Martin

by George A. Romero

  Guiding him into her with her hand, she started moving her hips. When she was sure he was in, she rolled on her back and he followed. Her body gyrated, rocking him in a movement that he had never felt. She dug her fingernails into his back and squeezed him with her thighs. It was as if she couldn’t get enough of him. Her hunger of the last few weeks was like starvation and the poor meek boy was not prepared for her ravenous desires. She pumped furiously, mauling him with eager hands. Her moans came from deep within her, and she closed her eyes to the dizzying, desperate feeling.

  Martin complied with her instructions, plunging deeper and deeper inside her until he felt he could go no further. She pulled at his hair and moaned as if in pain. He looked at her face, with her closed eyes and her grimace and thought he was hurting her. A look of terror crossed his face when he thought that he might be doing the wrong thing, but then she emitted soft, purring moans and pushed harder and harder, thrusting her pelvis against him. She pulled his face down to hers and shoved her tongue into his mouth deeply. As she reached her climax, she screamed and held him against her with such great force that he felt his bones might shatter. Then, as if in a rocking chair, she rolled back and forth on the bed.

  After a short time her breathing slowed down to normal, but she kept her legs locked in their embrace.

  “Did you go?” he asked.

  She laughed a deep throaty laugh, one that Martin had not heard from her before. He blushed, thinking that he had said the wrong thing. She urged his embarrassment away with soft kisses and gentle caresses.

  “Oh, baby . . . don’t you worry about me. I can take care of myself. Ooooh . . . it feels so good,” she said as she rolled her hips around his still-inserted penis.

  “I didn’t go,” he told her.

  “Mmmm,” she moaned. “That’s good for me.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, frightened that it would be all over and that he would be left swollen and throbbing.

  “Just wait a minute and you’ll see.”

  “What?”

  “I mean we can keep going,” she explained.

  “But I didn’t go.”

  “You will. We’ve got plenty of time. Just relax.”

  She threw her arms back against the pillows in complete abandon and the smile that spread across her face lit up the room. Martin was confused as he rested, propped up upon his elbows, still inside her. She growled in satisfaction like a cat.

  “Does it feel the same for a . . . for a lady?” Martin asked with curiosity as if they were discussing an operation.

  “As it does for a fella?” She played with his hair and ran her fingers lovingly over his face and down his neck. “Mmmmm, I hope so. I guess it must feel kinda the same. It feels great.”

  She looked up at Martin with great tenderness. She hadn’t known that the boy could be so sensitive. She had no regrets. It wasn’t just another pat on the ass and good-bye, but a thoroughly enjoyable experience for her, though really it meant no more than if they had shaken hands and parted polite friends.

  Suddenly Martin’s face dropped. “Oh . . . oh . . .”

  “What, baby?” she wondered, holding him against her.

  “Oh . . . I feel like I’ve got to go . . . oh . . . I don’t think I can wait.” Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  Mrs. Santini smiled warmly and wrapped her legs up around his waist. Still holding his head in her hands, she murmured, “Go ’head, baby. It’s OK.”

  Martin began his slow pumping motion, as if powered by an unseen engine. He closed his eyes and threw his head back.

  “Mmmm. Come, baby,” she said, supplying the sound effects.

  Moving her hips in time with his, Mrs. Santini urged him on.

  “No . . . no . . . just . . . just like this,” he said, and she stopped her thrusting. “Just like this. Just like this.”

  He bore his eyes into hers. His body tightened, and he pushed into her deeply but slowly with no further pumping necessary. With a shudder, he surrendered to his climax, moaning slightly through his open mouth. Throughout the entire experience, he had stared at her openly as if he could hardly believe the physical sensations coursing through his body. He breathed deeply, studying her face as if he were an experimenter testing the reaction of lovemaking in females. He was overwhelmed by the closeness, the tenderness that she had exhibited, and he felt a deep satisfaction that the blood could never give him.

  “There,” she said finally, patting him as if he were a dog.

