by Harlan Ruud
'I feel like Jack Kennedy,' I say, holding her hand, 'when he said he would be forever known as the man who accompanied Jackie to Paris.'
'Jackie Onassis,' she scoffs. 'Please. That cunt.'
She laughs.
Silently, we walk past Hendrix's castle in the sand and, moving inland, toward the rolling dunes that stretch further in the distance to the low, shrub-covered hills. Soon, we are unable to see either the beach or Essaouira's crumbling, white skyline. Around us, there is only sand; above us, only sky.
Releasing my hand, Maggie steps away from me, then down the steep, soft incline of a sand dune. Midway, she stumbles and falls forward, rolling sideways to the curving basin between the rising hills of fine, brown sand.
She sits straight, laughing, and looks up at me.
'Come down here,' she says.
At her side, still standing, I watch as she pulls the kerchief from her hair, then raises her arms and takes off her T-shirt. She is not wearing a brassiere.
She stands and takes off her jeans and white panties. She begins to walk away, but then abruptly stops and turns toward me.
I stand where I am and look at her: from her face to her neck to the chestnut-brown circles of her nipples, down her smooth belly to her belly button to the triangle of trimmed, black hair between her legs. I look at her legs, the inside of her thighs, along the length of her calves to her ankles, and finally to her sand-flecked feet.
I begin to undress. First, I drop my pants in the sand, then take off my shirt. She stares at my crotch, smiling. I take off my underwear, then hang them on my erection.
Maggie laughs, then says:
'Pig.'
My hands at my side, I jiggle my cock, causing the underwear to fall.
Again, she laughs.
'You boys are so talented,' she says.
I look down at my cock and continue, with my hands at my side, to jiggle it up and down, side to side.
'Okay, you can stop now,' she says, frowning. 'It's starting to give me the creeps.'
I stop and look up at her. We smile at each other but do not move. We stand, perhaps fifteen feet apart, and simply look at one another's nakedness in the bright, hot afternoon sun.
As I watch, she moves her right hand across her belly and down between her legs. Staring at me, she begins to stroke herself, gently parting her labia and then slowly inserting her index finger into the soft, pink folds.
'Have you ever wondered,' she asks, her hand still moving gently between her legs, 'why I never ask you about your father?'
Pulled from my thoughts, I look up at her face; her eyes are now closed.
'What?' I ask.
'I mean,' she says softly, 'here you are, someone I've only just recently met. You tell me that you've killed your father, though you later deny it, kind of, and other than that one time in Tangier, I never bring it up. Don't you wonder why?'
'No,' I reply, looking between her legs, then again to her face. 'I don't.'
'Maybe you should,' she says, opening her eyes.
'Maybe I will,' I reply, stepping toward her.
'Stop,' she demands. 'Just watch me.'
I stop, taking hold of my erection, and begin to slowly stroke it.
'You're the boss,' I say.
'Did you do it?' she asks, slowly moving her finger in and out of her vagina.
I take a deep breath and slowly exhale.
'Do what?' I ask.
'Kill your father,' she replies.
'You've asked me that before,' I say.
'I'm asking you again. Now.'
'No,' I reply, 'I didn't.'
'Are you positive?'
'Yes.'
'Are you sure?'
'No.'
I continue to stroke my cock and stare between her legs.
'You're not sure?' she asks.
'Yes.'
'What?'
'No.'
She is silent for a moment, raising her free hand and stroking the shadowed curve between her breasts.
'How did you do it?' she asks.
'Let me fuck you, baby,' I reply. My mouth is dry.
'Tell me how you did it,' she persists.
I am silent, staring at her as I stroke myself.
'You're crazy,' I say.
She lowers both her hands and steps slowly across the warm sand toward me. I look up at her face. She places both her hands on my chest and kisses me below the neck. I shudder, raising my hands, and pull her close against my body.
'So are you,' she whispers.
