GUD Magazine Issue 1 :: Autumn 2007

by GUD Magazine Authors

  Keyed up as he was, feasted on her arousal, it took her quite a while to bring him down. Bit by bit, though, he relaxed around her. She timed her own breath, shifted the intervals slowly, lullingly, set her heartbeat rocking both their bloods, stilly, stilly, stepping over seconds stretching longer, longer ... till at last her client slept.

  Cautiously, she opened her eyes, then shut them back up tight. The mirror on the closet door—the lights were off and her workcandle burned low. But maybe the dark reflections could help—she'd never tried before, but maybe they could show her someone else's story, the story of Danny Woods.

  She slid off the bed quickly so as not to break the slumber. Slipping around to the far side, she peered over her sleeping client's shoulders, into the shadowy surface confronting her. In there he was young, very young. Only a little boy, with a look of stubborn, customary loneliness. Around him, the room's dimness swirled in shapes like angry screams. Nothing more specific showed itself, so she gave up, resuming her place on the bed.

  Rough childhood, Josette thought. But there's a fair chance he knows that much himself. She wasn't going to get away with more than a couple of hundred for tonight, and no offering. Not enough for the temple to break even after her expenses. Not unless she at least got her client's pants off for him.

  She let loose of the slumber. Her client stirred, but didn't waken. Resistant, was he? Perhaps she'd been too sophisticated in her approach. She focused, made adjustments upward. Her sweat sharpened, breath hardened—not with delight, but with dirt-simple demand. A calculated grind brought her the contours of good news; through sleep's light draping, Danny Woods had responded.

  Suddenly his hands held her shoulders, twisting her clumsily face-down. The too-soft mattress shifted as he came to his knees, bore left and right as he stripped the denim off one leg, then the other. Then he was on her, kneading and nipping, urging her haunches higher. The sheath, she had to check the sheath, make sure she still had it in place. She freed one hand, felt the rolled rim, numb among her sensitive wrinkles, and braced herself once more, barely in time.

  Without a word he thrust inside and worked away. Fierce, not fancy. Without a word, but soon not silently. Strange, muffled grunts, snuffles, snorts, and growls came from him as he rose and fell, rose and fell. The pace increased, as did the noise, and Josette risked another look in the closet mirror. Her heart jumped shut as she found and met them there, those yellow, glowing eyes. Held them, poised for flight or fight, those wild eyes of the beast. And stayed still, gazing as her blood slammed back through, opening its accustomed gates. Pulse pounding, she considered pretending not to notice the eyes, with pupils slit, not round, and the fur roughening her client's silhouette, already pretty vague within the mirror's frame. Without, his skin still seemed smooth and relatively hairless to her touch. It—he—obviously didn't expect he would be seen this way. After a short, puzzled pause, he went back to his business. He made his offering and collapsed with her in a fairly graceful heap. From there he fell into another sleep, this time his own.

  She lay and rested on her back a while, feet up, knees held loosely to her chest so she wouldn't lose a drop. Throughout it all, she'd felt no threat. Once she'd checked to find him unchanged outside the mirror, the fear, like dry ice, had evaporated, leaving no residue except an odd chill and a lingering curiosity.

  She glanced at the work-candle. It still had a little more to burn. Should she tell her client about encountering the beast? She wasn't exactly sure of their relationship. Was the one the other's curse? Or totem animal? Was Danny Woods possessed, or just lost in a story he had no idea how to tell? A sudden tide of liquid wax swamped the candle's wick and snuffed it out, deciding her. She had done enough for one night.

  She rose, picked up her toolkit, and felt her way into the bathroom, where she carefully removed the sheath. Singing softly. It had, after all, gone fairly well.

  "But roses in June are never so sweet

  As kisses can be when true lovers meet...."

  She took her oversized tee and orange tights from her toolkit's bottom tray and sat down on the stool to pull them on. Leaving the door ajar for the light, she came back out to the bedroom. Her skirts were still on the floor. She picked them up and smoothed them out, letting them hang over one arm.

  "Josette...."

  She turned. Danny Woods was awake. He had propped himself up on both elbows. His hair swam over his bare shoulders, tangled currents running down the hollow of his back. “What?” she said.

  "Nothing. Just ... Josette."

  She found the veil and rolled the skirts in it. Stuck the candle remains in a small brown paper bag, ready for disposal.

