Then Comes the Child

by Christopher Fulbright

  “This is...sheesh. What the hell is this?”

  “It’s a fertility fetish. The old man called it Kokumuo.”

  Dennis laughed. “Oh, Wes, you’ve gone too far.”

  “Not at all, man. Anything for a friend. I gave it to you on the plane so you don’t have a place to throw it away. Never know, man. This Kokumuo’s worth a try.”

  “Nice.”

  “Take it home. Keep it. Let me know how it works out for you.”

  “You have no conscience.”

  “Sure I do. I’m doing you a favor.”

  “Some favor. Thanks for the voodoo doll. What did you call it again?”

  “Kokumuo, and as for the favor – anytime.”

  They both grinned and Dennis didn’t throw it away. Shaking his head, he slipped it into his overhead baggage.

  Their plane arrived in Dallas-Ft. Worth just past 9 p.m., a few minutes ahead of schedule. By the time he made it to the end of the catwalk and saw Alison’s lithe form waiting for him in baggage claim, he forgot all about bloody cows, sweaty voodoo priests, and the stone-carved talisman.

  6.

  Back home Alison made him unpack his things and he slipped all of his clean laundry back into the drawers, throwing the voodoo fetish in with his socks. He wanted to show it to Alison as a joke, later, so he didn’t want to spoil the surprise. He was careful to deposit a pile of socks on top of the stone figure to sufficiently camouflage it.

  He went down the hall into the kitchen. Dennis paused at the threshold and looked in at Alison, half-turned away from him, stirring a pot of her special green chili stew that filled the room with its spicy fragrance. He admired her curves, the silken cascade of her hair down her back, a slight tilt to the way she held her head that made her seem delicate. She looked up from the stove, blinked her long lashes, and smiled at him. “What?” she asked, still stirring.

  The sight of that smile alone was enough to weaken his knees. “God, I missed you.” Dennis took her in his arms and Alison pressed her face into his chest. They came apart and kissed. He moved his hand to her hair, running it through his fingers. “That stew ready to eat?”

  “No. It needs to simmer for another hour yet.” Alison put the lid on the pot and a slight grin on her face.

  “That’s what I was hoping to hear,” Dennis said and scooped her up into his arms.

  Kicking and laughing, Alison feigned surprise as he carried her through the hall back to the bedroom and collapsed with her on the bed. With desperate, passionate kisses they yanked at each other’s clothes, not even bothering to fully undress. He hiked up her dress and she wrapped her legs around his hips in a wild, panting, exhaustive coupling that begged to make up for the days—the weeks—that had been lost between them.

  He rolled onto his back and sighed. Alison laughed, holding up a belt and one sock. She looked at the sock. “How did this get up here?”

  He took the sock from her hand and laughing, shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  Alison lay across his chest, stretching like a lazy, content cat. She propped herself onto one elbow and kissed him, slow and probing.

  “Wanna go another round?” he asked with a wink.

  Her expression abruptly changed. “We can. If you want to. Doesn’t matter, you know, for the baby. We missed the date on the chart again.”

  “Aw, damn.”

  “Three days ago. As much as they’ve got you traveling, it’s a miracle we have sex at all—forget trying to work a conception into the mix.”

  “Three days. That’s not too long. Can’t, you know, the stuff, survive up to forty-eight hours inside? Maybe the chart is off. Maybe we still have time.” He hated the terms. Hated the clinical process of it all. He missed the days when sex was sex, and making love was making love. Missed the days before it all was reduced to a couple of charts, thermometers, tests and urine on sticks.

  Alison shook her head. “The forty-eight hour thing would have to be reversed. The stuff, as you say, would have to be in there prior to ovulation or maybe a day afterwards. Not three days after the fact. It’s okay. It couldn’t be helped. There’s always next month.”

  “Yeah. Next month.” Dennis watched as Alison slid from the bed, straightened her dress, and returned to the kitchen, the welcome home mood decidedly slipping through his fingers. Damn the charts and ovulation dates, he thought. And she was right about all the time he was spending away from home. As much as he loved his job, it had become agony being gone for weeks on end. Maybe he should settle down at a local newspaper or something. Get on at the Morning News.

  He laid there listening to Alison cooking in the kitchen and to the tick tock of the brass pendulum on the clock standing on the dresser. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. With every swing of that metal arm, he felt time pressing in on him. Stealing away his hope. Alison’s hope. No matter how much he tried to will it into the recesses of his mind, the absence of a child in their home controlled his thoughts, shaped his thinking, and plagued his existence. And there was nothing he could do about it. Not a god damned thing.

  Or was there? Dennis rolled to his side and stared at the closed drawer on his dresser. Behind it laid socks and t-shirts, and a tiny stone statue with a really strange name that represented his desperation and last shreds of hope. He stared at the dresser drawer as if he expected something to happen.

  This is ridiculous, he thought. What sort of false hope was he setting up for himself with Wes’ little token? It was preposterous to even want to believe that a cold, stone figurine could embody any sort of power—any sort of hope. To expect that some superstitious rot could do what medical specialists could not was ridiculous. He laughed quietly and ran his hands through his disheveled hair.

