his eyes, half-expecting the window to be black, middle of the night. What he saw was a thin coat of dust across the glass, illuminated by a slant of sunlight. He blinked, realizing that he’d slept all night. At least he thought he had. Another sign that things were normalizing, that they were settling into the new place. The buzzing continued from the clock radio beside him. Not truly a buzzing but a man’s voice fighting for clarity from the poorly tuned station. Corey set the dial this way on purpose. Enough noise to wake him without resorting to the heart-stopping electronic shrill, but never clear enough to find its way into his rested (this morning at least) brain and filling it with mindless chatter or news. Especially news, bad as it always was. Just a flickering cadence or the occasional hissing song to get him out of bed.
Eight-thirty. That’s right… Sunday… He’d never been much of a church person, not until he met his Catholic wife. She rarely missed mass. In order to be married at her home parish in Providence, Corey had to endure weeks of classes, molding him into the good Catholic man he now pretended to be. He didn’t mind. It never hurt to expose Abby to as many positive influences as possible, even if only once a week, and she enjoyed going.
Corey reached out and tapped the snooze button, rolled over and slid his arm under Sam’s, letting it rest between her breasts. She was awake, but only just. He pulled her closer.
She muttered, “Good morning,” before rolling onto her back, stretching, turning until they faced each other. He loved watching her do that. She must have noticed because she whispered in his ear, “Down, boy. It starts at ten and we can’t be late the first time.”
He pressed himself against her, but going too far would only frustrate both of them. Still, he would enjoy these few minutes. He bent his head and kissed her neck. She moaned in pleasure, caught herself, slapped loudly against his back.
“Ouch!”
“Time to get up, sleepy-head.”
He sighed and rolled onto his back, stalling long enough to watch Sam pull free the sheets and slip her body into a robe. When the show was over, he got up, turned off the radio and slipped into his own robe. Sam had already claimed the master bath so he wandered into the hall to use the other. The television volume rose suddenly from the living room. Corey bypassed the bathroom and followed the sound. Abby sat cross-legged on the floor, nightdress pulled over her knees to support two Barbies reclining in its makeshift hammock. The remote control in her hand told him she’d waited until they’d gotten out of bed before turning the sound up.
“Morning, Daddy!”
“Morning, Sweetie.” He leaned down, kissed her on the forehead before wandering into the kitchen to start the coffee. He called over his shoulder, “Oh, and don’t forget, we’ve got church in a little while. Time for some breakfast.”
“Fruit Loops.”
As soon as the coffee was perking, he looked back into the living room. Abby was paying more attention to her dolls than the show, switching outfits between them. He said, “Clock still ticking?”
She scrambled onto her hands and knees, letting the dolls fall, and scurried over to the fireplace. Corey had decided to leave the clock on the hearth for the time being, until they chose a more appropriate location or followed tradition and shoved it into some closet. After a few seconds with her ear against the face, Abby nodded. “It’s ticking. I can hear it!” She pulled her head away, began inspecting the details of the blue boy, his small arms out in a sideways “V” holding up the clock. Her fingers traced the folds of the sleeves, details of his hair, losing herself in the study. Corey had to admit the work was amazing, even if the end result wasn’t very pleasing.
The show on the television faded to a commercial. Corey couldn’t see it, only the sudden fade of light against his daughter’s nightgown as she studied the clock. A quick news blurb—even on Sunday mornings kids weren’t safe from these intrusions. The media rattled their sabers in your face when all you wanted to do was to live your life, be happy.
His chest tightened. They won’t let you. They’ll tie you down, lock you in a room and sound-byte you until you bleed and thrash, until you become something they can hold up to the rest of the world, force feed your pain to someone else who doesn’t want to…
Corey tried to close his mind as he shuffled back into the kitchen, having no real destination, simply not wanting to hear what was being said. How the world was going to hell, careening too fast to stop. He wished he was back in college, twenty years old and not caring what was going on outside his small life. The world had become much darker since then. Corey knew enough about what was happening. He simply didn’t want to hear about it. He leaned against the counter, trapping his hands behind him. The coffee maker gurgled. It was hard enough at work avoiding conversations, the skittering, frightened look in everyone’s eyes. This was the weekend, alone in the woods with his family, getting ready for church, for God’s sake. He shouldn’t have to…
“Daddy?”
Corey looked up. Abby was in the wide entranceway where kitchen, living room and hall converged. He swallowed, stood straighter. “I know, Sweetie. Fruit Loops.”
She walked up and wrapped herself around his legs. Her head barely reached his waist. “The bad news is gone,” she said. “Just commercials now.”