  She ran her hand over his body, feeling each goose-bump respond and the smoothness of his skin. His body shivered, but he remained staring. She laughed gently at the astonished look on his face. His eyes held no threat, only the realization of some greater pleasure.

  “Hey . . . you all right?” she asked, concerned when the color did not return to his face.

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine,” he said slowly; then, with great reverence, “Thank you for doing this with me.”

  Her face opened into a wide grin. “Oh . . . ha . . . ha, you’re so cute . . . I just love you.”

  She wrapped her arms around him tightly, feeling great affection for him and his impulsive, innocent remark. Martin’s face registered his reaction to the hundreds of emotions that were filtering through his brain. Finally, he deciphered their code.

  “I love you, too,” he said, his voice muffled as she pulled him down onto her chest.

  But her eyes belied the moment as a wave of fear crossed them. “What have I created,” she worried, the smile wiped from her face.

  She shoved him gently with her hand, nudging him oyer to the side of the bed. Then she rolled over and reached for the bottle of whiskey near the bed and poured herself a tall iceless glass. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she sat up. Putting her head in her hands, she stayed very still for a moment.

  Martin watched her out of the corner of his eye. He was afraid to move, for fear that he would upset her. He didn’t know how to act in normal situations when his partner was still conscious. What did you say? He only knew how to clean up the blood and leave the place neat as a pin before he stole away.

  Abruptly, Mrs. Santini rose and picked up the housecoat which she had so passionately tossed on the floor only minutes before. She slipped it over her head, picked up the whiskey-filled glass from her night table, and went downstairs.

  Martin rushed over to his clothes and started dressing quickly. Then he paused and looked in the mirror at his face. The pallor and the thinness still greeted him, but somehow inside he felt fuller.

  He trotted downstairs, an expectant expression on his face.

  “I’m all dressed now,” he called as he bounded down, two at a time.

  As he came around the corner to the kitchen, he could hear her little sniffs and see her wipe her hand across her face. She was looking out the kitchen window, sipping her drink, with her back to Martin.

  “Arthur Bolanis is leaving town,” he said to her, hoping to start a conversation that would steer her away from her troubles and worries.

  She turned, the half-finished drink poised in her hand.

  “Arthur’s leaving?”

  “Yes,” Martin replied. “He thinks he can find better work in Indianapolis, but I know he’s wrong. I just came from Indianapolis. There’s no work there.”

  “So he’s leaving . . . for good,” she said to herself rather than Martin. Her eyes flickered with more than just idle interest.

  All of a sudden, the tears poured from her eyes as if from a faucet. Her face had been turned away from Martin but he could tell from the tilt of her head that she was crying. They were brimming with a sadness that was an over-reaction to Arthur’s leaving. It signified a much deeper melancholy.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked gravely.

  She tried to shoo him away with her hand. Clutching her drink, she wobbled over to the kitchen dinette and flopped into one of the chairs.

  “Why are you crying?�
� he repeated, unable to deal with her emotional outburst.

  “It’s nothing,” she said, wiping away the tears with a shaking hand.

  A look of fear crossed his face. “Did I hurt you? What did I do?”

  “It’s nothing, Martin,” she said quietly. “You didn’t do anything.”

  “You’re worrying about having a kid,” he said, terrified. “I should have worn one of those things . . .”

  She ran a hand through her hair, still damp from her arduous activity. “Oh, Jesus. No, Martin . . . no . . .” She looked up into his face, shaking her head with pity. Her face was streaked with the tracks of her tears, and all at once she looked very tired and worn-out to Martin.

  “It’s nothing to do with you,” she said softly.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she assured him.

  He walked to the table with carefully measured steps and sat down next to her. He watched as she sipped her drink and let her eyes wander around the kitchen. The walls were so familiar to her. Like a prisoner in solitary, she knew their every crack and crevice but still yearned for something different to appear. It never did.