  “Damn,” he muttered to no one. His eyes drifted to the small, framed photo next to the noisy clock: his son, Caleb. How many months had it been now since he had last held him, heard his voice, laid eyes on him? Dennis had lost count. Too long. Whatever it had been, it had been too long. When Alexandra moved across country there had been promises galore of visitations, vacations—but it had all been a ploy to get him to sign the legal papers allowing her to move to California with Caleb in tow. A ploy. Now he was fortunate to get a phone call—and whenever he called there, he got the usual litany of excuses or outright lies on why Caleb couldn’t come to the phone.

  He had a hole in his heart that nothing could fill except the love of a child, and try as they might, nothing he and Alison did produced positive results. He saw it in her eyes too. Every time she passed that photo of Caleb on the dresser, or the one on the mantle. Saw her look longingly at his child, the child he couldn’t have—one she couldn’t give him. It was all so unfair.

  And now he was lying there staring at a closed drawer thinking about a primitive fertility fetish, hoping against hope that somehow rubbing it like a genie’s lamp would materialize a baby into their arms.

  “Dinner’s ready!” Alison called.

  Dennis fastened his jeans and wandered into the kitchen.

  7.

  Dinner was quiet at first. Unspoken words hung heavily over them like a cloud of thick fog. Neither one said what was on their minds, but each of them knew exactly what the other one was thinking. A glance, a look. It was all there—always lurking. Her constant sense of failure. His constant sense of helplessness.

  “So, the trip went well?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Wes thinks he got some great shots. The first days at Accra and the Elmina Castle were nice. They have a beautiful palm fringed coast. I sat out on the beach under the moonlight there on my first night, just thinking.”

  “About?” Alison gave a half-smile and reached for her glass.

  “You, of course. I never think of anything but you.”

  “Aww, honey.” She reached for his hand across the table. “Maybe you can get Travel & Leisure to pay for me to go with you next time.”

  “God, that would be great. I’ll ask Kathy. I’m sure as soon as hell freezes over tha
t won’t be a problem.”

  Alison laughed.

  It felt a little easier between them, now. He could breathe again. The chili helped bring him out of his somber mood.

  “Well, I loved reading your e-mails—the whole trip sounded remarkable. I was so jealous!”

  “It was. Glad to be home though. Missed your cooking, among other things.”

  She smiled. “Glad you came on home. I was getting lonely. Speaking of lonely, did Wes meet any lovely native women?

  “You know Wes. His main love affair is with his camera.”

  “Man needs to get out more.”

  “Actually, he needs to stay closer to home more. Constant travel may be one big adventure, but it’s not exactly conducive to forming any relationships.”

  “That’s true.” Alison stood and started to clear the table. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good. I’m going to work on the article for a while, unless you have other plans?”

  “No. No, go on. I’m just going to clean up.”

  She poured some coffee and handed him his mug as he passed the kitchen and then disappeared back into the den.

  Poring over his notes and listening to the tapes he made, he slowly composed his piece for the magazine. Time crept away.

  “I’m going to bed,” Alison said, popping her head through the door.

  “Damn.” Dennis looked at the wall clock. “Midnight? I didn’t realize how late it was.”

  “That’s okay. I know how you like to get this stuff out of your head and onto paper when you get home. Just don’t stay up too late. You’ll be dragging tomorrow.” She smiled.

  “I won’t. Night,” Dennis said.

  She shut the door with a click. He could hear her bare footsteps across the wood floor in the hall.

  He sighed deeply, coffee gone cold—listening to the tree branches scraping the window. Drumming his fingers on his desk, he let his thoughts race: visions of slaughtered calves, dancing, topless natives and glistening voodoo priests in conical hats comprised a tangle of images within his mind. Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair. He could almost hear the drums around him again. His heartbeat accelerated as if in remembrance of the primal beat, throbbing at his temples.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  The air around him suddenly grew colder, as if the air conditioner had come on.

  But it’s January, he thought.

  A hand fell upon his chest.

  His t-shirt was suddenly tugged over his head and tossed to one side. His eyes popped open.

  Alison was there, straddling him, her long legs dangling over each of his, facing him, naked as the day she was born.

  He laughed and grasped her curved hips. Her skin was cool to the touch, as if she’d been outside. “I thought you were going to bed?”

  She held a finger to her lips and trailed kisses down his neck, over his chest, past his navel. Her long fingers deftly unfastened his fly and freed his erection, wrapping her full lips around him.

  He gasped. Her tongue felt cold, too—like she’d been eating ice. He shivered involuntarily and seized the armrests of the chair. Her pink tongue darted and curled around his hard shaft before she engulfed the whole of him down her throat. She looked up, a smile turning up the edges of her mouth wickedly. Her cool hands moved over him, teasing him, manipulating him. He shuddered and exploded over her red lips.

  Still silent she pulled herself back onto his lap, kissed him deeply, and then, as quickly as she had appeared, she slipped out of the room.