  She paused at the door. What would it be like to stay with him, to hear his tale and tell him hers? A white man, but he hadn't committed any racist stupidities, at least not yet. The beast, though ... and Viola. They might not like it, either one.

  "Good-bye,” he said, turning away.

  "Okay,” she said. She left.

  The hallways were as murky as ever, night and day and night and day again. Outside some doors pairs of shoes stood, waiting to be polished, or stolen, or ignored. She called the elevator. It came quickly. They always did at this time of night, conventions or no.

  Back in 1213, she drank a couple of glasses of tepid tap-water, loaded the sheath's contents into a cryoflask, and checked out Danny Woods’ credit info. The card he'd given her had thirty-three hundred available. Low. Must be the one he'd been traveling on. She took a third, but left the line open, undecided. Maybe it ought to be more—danger pay. But had she really been in danger?

  She didn't know. She was tired, and so she shut it down.

  She took a leisurely shower. Early mornings, the water was hot as it ever got.

  It had been a long, long night, but she got out the candle fixings anyway: lavender and lotus and mugwort oils. Baby powder. Clover seed. A pinch of earth from Milham Park, in the town where she'd been born. And a blue ceramic bowl to mix them in.

  She thought again about the house that afternoon. The wrong one, obviously. Holly had been right. Only it was so long now since they had started looking. And Viola needed a home of her own so desperately.

  Josette's eyes blurred. She blinked and shed quick, hot tears into the blue bowl.

  Mix wet and dry ingredients with rapid strokes. One more thing, she thought, and lowered her head to the bowl. In, out, in again, she breathed the sweet, musty aroma. There.

  She was in the middle of anointing the votive when a knock came at the door. She glanced at the clock radio. Five a.m. She hadn't ordered any breakfast. She ignored the knock and kept working. It came again a short while later. This time a white sheet of paper followed, sliding under her door.

  The water on the altar looked a little cloudy. She scrubbed the glass clean and changed it, then lit the new candle.

  Her doll slept peacefully. Her small chest rose and fell steadily now, in the light of the low flame. It seemed a pity to disturb her, so Josette packed as much as she could beforehand.

  She called a courier for the cryoflask, then picked up the phone again to order a cab for six-thirty. The dispatcher put her on hold, to the tune of Sammy Davis, Jr.'s “The Candy Man.” While she waited, she gave in and read the note. Several times. It was short; all it said was, “I love you.” No signature. The handwriting belonged on a blueprint, even and precise.

  The line clicked and the dispatcher was back. “To Metro,” she told him. “My flight leaves at eight-thirty. A.M.” She gave him the hotel's address, then asked, “Is Holly driving this morning?"

  "I don't know. I can take a message for her, if you like."

  On the bed, Viola stirred and pushed sleepily at the covers. “That's all right. Thanks."

  "Thank you for calling Rite-Ride."

  Josette went and sat on the bed. “Hey, squids, you ready to motivate?"

  Viola smiled and stretched her short, fat arms. Josette loved to watch her wake up this way, with the
candle going. The doll's face shone with joy.

  But when she saw the suitcases, she sobered up a bit.

  "Do we /have/ to go already, Aunt Josette?"

  "I'm afraid so, darling. There's no place for us here.” She paused in buttoning up Viola's pink cardigan. The buttons were white and yellow daisy-shapes. She twirled them around in her fingers while she spoke. “I think, maybe, yesterday was a good lesson."

  "I was sad we couldn't get the house,” Viola said.

  "Yes, but ... it wasn't right; it belonged to someone else. If we're going to start another temple, it has to really be our own. I think we're going to have to just make it. From scratch. From the ground up."

  "Is that going to be a lot of work?"

  "Probably.” Josette pulled her blond mohair sweater over her head. It was big; it came down to her knees. “So we better get going. We've got enough saved up to buy some land that's really beautiful, maybe on a lake, even."

  "Okay."

  "What's the matter? You don't seem too enthusiastic, Viola."

  "Auntie Josette, are you ever sorry you made me?"

  She picked her doll up, cradled her in her woolly arms. “Oh, darling. /No./ Never. Before I had you, everything was horrible, just awful. I never got to smile or play, or anything. It was like I was dead, Viola. But now I'm alive, honey. ‘Cause you're alive. And why would I be sorry about a thing like that?” She kissed Viola's long, black braids. “I love you, you silly squid!"