  “Worrying about having a kid,” she laughed bitterly. “I can’t have kids. I can never have kids.” She turned her vacant eyes on Martin. Her speech was starting to become slurred, and he had to lean closer to understand her. “Something wrong inside, I dunno . . .” She threw the remainder of the whiskey in her glass down her throat in one swift movement. “So. Is that good for me or bad for me? Good for me?” Her eyes looked past Martin into the empty space of her kitchen. He just stared at her, afraid to respond, but even less sure if a response was called for.

  “Bad for me?” she glared at him. “No opinion. That’s why you’re so great to have around, Martin. You have no opinions.”

  A slight flash of annoyance crossed his face, but she continued unperturbed. “Everybody around me’s got opinions about me.”

  “I know,” Martin agreed, glad to be able to respond to something on his level. He could understand that. “That’s my least favorite thing.”

  “Ha. Your least favorite thing,” she snorted, getting up and walking over to the kitchen cabinet where she rummaged through the cans and cartons for the half-empty hidden bottle of whiskey. She poured herself another drink. “Well, it’s my least favorite thing, too.” She sloshed the alcohol around in her glass. “What the hell. So I don’t like olives, right. So fucking what!”

  She returned to the table and saw that Martin wore a puzzled expression on his face.

  “They all used to say to me, ‘You married an Italian, Mary. You gotta learn to like olives,’ ” she explained. “You like olives, Martin?”

  Again, her level of conversation reached his, and he responded eagerly, nodding his head and smiling.

  “Oh, kid, you don’t see how weird this is. What am I doing? What the hell am I doing with you?”

  “I won’t tell anybody,” he answered her pained expression.

  “Oh,” she moaned, grabbing his thin wrist in her hand. She wanted to wipe his innocent expression away and start over. “Oh, you poor sweet little kid. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

  “Lucky?”

  She drew closer, her strong sour breath hitting Martin in the face like a gust of wind. Her eyes were puffy and swollen from crying, and she seemed a beaten and broken shell of her former vibrant self. “You and me have a lot in common, Martin. Because we’re different. You’re lucky because it doesn’t matter to you. You don’t care. You may not even realize it.” She looked at him with deep pity for his lack of awareness, but his simple naïveté was so heartening sometimes. It was less of a strain on her to be around him because he didn’t make her think. She could escape with him.

  “Oh, I know I’m different,” Martin said quite candidly. “I have my sickness.”

  “Ha . . . see what I mean? You’re beautiful. Oh boy, do I wish I could get there sometimes!” She paused to take a big gulp of her drink. A thin line of the amber liquid slid down the side of her chin, and she brushed it away with a shaking hand. “Get where you are . . . get . . .” Her eyes went blank and it seemed to Martin that she was a windup doll whose battery had just gone dead.

  She shook her head from side to side, as if in agony. The knuckles on her hand were white from clutching the drink.

  That was how Martin left her as he quietly closed the front door behind him. She didn’t even lift her head to acknowledge his departure. On his way home, Martin felt very sad and lonely. He was sure he had made her happy with the sexy stuff. She had smiled and cooed and laughed like a young girl. But he didn’t understand her melancholy mood at the kitchen table. Maybe it was something he had said—about Arthur’s leaving, perhaps. He would never understand women, he thought as he jogged the rest of the way home.

  • • •

  “I quit my job.” Christina’s face was set in determination. She stomped her foot on the carpeted floor of the sittingroom emphatically.

  Tati Cuda looked at her for a long time, as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

  “You’ll get another,” he said calmly, not allowing his facial expression to reveal his amazement.

  He turned and started to walk toward the kitchen, an almost imperceptible slouch to his shoulders.

  “Not around here,” she stopped him with her tone of voice. It was cold and hard, unlike anything he had ever heard from her. It was almost as if she were a different person.

  He glared at her, chastising her with his piercing eyes.

  “This is twice in my life that this crazy, mystical”—she fought against upbringing and culture for the word, but it finally exploded—“bullshit has affected me personally. Well, you all can go on messing each other up. I’m through!” Her face was crimson from anger, and she shook spasmodically in her rage.