Gently, I lower her onto the warm sand and kneel between her legs. She looks up at me, silent, emotionless. Leaning forward, I take my cock and rub its swollen head between the warm, moist folds of her pussy.
Arching her back, she turns her face away from me, softly moaning. Slowly, I put my cock inside of her. I lower my head and kiss the side of her neck, then whisper in her ear:
'I strangled him.'
'New York, huh? he says. 'Ulysses, do you know how many young people have gone to New York with the hope of becoming a star?'
'I didn't say I wanted to be a star,' I reply. 'I said I wanted to be a dancer. I want to dance.'
He is silent, looking at me.
'Sit down,' he says, tapping the kitchen table with his knuckles.
I sit down across from him and fold my arms. He says nothing, looking at the floor. Turning toward me, he puts both his hands on the table and says:
'You can be sure I won't try to stop you from finding out for yourself,' he says. 'I knew you'd leave; knew it before even you did. But I'll warn you right now, boy; you'll be back.'
'To visit,' I reply, hating him.
'To visit,' he repeats, 'and eventually to live. You'll be back to live.'
'No,' I reply, 'I won't. I'll die before I come back here to live.'
He looks at me as if lost in thought.
'I hope you're right,' he says.
'My father was a quiet man with a vicious temper,' I say, passing Maggie a joint. 'And he was far from loving. But I sure didn't want to kill him. I mean, there wasn't enough anger there for me to want to kill him. He was just another man I didn't get along with. That's all.'
She takes the joint, holding it to her lips.
'Granted,' I say, 'he got meaner as the years went by. Well, it's funny, because he got less mean with me, less violent, but he got crankier, in general. Bitterer – bitter, he got more bitter.'
Maggie looks at me, puffing several times on the joint, inhaling deeply, then returning it.
'Now, my grandfather, I could've killed,' I continue, taking the joint and holding it. 'Him, I could've strangled to death with my bare hands. He was a –'
Suddenly, I stop, looking down at the floor. It's as if I've forgotten something. The thought vanishes just as abruptly, however, and I look up again at Maggie.
'He was,' I continue, 'a vicious, bitter, smart, violent man – right to the end. And I could easily have killed him. Hell, I wish I had. But I didn't. And I didn't kill my father.'
I puff on the joint, holding the smoke in my lungs, and look at her.
'Liar,' she says, leaning against the headboard and clasping her hands behind her head.
I shake my head in frustration, exhaling.
'I think you want me to have killed him,' I say. 'Is that what you want? I've heard – read – that there's a certain kind of woman who gets turned on my murderers.'
I take another puff, watching her.
'Obviously, you don't owe me anything,' she says, leaning forward and holding out her hand, 'but what I would like, if nothing else, is the truth. I'm – I'm tired of these silly games.'
'Silly games?' I exclaim. 'How the hell am I playing silly games?'
I pass her the joint, then lean my shoulder against the door and fold my arms, looking at her.
Though the light above the sink is turned off, the room is softly lit with the dim, late-afternoon sunlight coming through the huge, opened windows.
'
Either you killed your father,' she says, between puffs, 'or you didn't. You told me the night we met that you did. The next afternoon, in the café, you told me that you didn't, but then you said that you might've. Earlier today, you said you did; now you say you didn't. Those are the games I'm talking about.'
Maybe, I think to myself, I just don't care.
'Now, it's bad enough that you say one thing one day and another thing the next,' she continues. 'But saying you've killed your father isn't quite the same as what most people will lie to strangers about, you know. Like you're a black-belt in Karate, or – or that your mama's rich and your daddy's good-looking. I mean, if you had said that all this talk of killing your father was some type of metaphor, well, I could understand. But you didn't say that: you said you strangled him. That's pretty specific. And then – and then this whole business of disappearing from Tangier and saying you thought it was me who had disappeared.'
'I told you what happened with that,' I reply, realizing suddenly that I had forgotten about it.
