When they were spent, Laura lay in the darkness of the bedroom for some time, thinking, before falling asleep. Drew washed up, put some cortisone cream on his toe, and retired for the evening.
In the middle of the night Drew awoke with a start from a powerful nightmare. He'd been dreaming he was in the deep end of the pool at the old Evanston YMCA. Surrounded by a school of tiny dark sharks. Blood clouding behind him. Trapped. He came awake to the feeling of heat in his loins. A magnificent erection was tenting his pajama bottoms. He reached under the blankets and touched himself.
A jolt of electricity shot up his leg.
Drew brought his hand to his mouth. He tried to suppress the gasping. The pain was worse than ever now. It felt as though his tendons were plugged into a live socket. He closed his eyes and waited for the seething to subside, lips tight as stitches, beads of sweat dotting his brow. He tried not to make a sound. The last thing he wanted to do was wake Laura.
If she knew he was wearing the toe clip to bed she would kill him.
IV.
There was an ancient card table over in the corner of the waiting room where a pot of stale coffee sat fermenting on a hot plate. Laura had gone through half the pot already. She wore her hair in a tight pony tail. No makeup. A bulky cableknit sweater shrouding her tense body.
The worst part wasn't the waiting. Northwestern Hospital was the best in the city; they would take good care of Drew. The worst part wasn't even the guilt that her husband was losing his mind and all she could do was hump his brains out whenever he starting abusing himself with that fucking torture device. No, none of these facts compared to the conundrum she had discovered earlier this morning when she dug the tiny black jewelry box out of the top of Drew's dresser and read the label.
"Honey —?" A voice rang out.
Laura glanced up and saw Drew at the far end of a fluorescent drenched corridor. He was on crutches. Moving slowly. His face was pale, yet somehow relieved. Laura rushed up to greet him. "What's the verdict?"
"They gave me some antibiotics," Drew said, pecking her on the cheek and heading for the door.
"And —?"
"And they said to take it easy and the toe would heal."
"Take it easy?" Laura followed him through the automatic doors and into the parking lot. It took them several moments to make it to the BMW. When they finally reached the car, Drew had his hand on Laura's ass.
"Listen — stop it, Drew — listen to me —" She opened the passenger door and helped him inside. Then she walked around the other side, climbed behind the wheel and took a deep breath.
"What's wrong?" Drew was trying to get his hands under her sweater.
"There's something weird about that spider clip thing, okay... "
"Weird is good," Drew grinned.
"Drew, I'm serious — the address on the box — the return address is for The Cherry Novelty Company — it says Twenty-three Simmons Parkway in Newark, New Jersey... "
Drew found Laura's nipples under the sheer fabric of her bra. "So what?"
"Place sounded familiar — stop that, Drew — so I called it into the data bank at work. Are you ready for this?"
"Lay it on me."
"Twenty-three Simmons Parkway doesn't even exist. 'Bout ten years ago the FBI surrounded this right-wing religious group in a Jersey warehouse at Twenty-three Simmons. Buncha real sicko fundamentalists. Called themselves God's Vigilantes. Said they were gonna cleanse the world, clean up the streets, all that shit — it made all the tabloids... "
"Slow down, Laura." Drew was wrestling with her brassiere. Laura could feel her crotch beginning to warm and it bothered her. "Drew, they burned the warehouse down! Twenty-three Simmons Parkway is a parking lot today! It's not even —"
Drew covered her mouth with his lips. Laura could taste the desire on his tongue. It tasted like cinnamon. It made her wet despite her panic. She reached down and felt his crotch. He was granite. She locked the doors.
They made love, quickly, as the sounds of hospital traffic and pedestrians swirled around their car. Laura pretended they were home. It was the only way she could handle it. But as Drew was building to a climax, cords popping in his neck, face contorted in ecstacy, Laura saw that he had slipped the tiny spider clip back onto his wounded toe.
"Drew, goddamnit —!" Laura shoved him away, catching her breath. "Get rid of that fucking thing!"
She pulled her sweater back on and started the car.
They drove home in silence.
Laura spent the rest of the evening watching Drew hobble around the apartment as if nothing had happened. That night, as Drew dozed, Laura lay awake in bed, the cool liquid dread filling her veins. She ruminated about the bogus address on the little black box. She thought about Drew's festering toe. She thought about pain.