  “Don’t use such language, Christina,” he answered, as if to a temperamental child.

  “Arthur told me about your concern for any children we might have,” she said sardonically.

  “Yes,” Cuda replied, reaching for his handkerchief and blowing his nose softly. Behind the shield of the cloth, his eyes were frantic. “Well, I am concerned. I couldn’t tell him about the truth.”

  Christina was furious. Her eyes flashed wildly, and she grasped the back of her chair for support. Never in all her life had she stood up for what she believed in, and this new-found power of the truth was overwhelming.

  “Oh, no,” she sneered at him. “Much too shameful. But isn’t it convenient that Martin is so crazy looking. You could say, ‘Look at poor Martin. It’s the family problem. He’s wacko, and you wouldn’t want your kids to turn out that way, would you?’ You could tell him that. That’s not so shameful. Nice little bit of insanity in the family genes. It’s such bullshit, Grandfather. It’s so God-damned hypocritical. What’s wrong with you? There is insanity in this family. And you’ve got it . . .”

  Tati Cuda advanced upon her with anger in his eyes. The sound of his slaps resounded in the tense room with hollow thuds.

  She reached up to her face to cover the searing red welts. She was speechless, stunned by his violence.

  “You will not use such language in my house!” he bellowed.

  “Language! Shit on the language!”

  His opened hand crossed her face again.

  “Shit on the language!” she shouted in defiance as another slap struck her soft white skin, which was now throbbing with pain.

  Tears rolled down her burning cheeks, but she would not be silenced. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” she cried out, as his hand answered each utterance.

  Finally, she could take no more and pulled away. She could see the rage in his face and knew that she was powerless against him. He would slap her insensible. She tumbled across the sittingroom and threw herself against the doorjamb. The old man just glared at her. Then he walked to the clothes tree and grabbed his jacket. His chest heaved with his heavy breathing but he put on his jacket calmly as if he wer
e preparing for a day at the shop. He straightened himself up and reached for his walking stick, moving right past her into the hall.

  “You don’t even hear me,” she said to the stubborn old man’s back.

  “I hear you. You are just wrong.” He planted his walking stick before him and placed his two hands on top of it as if waiting for her to refute his point. He had all the time in the world and was confident that she would come to her senses.

  “Oh,” she said in a low voice, without putting up a fight. “Well, goodbye, Grandfather Cuda.” She turned and headed for the stairs, moving quickly so that he couldn’t see the tears welling in her eyes.

  “Where will you go?” he asked, suddenly frightened that her threats were to be taken seriously.

  “I’m going with Arthur tomorrow morning,” she said, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand.

  “Christina,” he warned, shaking a wobbly finger at her back.

  She turned to face him.

  “Oh, don’t worry. We won’t have children. We probably won’t even wind up together. Arthur and I are . . . impossible anyway. We’re just gonna share the driving. See, I don’t particularly care this time, Grandfather. It doesn’t mean that much this time. But I’m not taking the chance that it ever will. So you can just sit here and eat each other up. Or should it be drink each other up? Like this whole damn town just sucked itself dry!”

  She swung herself around and charged up the stairs. The force of her own words surprised her more than the old man. For once, she had a clear view of who she was and what she wanted to do, and no elderly man with old-fashioned fears and superstitions was going to stop her now. Even if she had to ride all the way to Indianapolis with Arthur!

  In a way, the old man had done her a favor. He had given her the passport out of Braddock—the opportunity to free herself from his clutching arms and from the smothering atmosphere of the town. She shuddered to think that she had once hoped and dreamed of passing her days married to Arthur and living in the same house with Cuda. How could she have been so blind!

  “You’re wrong!” the old man tried to get in the last word.

  “Well, then . . . too bad for me!” she yelled as she reached the landing and disappeared from Cuda’s sight and into the sanctuary of her bedroom. She had so much packing to do before the morning.