GUD Magazine Issue 1 :: Autumn 2007

by GUD Magazine Authors

  Hers was the Whore's Story, and they'd shown her what to do with it, how she could sell her body and still keep her soul alive. Her soul was in Viola now. And Viola was safe; she knew how to make her doll safe and keep her from being touched.

  Josette looked in the mirror and saw what she decided she would see. There was a wall behind her. She could feel it when she leaned back. She knew that it was grey. She followed the grey paint into the next room, which was carpeted in a dusty green, like lichen. Sudden sunlight fell in thick strips between venetian blinds. “Look, Viola,” Josette said, pulling back her sweater coat so her doll could see. “Look, a piano!"

  It was a baby grand, dark, maybe mahogany. Josette took Viola out and scooted her over the top to show her how smooth it was. The doll left no trail—a well-dusted place.

  Steps rose to the right, two carpeted flights with white railings and dark, silky banisters. But Josette turned left, through an archway, into the living room. Or maybe it was supposed to be a library; along one wall, empty shelves stretched floor to ceiling. There was a fireplace, too. Flint, though. Viola preferred fieldstone.

  There were prints on the walls representing something wan and ghostly. Josette couldn't quite make them out in the room's dimness. She searched for a switch to turn on the chandelier, then gave up and walked out through a different door, into another empty room with bright windows. There were four buttons on the far wall: two ebony circles beneath two protruding cylinders of pearl. She pushed the pearl stubs into the wall and the two ebony buttons shot out. And brilliance swam overhead, a whole party's worth of sparkling lights. She could see the prints quite clearly now from where she stood, lighted by the library's smaller chandelier. They were intricately frilled orchids with wide, speckled mouths.

  Cream carpet, cream silk curtains, cream ceiling, arched and florentine with cherubs. This room was saved from its single-mindedness, though, by the leather covering its walls to the height of Josette's chin. Darker cherubs flourished around her here, amid tobacco-colored curlicues and sober squares.

  "What do you say, Viola?” Josette asked her doll. “Me, I'm just not sure...."

  She had turned left into the library, right into this place, which she decided must be the dining room. A door with a push plate led off to the right again. The kitchen?

  Yes. Yellow like a daffodil. A cookstove, white-porcelained steel topped in gleaming stainless. A sleek, slumberous freezer and a stodgy upright refrigerator, both once white, currently ecru. But the counters appeared to be composed of compressed eggs, lightly scrambled. In butter. And the walls glowed cheerfully, electric saffron. And the glass-fronted cupboards, and the drawers below, and the linoleum below that. The color of morning, the color of the sun. Josette smiled. “I think.... “she told Viola, “I think maybe—"

  A keychain jingled loudly. From where the linoleum descended in narrow steps came other metallic noises: the springing slide of an aluminum door-closer, the heavy, brassy tumble of an opening latch. A woman's voice started out muffled and grew suddenly clearer over the sound of an opening door. “—ay in the van, sweetie, I'll just be a second, all I have to do is turn off these lights I left burning—” Footsteps scuffed quickly up the stairs. Then a woman stood at the top, auburn head bent as she dug in her purse. She hadn't seen them yet.

  "Don't be scared,” said Josette. “Hi."

  The woman froze, then peered up through her fine red hair. “Uhh,” she said, “okay, I'm not scared. Especially since I've got a gun in here, and it's loaded, and my boyfriend's right outside in the van. So I'm not scared, thanks. So let me ask you what the hell you're doing in here?"

  "A gun?” Josette hugged Viola tighter. “I ... I was just looking. The door was open, and I'm interested in buying—"

  The woman flung her head back and smacked her forehead with one hand. “Baby-jesus-son-of-mary!! That's what I forgot. I thought it was just the lights. I left the goddam door unlocked.” Josette backed away as the woman walked briskly through to the dining room. “Excuse me, but I—” Her voice became too faint to hear as she moved towards the front of the house. Josette followed slowly. “—dinner with his folks, and we're already late. Get that switch for me, will you?” she said, coming back into the dining room.