The rest of the week passed in a blur. At work Laura merely went through the motions. Distracted. Terrified. Each night she would come home and find Drew huddled in the corner of the bathroom, cock greasy with KY, face flushed, the Spider clinging to his bandaged toe.
Friday evening was the last straw. Laura came home early. The apartment was dead silent. The ticking of the mantle clock pounded in her ears as she explored the empty rooms. She could smell the sharp stench of vomit. She heard something dripping in the bathroom. She went inside and her breath froze in her lungs.
Drew was soaking in the tub, semiconscious, the water soupy with his own blood and vomit. His mangled toe was hanging off the side. Thick, viscous blood streaked the porcelain.
"Jesus, baby —" She dropped to her knees next to him, tears burning her eyes. "We gotta get you some help."
V.
"Mr. Taubman?"
The voice came through the Demerol haze like an underwater sonar blast. Drew had been lying on the examination table for ten minutes now, an IV stick pumping antibiotics into his wrist. He felt as though he was stapled to the tabletop.
The physician pulled a chair next to the table, sat down and licked his lips. He had a pair of half-glasses lowered on his patrician nose and an awkward expression that was impossible to read. "You say this dog repeatedly bit you?"
"That's right. Neighborhood mutt."
The doctor frowned. "We've done all we can do today."
"Which means —?"
"Tomorrow we'll check you into a room. I'll have Emily schedule the surgery."
Drew's throat filled with acid. "Surgery?"
The doctor nodded. "The good news is, we only need to take the first joint of the big toe to stop the infection."
Drew stared at him for quite some time before closing his eyes so that he could cry in peace.
VI.
"Do it, Drew."
Laura was waiting. She had lifted the lid of the dumpster and now she was waiting. Drew nodded and pitched the little black jewelry box inside. Laura let the lid slam. The stench hung in the chilled air around them for a moment as they stared at the dumpster with silent finality.
Then they went inside.
It was late and they were both exhausted. Laura fixed a light dinner of steamed vegetables and Drew sat through most of the meal in stunned silence, sipping his tea, thinking. Laura tried to make conversation but it was pretty futile. There was a pall hanging over them.
After dinner Drew changed his bandages, took a couple of sedatives, and packed a duffel bag for his upcoming stay in the hospital. Laura wrote in her diary. By midnight they were both in bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Drew?" Laura whispered in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
"It's gonna be alright." She leaned over and gently nuzzled his neck. Drew returned the gesture and kissed her forehead. She pulled him into a tight embrace and whispered, "Make love to me."
There was a long agonizing silence. Laura saw that Drew's face was wet with tears.
"I can't."
Laura hugged him tightly. "It's okay, baby... it's okay... just hold me... just hold me
and never let go... "
She held him that way for quite some time until his tears dried and sleep claimed him. After a few more minutes Laura gently released him, rolled over and glanced at the clock. The LED glow said 2:30. Jesus. Another sleepless night. Granny Eagan used to call them white nights. All the formless, half baked fears roiling around in Laura's head. Images of the razed warehouses at Twenty-three Simmons Parkway. Gruesome police photos. Charred bodies coming out on gurneys. Crude hand-drawn ads in the back pages of skin magazines. Nameless faces in grainy—
A sound.
At first Laura thought it might be the sound of limbs scratching the window. She gazed through the murky shadow play and saw the outline of the curtains. The window. The silhouette of maple branches quivering in the night breeze. But nothing was scratching the glass. Nothing made contact.
There it was again! Definitely coming from outside. An incongruous noise. Under the breeze. Under the sway of elms. Under the rustle of leaves. A faint clattering sound coming in fits and starts. For some reason Laura suddenly flashed on an image from her childhood. She had captured a big June bug once and had watched it die. Buzzing feverishly in the vacuum of a mason jar, its death throes had fascinated the little girl.
Now the sound was closer.
Laura's mind raced through the possibilities. Raccoons sometimes gnawed at the cyclone fence between buildings. Once in a while a neighbor would discover an injured bat wedged in a gable vent or chimney cap. Sighing, Laura pushed the blankets aside, slipped out of bed and went over to the window. She yanked the shade open and peered down into the shadows.
A little black marital aid was crawling up the side of the building.
Laura felt her scalp crawl and panic trumpet in her mind. She put her hand to her mouth and backed away, eyes blazing like shiny silver coins. She bumped the edge of the bed and jolted Drew out of his snore but the sedatives buffered him from waking. The spider clip reached the window and began burrowing into one corner, chewing at the glass, a black wasp worming its way into a nest.