He swallowed, felt his face burn. Barely five and already she was taking care of him, already understood that her father was broken. The monsters are gone now; you’re safe, Daddy. The idea warmed him, and hurt. Corey ran his hand over her uncombed hair. Ch
ildren rarely got enough credit for how quickly they picked up on things. Maybe they picked up too much. Abby shouldn’t have to worry about her father.
He was frightened enough for both of them.
All he could say was, “Thank you, Sweetie. I’ll bring your cereal in a minute.”
She gave his legs one last squeeze before running back into the living room.
Corey poured the cereal and milk, brought the bowl into the living room. Sam would complain about Abby eating on the carpet and, yes, there would be a few drops of milk spilled, but her show was back on. She was hungry, and she’d earned the right this morning. He put it on the rug in front her, looked at the clock and frowned. Not right. Corey went back into the kitchen to check the microwave’s time. The clock had lost five minutes already. Probably should wind it more.
Later.
They managed to eat, shower, dress and get out the front door by nine-forty. Mass was at ten. The drive across town shouldn’t be more than ten minutes but, to Sam, sitting in the pew a few minutes extra was better than stalking in behind the opening procession.
Not until they’d reached the minivan did Corey notice the woman walking up their long driveway. Her beautiful, angled face was framed by short black hair. She wore a long, black print dress, buttoned in front up to the neck. No car in sight. Our first neighbor, he thought. As if to complete the picture, she held out a pie. They came together in front of the van.
“Good morning,” she said, a little out of breath. “I’m sorry for bothering you; looks like you’re going somewhere.” She raised the pie higher. It was wrapped in cellophane with a small piece of masking tape stuck to the top. “Just wanted to bring a little house-warming present.” She met Corey’s gaze with wide, blue eyes before turning to Samantha. Meanwhile, Abby shifted behind Corey’s leg. She never did well with strangers. He took his daughter’s hand and Sam took the pie.
“Thanks,” Sam said, half-turning to show Corey. She had that look which screamed, I have no idea what else to say. Their neighbor waved a hand.
“I’d like to say I made it, but the Congregational Church had a bake sale yesterday so I stopped in and picked this up. I don’t want to keep you. Is that where you’re going?”
“Almost,” Corey said. “Saint Malachy’s next door.” He extended his free hand. “I’m Corey Union, this is Samantha and Abby,” always introducing his wife using her full name to avoid confusion.
“Call me Sam,” Sam added, her usual addendum.
The woman took their hands in turn. Her touch was cool, dry. Abby allowed her own hand to be taken, though she leaned into Corey as she did so. Before the woman straightened, Corey realized that her hair was actually quite long, woven into a braid along her back, not cut short as he'd originally thought.
“I’m Vanessa,” she said. “Our properties abut.” She waved loose fingers in a general direction behind them, “Out back.”
Corey nodded, too aware of the time and Sam’s growing panic about being late. He gave Abby a nudge. “Why don’t you get in the car, Sweetie?” To Vanessa, “Yes, I think I saw your house yesterday when I was out walking the woods.”
She glanced at Samantha (pie still in hand) and Abby moving cautiously to the passenger side of the car. “I’m going to make you late. I’d really love to have you all come by the house soon, so we can get to know each other.” She followed his wife towards the doors. “I think it’s so important to be friends with your neighbors, don’t you?”
Like Abby, Sam was normally quiet around new people, letting Corey plow through the requisite small talk. She surprised him by saying, “That would be really nice. Maybe you could come back here tonight for supper? We could share the pie.”
Vanessa clasped her hands against her chest, an act which, to Corey, seemed wonderfully country-ish. “That would be wonderful. You’re sure it wouldn’t be any trouble?”
Abby had climbed into the van. Sam slid the door closed behind her and opened her own. She might be playing the role of good neighbor surprisingly well, but hell if she was going to be late because of it. Corey tried not to smile. “No trouble at all. I think it’d be great. Seven o’clock all right? It’s going to be lasagna.”
Vanessa laid a hand on the door as it closed. Her braid was gone. Corey had been right the first time, short hair, not long. But the braid… probably just the folds of her shirt.
She smiled through the window. “Seven. Perfect!” Vanessa looked doe-eyed through the car at Corey, who had climbed in behind the wheel. Sam laid the pie on the floor between her feet. Vanessa said, “Would you mind if I took the shortcut home?” She nodded towards the back yard.
Corey thought of the path, and the bees. She must know about them, and he didn’t want to drag this talk out any longer. “Go ahead. Thanks for the pie!”