  Josette nodded and turned off the chandeliers. A snowy twilight replaced the glare, gently washing away all contrast. Josette decided she liked it better this way. Though maybe candles would be best. “How much do you think they'll settle for?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

  "Didn't you just hear me saying? It's sold. Closed yesterday morning. But the ad was in, so I left the signs up and had the open house anyhow. Good way to meet people."

  Josette felt her flimsy hopes crumpling like foil. “They closed? On a Saturday?” Her voice sounded high and tight. “Don't you still have to get the mortgage approved and the title searched and ... and stuff?"

  "No mortgage. Cash.” The woman rummaged through her bag again. “Here's my card. Julie Saunders.” She handed it over. “Sure, there's a chance things will fall through, but I wouldn't waste my time holding your breath. Maybe I can help you find something else, though. Give me a call.” She noticed Viola and eyed her suspiciously.

  "You got kids?"

  "No."

  "Good. Makes it easier. Well.... “She paused meaningfully.

  "Okay. Thanks.” Josette turned and walked through the cheerful yellow kitchen, down the four steps to the side-door landing, and out. This was not going to be their house. Her eyes hurt, and walking down the concrete drive made tears spill over and fall out, warming her face. She had a pack of Kleenex in her bag. Back in the cab, she dug it out and scrubbed away at her cheeks, still weeping. “It's sold already. Let's go."

  "Hey,” said Holly. “Hey, listen. It wasn't the right one.” The cab was in motion. The house was already behind them, out of sight. “I mean it. I mean, if it hadda been the right one, you guys woulda got it, right? But it wasn't. Really. Honestly now, was that place, like, perfect for you?” She waited long enough for Josette to realize she ought to answer.

  "No."

  "'Course it wasn't. ‘Cause there's someplace better, better for you, somewhere down the road."

  "You don't ... you can't even begin—” Josette cut herself off before she said something inconsiderate. Holly was just trying to help her with that tacky taxicab philosophy.

  "Oh, yes, I can.” Holly pulled up at a stoplight and turned around to face her, dim and multi-colored in the sodium and traffic glare. “See, my ex is just about done with her doll. Housemaid's Tale, that's what /she's/ got. We're still friends, and she's been telling me stuff.... I'm gonna miss her when she goes...."

  Another initiate. Only the fifth she'd met since leaving the temple—well, heard of, anyway. “Oh, Holly, oh, that's wonderful. I'm sorry—"

  "No, it's cool. But see—” The light changed and she swung around to drive. “See, you gotta know it. You're gonna find your place, Josette, and it's gonna be kickass, just absolutely swollen.... How long you been on the road?"

  "Four years."

  Holly absorbed that in silence for a short while. “Right. So you're closin’ in on it now, see?"

  Josette tried to see. Then she gave up and just looked out the window.

  * * * *

  The candle guttered, burning low. Spurts of sooty smoke rose and disappeared. Josette's skirts swished silkily against her bare legs as she spun before the altar. “Ooh, pretty,” Viola said. “Do it again."

  "Not now, there's no time. We've got to get you tucked in before I go."

  "Please?” The doll's sad painted eyes were hard to resist. Josette twirled once more and her skirts swirled out: crimson, amber, viridian, waves of ocean blue. “All right, Miss Muffet,” she said as she stopped, “off your tuffet.” She swooped Viola up in her arms and waltzed her to the bed. Gold tissue floated from her head, caught and wrapped and tied around her arms and breasts in careful knots.

  The doll was unusually silent a
s she helped her into her nightgown and tucked her in with the already somnolent Mr. Bun. Josette thought at first it was because of the candle, which was just about out.

  But as she bent to kiss Viola's cheek, she saw a fold, a worried wrinkle in the spot between where her eyebrows ought to be. “What's wrong?” she asked.

  Viola's soft red lips twisted. “Auntie Josette,” she said, her dry voice filled with dread, “you're not going to let him hurt you, are you?"

  "No, darling. I'll never let anyone hurt me. Never, ever again."

  "That's good.” The doll settled back on her pillow and the flame went out.