  "And Bunny too?"

  "And Bunny too. Now we better get you in the purse or we'll miss our ride to the airport.” She got her doll to sit down in her handbag, with Bunny on her lap.

  The stones were packed away. Only the votive and the water remained. She snuffed the candle, emptied the water into the sink, stuck the still-warm votive in a wax bag in her coat pocket. Wheeled her bags out into the hall.

  One last look around. Nothing left behind, she thought, and closed the door on 1213.

  Down to the lobby. She was going to miss this floor.

  The same clerk checked her out as in. Her eyes were redrimmed now, from tears or smoke or lack of sleep, Josette couldn't tell. But her perky smile was the same. “Did you enjoy your stay?” she asked, trying to disguise her curiosity. The cryoflask gleamed cryptically on the beautiful dark counter between them, waiting to be picked up.

  "Oh, yes. Can you tell me, has the party in 1610 checked out yet?"

  "Doesn't look like it. Want me to ring them?"

  "Oh, no, it's too early. Just see that he gets this.” The card was embossed, pearl on white. “Women of the Doll,” it read. “Tell us what you want.” No address. Just a phone number, prefix 1-900. She was sure he would be using it. Any messages would be forwarded to her.

  A car horn sounded outside. “Come again!” chirped the clerk as Josette hurried to the door.

  As she stooped to ease her luggage wheels over the threshold, she noticed a place where the marble floor was cracked. It looked loose. She pried up a small section and put it in her pocket. Bit by bit, she would build it, her own place. She and all the others. Piece by piece.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  The Gods of Houston by Rebekah Frumkin

  The vacation ended with Missy Elle's nose-dive into the canyon. Momma Laurent had been driving, and everyone knew Momma Laurent was no good since that deep scratch she'd gotten on her cornea weeks ago. She had to wear a huge black eye patch that obscured half of her face. Missy Elle said it made her look like a pirate, but Nixon thought she was too fat.

  Missy Elle sat up front with Momma Laurent. They were in Utah, Missy Elle having decided that they could all benefit from mountain air because it was supposed to do something to the lungs. The cab was small, and Reagan kept on hiccupping. Nixon held his finger-gun to Reagan's forehead, but apparently the idiot was no longer afraid of death.

  The road was narrow and Missy Elle was consumed with the mountain vista. As they wound up the crest, she pointed several times to dried trees or the occasional deer staring obliquely through the white globes of its eyes. Missy Elle was broad and beautiful. Having just eaten dinner, she was comfortable with sitting still and observing. She wore heavy coveralls and heavier makeup. When she pointed at something she liked, she always used the finger with the warped, peeling fingernail. This unnerved Nixon.

  "Look at that. Would you look at it?” She pointed at a small brook meandering next to the road. She turned to Momma Laurent, then to the boys. “Are you two enjoying it?"

  Reagan pressed his face to the window. “Looky,” he sang. “Looky, looky, looky."

  Nixon smiled. “He's making fun of you."

  "Who is?” asked Momma Laurent.

  "Reagan. He's making fun of Missy Elle."

  Reagan snapped back from the window and raised both his middle fingers at Nixon; he couldn't raise the middles without the ring fingers joining in, so he looked pathetic. Nixon clapped.

  "Idiot."

  "Shut up!"

  "Shut up, both of you,” Momma Laurent said.

  "Look,” Missy Elle hummed.

  She was pointing at a series of trees naked from controlled burning. “Pull into the turnout, Momma. I want to look at these trees and the valley."

  Momma Laurent navigated off the road and stopped. Missy Elle emerged from the truck and stood on the very edge of the mountain, touching a leafless tree. There was hardly room enough for her to leave the side of the pickup because the cliff was so narrow. She was haloed by a break in the clouds, a thin knife of sun, her broad frame suddenly effulgent. She raised her arms and called something into the valley below her.

  "Come back in the truck,” Reagan said, his breath dewy on the windowpane.

  Nixon rolled his eyes. He could feel a film of sweat forming on the insides of his thighs. Before leaving for the drive, he and Reagan had been eating vanilla ice cream in the motel room. He had left his unfinished bowl in the fridge and now ached for it.

  As if to encourage Missy Elle to get back in, Reagan opened his door wide. It hung over the edge of the cliff.