  He watched her shadow recede into the back hallway and disappear as if she’d never been there at all. Dennis sat, breathing hard, chest heaving. He shook his head and looked around. Had he dozed off? His bare chest and open jeans served as evidence that he hadn’t imagined the episode. He breathed deep and suddenly wanted a cigarette, although he’d quit three years ago. Dennis crossed the room to the mini-bar and fixed himself a drink. Wild Turkey, straight up.

  He gulped it down and headed to bed.

  In the bedroom, Alison slept soundly as if she’d been sleeping for hours. He smiled. Little devil, he thought and slid between the blankets next to her. He’d have to thank her tomorrow.

  8.

  He opened his eyes at 4:17 in the morning.

  She was touching him again.

  Alison straddled and hovered over him. He could see the shape of her face above him as she traced a fingertip down his stomach. She lowered her hips and pressed against him. He was getting hard. He felt the gentle touch of her pressed against the head of his shaft. He expected heat, warmth, dampness...but she was cold. His hands sleepily caressed her shoulder, traced down along her breast. He reached for her, gripped her hips and maneuvered himself beneath her, slipping inside her velvet folds.

  As soon as he began to penetrate her the chill increased to a frigid cold that bit the tender skin at the tip of his penis and he pulled out, catching his breath.

  He began to come fully awake and realized he was freezing. Was the window open?

  “Alison,” he muttered in the quiet darkness. “You’re cold.”

  She didn’t respond. She moved away from him under the sheets and seemed to disappear between his feet.

  Dennis sat up in bed. The clock said 4:23 A.M. The window was closed and the fan was off, but there was a palpable chill in the room.

  Alison lay next to him, seemingly sound asleep.

  “Ali?” he whispered.

  “Mmm,” she said, not really awake.

  She’s been sleeping all this time, he thought. And he knew it was true. So what in the fuck had just touched him?

  9.

  Dennis woke to an empty bed and the smell of coffee.

  He looked around the bedroom. The curtains were open revealing the morning sunlight and the blue Texas sky. Their home had a suburban view of more homes with the same view. Just inside the window was Alison’s blanket chest, a pair of jeans folded on top. His nightstand was piled with books and a water glass. On the floor on his side of the bed his clothes lay in piles where he’d left them when he came to bed. Other than that the room was clean and undisturbed. He was looking for signs of an interloper. His mystery girl who came in the dead of night.

  Ridiculous, he thought. And it seemed ridiculous, especially in the light of day.

  I must have been dreaming, he thought.

  Dennis pulled on his jeans and strode shirtless into the kitchen.

  “Morning,” Alison said. She was at the refrigerator pulling out food for breakfast. “Want an omelet and some toast?”

  He helped himself to a cup of coffee and took a deep sip before he responded.

  “Why don’t we get out of the house for breakfast? Do some shopping. I’ll get a check on Friday for this story and it should be a pretty good one. Maybe get you something nice?”

  “Hmm. Okay.” Alison kissed him. She made a face. “Brush your teeth, young man.”

  “You’re so demanding.”

  “I expect nothing but the very best out of you for the next few days at least. You’ve been gone and I thought all of these wonderful things about you. Don’t ruin it.”

  Dennis kissed her on the cheek. “I suppose you want me to take a shower, too.”

  Alison folded her arms and faced him with this, Okay-mister-let’s-cut-the-chatter-and-get-with-it kind of stance. Remarkable, he thought, how she communicated all that by simply folding her arms and slightly jutting one hip.

  He put up one hand in mock supplication. “Say no more.”

  He took his coffee cup and headed for the bathroom to get ready. Before he left the kitchen, he paused. “Ali?”

  “Yes?”

  “Last night, after you told me you were headed to bed, did you...get up again?”

  “I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. I didn’t sleep well this week. Just having you home made all the difference.”

  “You didn’t get up at all?”

  “Not that I remember.” Sh
e frowned at him. “Why?”

  He shook his head. Laughed. “I guess I must’ve been dreaming. I thought you came in and...uh, pleasured me last night.”

  She laughed. “Pleasured you?”

  “Yeah, you know.” He made the grade school sign for oral sex with one pumping cupped hand and tongue in cheek.

  She laughed. “No such luck, cowboy. But you might get lucky this afternoon if the shopping trip goes well.”

  “Sweet.”

  “Go take a shower.”

  “I’m going.”

  10.

  The shopping trip did indeed go well, and they added an afternoon matinee so they didn’t get home until 4:00 in the afternoon. They napped, made love, and curled up on the couch in front of CNN. The evening slipped away and it occurred to Dennis just how happy he was with her. How content he was right now, just the two of them together, curled on the couch with her in his arms, her delicate body warm against his. There was nothing else at he would rather have been doing. He turned off the television and closed his eyes. He felt her breathe. He changed his breathing to match hers.

  “Honey,” he muttered softly in her ear.

  “Hmm.”

  “I love you.”

  “I know.” She turned her head to kiss him. She smiled. He stared at her.