  Josette glanced at the radio. Eight minutes till. She liked to be reasonably prompt when dealing with clients. It made it easier to keep things on a professional footing. She picked up her toolkit, slipped her sandals on, and headed out the door to work.

  Danny Woods’ room was on the sixteenth floor, three stories up. She took the stairs to avoid crowds. And so that she could stand on a landing and sing:

  "Was down in the valley,

  The valley so deep,

  To pick some plain roses

  To keep my love sweet...."

  The echo was surprisingly mellow, for all that concrete. Not to mention the metal railings.

  "Let it be early, late, or soon,

  I will enjoy my rose in June...."

  She opened the fire door and there he was, waiting, a silhouette that loomed against the dim hall light. His hair was loose and fanned out in long curls past his waist. Josette smiled coolly and walked forward. It was like moving into the shadow of a fir tree on a moonlit country road. Keep going, she told herself. That's how you reach the light.

  "I heard singing and I thought it must be you.” He turned so they were standing side by side and started down the hall. She could see his face, the grin.

  "Am I late?” The door to his room was propped open; they went in.

  "No, I got back early. Didn't want you to have to stand around.” He nudged a green-cushioned stool out of the way and his door slammed shut. “Want the heater on? Window open?"

  "I'm fine, thanks.” The room was a double. A brown hard-shell suitcase and a camera occupied the far bed. Josette sat down on the end of the near one and set her toolkit near her feet. The spread and the carpet almost matched. Rose and burgundy.

  This was always the hardest part. Sometimes the client knew exactly what he wanted. Sometimes he even knew he would be paying for it, though usually not how much.

  At least Danny Woods had heard of the Women of the Doll. Josette brought them up right away, while he poured her out a glass of pineapple juice from the vending machine. She sipped the sweet, tinny stuff politely and listened to him as he tried to explain.

  "They're a secret organization—” he started out saying.

  "No. Not secret. Hidden."

  He sat on the footstool and cocked an eyebrow at her. “There's a difference?"

  "A secret is something you can't tell. By definition. If you can tell it, it's not a secret. Never was."

  "Whereas hidden just means hard to find. I can appreciate that. Okay, so they're hard to find, and they help women in some sort of trouble, different kinds, I guess. And the women they help ... do things for other people. For a ... um, consideration."

  "Donation,” Josette corrected him.

  "And we're talking about this right now because you're...."

  "It's tax-deductible,” she told him. “501(c)(3 ). Religious and charitable."

  "But, Josette.... “He reached for her, then stopped himself.

  "Danny. In return I promise I'll give you /everything/. Whatever you want.” Except her suffering. She would not be made to suffer, ever again.

  "'Everything'—in return for what?"

  She opened up the kit, got out the terminal. “I run your card through this and you sign a blank authorization form. Just like they do here at the hotel."

  "But Josette, that's ... that's stupid, I can't do that!"

  "Sure you can. Think how proud your accountant will be.” She patted the bed beside her. “If you don't think it was worth it, when the bill comes, tell the bank it was a computer error. Give them a different figure. We won't contest it."

  "Never happened before, hunh?"

  She shook her head. Her veil rustled. The sound seemed to draw him. He reached into his pocket and brought out a worn leather wallet.

  "I must be crazy,” he said, handing her his Visa. His hazel eyes pleaded with her to tell him he wasn't. He had an awful lot of fight in him, to be thinking even semi-rationally after this long in her proximity. Josette wondered where it came from. She took his card with a casual scrape of one short nail against his palm, and still he stared at her, unbelieving. “Am I really doing this?” he asked.

  "You won't regret it,” Josette promised.

  While waiting for the account to clear, she asked him what he wanted. Often the direct approach worked best. He seemed reassured by her question and answered it with one of his own. “Simple version or the complicated one?"

  "Either. Both.” She set out her work-candle and lit it. Then the incense.

  "Okay.” He crossed his ankles and clasped his hands loosely between his knees. “The simple version is I want you, as much of yourself as you're willing to share with me at this time, in this place.” Viola, she thought in sudden panic. He wanted to get at her doll. But he didn't, couldn't know. He went on. “If this is how it has to be for now, that's fine. It's a limited setting, but a definite improvement over the escalator at O'Hare, or the limo stand outside that place in Berkeley, the hotel with the Edward Hopper hallways. Or that florist's in Madison, or—"

  "You've run into me before?” Had he built up some sort of resistance over time?