'Yes, you did,' she says. 'And on its own it's not such a big deal. I mean, who hasn't freaked out or – or blacked out, or whatever? But when added to a confession of murder and – oh, let's not forget the fact that you did admit to blacking out in the past and –'
'I didn't say I blacked out,' I interrupt. 'I said I sometimes forget what I've done. There's a difference. I get preoccupied, that's all.'
She leans forward, laughing. Smoke drifts from her opened mouth.
'What the fuck do you think blacking out is?' she asks. 'It's forgetting what you've done.'
I look down at the floor, then close my eyes.
'Well?' I hear her say.
I look up.
'Well what?' I ask.
She groans, as if exasperated, then snuffs out the joint in the ashtray on the nightstand.
'Are you blacking out now?' she asks, sarcastically.
'Zoning out,' I reply. 'Not blacking out.'
'Oh, I see,' she says, giggling. 'You're stoned, I take it.'
'Boned?'
'I said stoned, you idiot.'
'Just keeping you on your toes,' I reply, winking.
'Whatever. Now answer my question, damnit.'
'I don't know,' I say softly.
'Know what?' she asks.
I say nothing.
'Know what?' she repeats loudly, sounding angry.
'I don't know whether or not I – whether or not I killed my father. I don't remember. I don't think I did. I don't have any memories of doing it. But I don't have any memories of that day, period, other than when I buried him. Well, I do remember a spot of blood on his face, but I don't know where it came from.'
'Maybe you shot him,' she says.
'I would've remembered that,' I reply.
She is silent, watching me closely.
'I have a wonderful way of compartmentalizing things,' I say, grinning.
'Like all men,' she replies.
'If I don't want to think about something,' I continue, 'I don't. I tell myself to stop – and I stop. Like that. It's not that I forget about it, not really. I just put it away in – in a compartment.'
'And you think that's what you've done with what happened?'
'No. Well, I don't think so. Like I said, I don't necessarily forget about the things that have happened. It's like – it's like the sky: unless it's storming, I'm aware that it's there, but I don't think about it. I don't question it. You know?'
'Let me ask you this: why do you think you might have killed him?'
'Because I don't remember not killing him,' I reply, laughing, 'and I keep having these strange thoughts and dreams and – I don't know.'
'And all this is funny to you?' she asks, frowning.
'There're different kinds of laughter, Maggie,' I reply, as I stop laughing, 'and very few of them are a result of something funny.'
'How philosophical of you,' she says, smirking. 'You should wear a beret.'
I give her the finger.
'Hey,' she suddenly exclaims, ignoring me. 'Was your father sick? Maybe it was a mercy killing.'
'No,' I reply, shaking my head, 'he wasn't sick. Well, he had been acting strange, kind of like he had Alzheimer's, but more ornery than anything. Not anything that would warrant a – a mercy killing.'
Her shoulders slump, as if in defeat, and she clucks her tongue.
'Maggie,' I say.
'What?' she replies, looking up at me.
'Let me ask you a question.'
'Go ahead.'
'Well, it's more of an observation than – than a question.'
'So?'
'Well,' I begin. I speak slowly, deliberately, as if reading from a menu. 'You don't seem bothered by any of this. I mean, you're curious, it seems, but not, you know, bothered.'
'And?'
'And doesn't it seem like most people would be bothered somehow by a man they've just met confessing to – to killing his father? Unless of course you are one of those women who –'
'A bank-robber might turn me on,' she says, interrupting me, 'but not a murderer, for God's sake. Well, a murderer could probably turn me on, but not because he's a murderer.'
'That doesn't answer my question.'
'You said it was an observation, not a question.'
I shrug and close my eyes, shaking my head.
'You can stop now,' I hear her say.
I open my eyes.
‘What?’
‘You can stop shaking your head,’ she says, ‘and pass me my purse.’
I lean forward, picking her small, red-sequined purse off the floor, and pass it to her. She takes it, opens it, and begins rummaging through the jumbled contents. Unable to find what she is looking for, she turns the purse upside down and spills its contents onto the bed.