  "Missy Elle wants us to back up so she can get in."

  Momma Laurent nodded, her bandaged eye blind to Missy Elle and the valley. “All ready?"

  "Yep."

  Momma Laurent began to back out of the turnout. The open door caught Missy Elle on the back. She wobbled, turned to Nixon and Reagan with a look of pathetic confusion, and lost her footing entirely. By the time Momma turned, she had fallen. Nixon got out of the cab, saw what was left of her, and vomited. Momma Laurent opened her door, rose from her seat, and walked to the edge of the mountain. She flattened her hand to her mouth and then walked to the road, where she kneeled, silent, and crawled about as though she were looking for something. Nixon made Reagan get out too.

  "I'm goddamn freezing cold,” Reagan said.

  "It was your fault for opening the door,” Nixon said paternally.

  Reagan said nothing. He turned to his brother. He looked as though he were being made to walk the plank, a finger-gun in the small of his back.

  * * * *

  It had been Missy Elle's idea to adopt Nixon and Reagan. According to the adoption agency, when Nixon was seven and Reagan was almost five, they had been living on welfare in a community north of El Paso and had experienced a shootout between a native and a ranger. Their birthmother had included this information in the adoption papers, as well as the fact that Reagan had had a stroke after birth and would always limp a little on the right side. Nixon's name was Timothy and Reagan's was Oscar, but the birthmother had insisted the boys be renamed. She felt the names she had chosen were boring.

  In the mug shots the birthmother had taken, Timothy was licking his front teeth and grinning. He had a grotesque number of freckles. Oscar was sleeping. His skin was perfectly white, strangely untanned. Missy Elle had thought Timothy looked like a Nixon because he had a radish-like nose and the splotched, sunburned skin of a cancer victim. Reagan's name had been chosen by default, by the
convenience of the current presidency.

  Nixon couldn't remember the actual shootout, but he often had dreams about it. In his dreams, he and Reagan were walking through a pueblo. The sun was coming into the room in shafts, giving the illusion of stripes. He and Reagan were looking at a vase on a table. Before anything could be said about it, the vase started to rattle. The legs of the table buckled. Six gunshots sounded from the sky. A small, terra-cotta-hued Indian was walking bow-legged up to the ranger, who was holding a rifle. The Indian fired his automatic once. Every time Nixon had the dream, the Indian fired at the ranger and hit him in the heart. Even though he was bleeding from the chest, the ranger kept on living; he would start shooting and reloading with one of those old-fashioned pipe cleaners. He could never hit the Indian. When Nixon woke up, he always felt a dusting of gunpowder on his face.

  * * * *

  Momma Laurent brought out her slender cigarette holder and her nice shoes. She sat on the porch and waved when the van pulled up. She signed the certificates permitting her to be an official guardian. After the van pulled away, she kneeled and grabbed each boy's chin. It was meant as a gesture of affection, but Nixon felt like she was actually trying to steal his chin for herself.

  "We have you two because we don't want men putting anything in us, even if it's only for kids."

  Nixon half-smiled. Reagan blinked. He'd just awakened from a nap.

  Missy Elle appeared behind Momma Laurent on the porch and grabbed her shoulders. Nixon was immediately taken by her twofoot-long mane of blond hair. He observed that they were both fat, but the blond one hid it with coveralls.

  "I'm your new mommy,” Momma Laurent grunted. “You can call me Momma Laurent."

  "I'm your mommy, too.” Missy Elle kneeled, causing Momma Laurent to jump to one side. “We don't have any daddies."

  "No daddies?” Reagan asked.

  "None."

  "Not even the kind that leave?” Nixon asked.

  "None,” she said again.

  "Damn,” Nixon whispered. He'd wanted to go fishing.

  Reagan couldn't fall asleep the first night, so Nixon had to sit with him in their room, against the wall, until midnight. They were meant to share a bunk bed shaped like a fire truck, but the top bunk carried the threat of falling off and dying. Nixon had recently discovered that he was afraid of death. To stop thinking about it, he told Reagan stories about seeing women naked. The only naked woman he had ever seen had been their birthmother, and he had discovered that she was beautiful. Her torso was a half-face with nipples as eyes and her stomach a mouth, the flattened triangle of her crotch the mysterious beard of some old count. He made their mother into six different people and told Reagan stories about each of them. They could hear groaning on the other side of the wall.