  "Right.” He held his hunger back, clasped it in with arms crossed below his knees. “The complicated version ... I can't ... can I touch you? Or do I have to use only words?” He held out one hand, keeping it fairly steady in the air.

  "All right.” She wasn't going to figure him out any other way.

  He stood up and ran his palms lightly over the gold veil. “I want to ... I want—” He tugged the veil back and bent to kiss her hair. His breath circled gently in, gently out, whispering among the tips, warming the roots. Hot on her crown, then spiraling down to her forehead, feathering the fringe. The slightest touches of his tongue drew points of light along her brow and outward, vanishing. Then his lips were firm, pressed full on the center.

  "Ahh,” she said. A sound like a snowdrop blooming early.

  "That, that,” he murmured. “Yes. Josette.... “He sank down beside her on the bed and used his chin to brush aside the fabric where it drifted around her neck. A river of delight ran down to the hollow above her collarbone and collected there. He lowered his head and lapped it like a deer. She sighed and melted against him, soft as heated honeycomb. “And this, Josette.... “he whispered in her ear. He swept his tongue out and around in a circle behind it, searching. He found the spot and washed it patiently, faithfully, through her hisses, cries, and trembling sobs. She came, her voice arching high, trying to describe to someone, anyone, the pitch of pleasure's peak.

  "That,” he said, lowering her gently to the bed. “That's what I want. In a moment, I'm going to want you to give me more."

  Josette stirred weakly on the rosy coverlet. He'd received some of whatever he was looking for, yes, but unless she got him to make an offering the temple labs could accept, she'd have to bring about a really spectacular healing. No other way to justify the Women of the Doll charging him more than her expenses.

  Usually she was able to cure her clients of some unintentionally inflicted childhood wound. That's why they never argued over her rates. Only how could she concentrate enough on him to sort out the source of his troubles while serving up the kind of responsiveness that would keep him satisfied?

  She watched him while he untied her bodice-knots with patient hands. The fingers were surprisingly strong, the knuck
les scarred white in his uneven tan. Her golden tissue unwound in satiny profusion around her on the bed. Her breasts, fully exposed to her client's gaze, waited stoically for his touch. Instead, his hands slipped around her waist, resting comfortably in the curves. “Ready?” he asked. She nodded and his hands slid under all four waistbands, then spread to stretch the elastic. They cupped her buttocks as she lifted them, obedient, and let the filmy colors slide below.

  Carefully, he raised her sandaled feet and freed them of the fallen skirts. “I wish you could see yourself right now,” he said as he knelt before her on the floor. She didn't tell him that she didn't need to. She knew what she looked like. Mirrors. There was one on his closet door.

  Her sandals were coming off. That was it; nothing left. Now he could fuck her. But Danny Woods stayed where he was. He lifted her left foot and sucked the bone of her ankle, so hard, so vulnerable, her whole life so forlorn.

  Like leaves his fingers brushed up against her calves. He spoke. “Can I get you to turn over? And you'll probably want to move a little higher on the bed.” Those were the last words he uttered for an hour. She had an orgasm in the back of her left knee, another, longer, in the right. Another one six inches up from that. Mounting to heaven like a lark in the morning, each height feeding and leading to further exaltation. Of which she sang.

  When he stopped, the spread beneath her was sodden, dark as the carpet. “Thank you,” he said. “My dear."

  Soon she was able to move again. She turned on her side, facing him. He was still half-dressed. Beyond him, the candle burned steadily at half its height. In its half-shadow, she saw his shy grin, dog-teeth gleaming.

  What should she do? Asking hadn't worked, and she wasn't getting anywhere this way, either. She smiled back sleepily, let her eyes flutter shut, and turned away, nestling her shoulders against his broad, bare chest. He hesitated hardly at all, then wrapped his arms around her, cradling her towards him.