‘Here we go,’ she says. ‘Watch this.’
She picks up a safety-pin, bends, then straightens it, and looks at me.
‘Open your eyes,’ she demands.
‘They are open,’ I reply.
‘Oh, God,’ she says, groaning. ‘You’re pathetic. Really, you are.’
I shrug.
She looks at me and frowns.
‘Anyway,’ she says, rolling her eyes, ‘just stay with me, okay?’
Again, I shrug.
‘Okay?’
‘Okay,’ I reply.
I watch as she raises the safety-pin and, opening her mouth as if to show me what is inside, pushes its tip through her cheek. Raising her left hand, she puts her index finger inside her mouth and, with her thumb, snaps the safety-pin shut.
‘See,’ she says, the pin’s rounded tip hanging over her bottom lip. ‘No blood. No pain.’
I say nothing, watching her; I am beginning to get an erection.
She unsnaps the safety-pin, then pulls it, as if a sliver, out of her cheek. Gently tapping the smooth, unblemished skin with her middle finger, she tosses the pin onto the bed and smiles at me.
‘You should see how people react,’ she says, ‘when I do it in a bar.’
I lower my hand, squeezing my erection through my trousers.
‘This turns you on?’ she asks, raising her eyebrows.
‘You turn me on,’ I reply.
‘I’m sure I do,’ she says, beginning to pick up her belongings from the bed and return them to her purse. Once done, she retrieves a small, silver tube, unscrews its lid, and applies a thick layer of dark red lipstick. Finished, she drops the tube into her purse, then sets it next to the bed.
‘Does this turn you on?’ she asks, giggling.
‘Its possibilities do,’ I reply, unbuttoning my trousers.
Unsteady, I step back, resting against the wall, and slowly undo the remaining buttons.
‘Did your father have a big dick?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘But my son does.’
‘Your son?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘My son. Ulysses.’
She looks at me and smiles, then leans forward and s
lowly crawls, on her hands and knees, to the end of the bed.
‘Tell me all about him,’ she whispers.
'And Noah began to be a husbandman, and he planted a vineyard. And he drank of the wine, and was drunken. And he was uncovered within his tent. And Ham, the father of Canaan, saw the nakedness of his father and told his two brethren without.'
I look up at the wall, thinking, then return to the opened book before me.
'And Shem and Japheth took a garment, and laid it upon both their shoulders, and went backward and covered the nakedness of their father. And their faces were backward, and they saw not their father's nakedness.'
And how, I wonder, did they do that?
'And Noah awoke from his wine,' I continue, 'and knew what his younger son had done unto him. And he said, Cursed be Canaan; a servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren.'
I set the Bible on the desk.
'A servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren,' I repeat, looking out the bedroom window.
Why, I wonder, would Canaan, rather than his father, Ham, be curse? Why, indeed, would either one of them, in such a circumstance, be cursed?
It is not, I think, as if a laughing Ham had invited the neighbors to look at his father, naked and drunk, in the tent. No. He told his brothers, and then they covered their father.
What then, I wonder, did Ham initially tell his brothers? If you want a good laugh, boys, go check out Dad; he's naked in his tent. Or perhaps, Hey, Dad's passed out naked; let's shave his entire body and paint him blue.
The thought of it makes me smile.
The passage, I think, is like so much of the Bible, confusing not for what it says but for what it doesn't say.
The basic premise, it would seem, is that it is sinful to see one's father naked. But why, I can't help but ask myself, would such a thing be sinful? After all, what son has not, at one time or another, seen his father naked?
Perhaps it was the intent that gave birth to the sinful behavior. Did Ham want to see his father naked? Of this, however, there is no allusion in the text.
Was Noah's nakedness, then, simply a metaphor, similar to Eve's apple, representing forbidden knowledge? Are there certain things that a son should never know of his father?
I stretch back in the chair, crossing my ankles, and fold my arms.