Sam added, “See you tonight!”
Vanessa smiled and wiggled her fingers goodbye before heading towards the path out back. Corey started the car and said, “That was odd, but nice.”
Sam laid her hand on his leg, gave it a squeeze. “Welcome to Green Acres.” When she laughed, Corey thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world.
II
“It’s not exactly a family recipe. I always use the one on the package of pasta. But,” Sam shrugged, blushing, “if it works, why change it?”
Corey didn’t think his wife had ever talked this much during a meal. Gushing was never a word he’d attributed to her, but that’s what she was doing in her way after Vanessa’s compliment. Their neighbor wore the same dark dress as this morning, still buttoned to the neck. Her hair, he was relieved to notice, remained short.
“Well, my compliments to the packagers then.” Vanessa took another forkful into her mouth, chewed slowly. She sat at the corner of the table nearest Samantha, Abby beside her and Corey at the far end. She’d moved her chair a bit closer to Sam before settling in to eat. Corey had to resist the urge to read any meaning into this, other than simple neighborliness.
“My Mom’s a good cook,” Abby said as she cut a too-big slab from her lasagna and tried to shove the whole thing into her mouth, leaning over the plate to let whatever wouldn’t fit fall back safely. Vanessa laughed, laid the tips of her fingers on the girl’s shoulder.
“I guess so. Those stuffed cheeks are the best compliment any cook could want.”
Abby began to laugh but realized she’d lose the glob if she did, so only nodded. Vanessa turned her attention back to Sam. She wasn’t ignoring Corey, not exactly, but her focus was primarily on his wife. Sam enjoyed the attention. When Abby was born, she’d left her job as executive secretary, trying her hand at the stay-at-home-mom career. Corey’s programming job at the same company paid well enough, and they had good benefits. Since then, her interaction with the adult world was limited to the occasional visit from friends. Maybe this would be a good thing, seeing how she spoke so easily with Vanessa.
He swallowed his final bite and asked, “So, do you work in the area?”
Vanessa turned cool blue eyes at him before her smile returned, warm as ever. “I work out of my home, actually. Freelance.” She shrugged, and at Corey’s blank nod she tapped her fork on the plate and said, “I do websites for people, sometimes maintain them. I dabble in jewelry, too.”
Sam chimed in. “You make jewelry? I was thinking of trying that some day.” She looked around the kitchen. “Something other than laundry all day would be nice.”
Corey may as well have disappeared after that. Vanessa and Sam talked for fifteen minutes about the process, their neighbor offering to come over one day and give Sam a few tips. Now and then her hand alighted on Samantha’s when making a point, never lingering. Corey focused on the spoken words rather than any nonverbal cues. In truth, he would have been more interested in her web work but said nothing, pretended to be interested in settings and wire shaping. Abby listened intently, interjecting her own comments on necklaces and earrings. These were welcomed by Vanessa with an interest too intense, in Core
y’s mind, to be more than polite inclusion in the conversation. Corey settled into collecting plates, rinsing and settling them into the dishwasher.
When he had nothing left to do, he said, “Coffee?”
Vanessa thought about it a moment, said, “If it’s decaf, that sounds wonderful.”
He nodded, lost himself in measuring enough for all three of them. He leaned against the counter, watching the women talk until the coffee belched its completion. Sam got up from the table as he poured, kissed him on the cheek with a, “Thank you, Honey,” (three words he appreciated more than he could have expressed at the moment).
“I want one,” Abby said. Samantha took down a fourth mug. Into this she poured some apple juice out of the fridge.
Corey turned to Vanessa. “How do you like yours?”
“Black,” she said.
“Three blacks, then,” relieved he didn’t have to explain why there was no cream in the house. “How about we sit in the living room?”
So, they moved into the other room. Vanessa took the smaller chair by the fireplace, Abby its twin across the room near the door, which allowed Sam and Corey to share the couch. He noticed Vanessa staring at the clock, wondering if she would offer a compliment on it. If that happened, he’d know she was full of shit.
There he was, being cynical again. Why couldn’t he just take her at face value? She was a nice person; that was it.
She has a crush on your wife, he thought. So unexpected was the idea, he must have made a face. “Corey, you OK?”
His back stiffened. Rolling his shoulders, trying to force himself to relax, he said, “Sorry, back’s a bit sore from all the yard work.” Not a total lie, but he still felt like crap for needing an excuse.
Vanessa looked at him with half-closed lids, as if to say, I know what you were thinking.
What the hell was he thinking?
Destroyer of Worlds Page 3