"Drew! Jesus God!!" Laura wheeled around to shake her husband awake but it was already too late; behind her, the window was cracking.
The marital aid cobbled through a jagged breach, dropped off the edge of the sill and vanished into the shadows of the room. Laura could hear its tiny joints clacking furiously through the shag. An instant later it emerged from under the bed and came for her. Tail wire flagging. Needle legs churning through the pile. Laura turned and clawed for the door. The spider reached her and started up her leg.
Laura's cry was like a splash of icy water on Drew's face, awakening him instantly.
Drew rolled off the edge of the bed and fell to the floor. He saw the flurry of movement in the doorway. Laura was tearing at herself, clawing at something puckering up her thigh. Droplets of blood sparkled on her and Drew suddenly recognized the horrible little black thing on her leg.
Drew found his voice. "LAURRRRRRA!!!"
He lunged at her. Momentum tossed both of them to the floor. Pain erupted in Drew's bandages. He ripped the marital aid from Laura's flesh and flung it across the room. The thing struck the far wall. Bounced to the floor. Righted itself. Then scuttled back at them.
Drew urged his wife out of the bedroom.
They clamored through the darkness and into the bathroom. Drew slammed the door and locked it. Brain swimming with pain, bandaged feet throbbing, Drew tried to catch his breath and calm Laura. She was convulsing with terror, trying to speak, moving her lips fitfully but saying nothing. Drew held her. He stroked her hair and murmured, "Think, okay – think — there's gotta be a reason for—"
The whirring sound cut off his words. Under the door. Tiny spider legs were ripping carpet filaments.
"Fuck!!"
The device bore itself like a chrysalis, shivering into the bathroom. Laura screeched. Tiny mandibles skittered around the rug at her feet, circling her. Drew tried to stomp on it. Tried to squash it like a beetle. But the device was too clever. Too fast. It dodged his bandaged assault and went for Laura's insteps.
"Drew – Drew — Jesus-Jesus-JESUS!!" Horror-stricken laughter bubbled out of Laura, corrupting into screams. The device bit into her foot and began to climb.
"Goddamnit!!" Drew ripped the marital aid off his wife. He tried to hurl it away but it stuck to his hand. Pincers dug into soft flesh. Pain shot up his wrist. Endorphins squirted through his brain stem. Pleasure erupted in his groin. "NO!" he countered furiously, fighting the lust, smashing his hand against the side of the sink. The plastic device wriggled to free itself.
Drew slipped on a damp spot and fell. The back of his skull caught the edge of the tub. Drew felt his body go numb and sparks fill his vision. The world melted to grey and then faded to nothing but black.
Black silence.
VII.
"—Laura —?"
Drew smelled the rich, coppery smell of blood as he swam back to consciousness on the damp floor of the bathroom. He tried to see. His temples drummed painfully. His neck flared with stiffness. But all these feelings became secondary when he laid eyes on the body next to him.
"—LAURA —?!!"
She was prone, arms akimbo, face turned away and filled with an empty expression. Scallops of blood pooled beneath her. The little black marital aid was missing. Drew pulled himself toward his wife. "—oh my God, Laura, honey, are you—?"
Then he saw the marks. Starting around her ankles. Little red needle prints. Pocked, like a junkie's tracks. Running up her calf and over her knee. Along her inner thigh. Upward. Until they finally vanished into the dark cleavage between her legs. Vanished inside her.
"—ohmygod – no —"
Laura came awake with a jerk and looked at him. "Sinner!"
"Laura — what did you —?" Drew's brain spun out of control because Laura was speaking with another voice. A raspy tenor, fervid and charismatic, like a preacher's voice. Her eyes had hemorrhaged a deep purplish red. Her complexion had turned the color of egg whites.
"Ssssssssinner!" she hissed again.
"What —?"
Laura reached for him and touched him and Drew stiffened. Pain shot up his anus. Shocked his prostate. Filled his groin with lava. "Laura — what are you —?"
Drew tried to stand but he stumbled backward. He landed on the small of his back. The jolt of sudden pain only added to the pleasure. His mouth squirted full of saliva and lust. His groin flooded with narcotic pleasure. The sensation rolled over him. Transformed him. Filled his brain with the voice of an Old Testament God.
"—SSSSSSSSSSSSSSINNER —"
Laura climbed on top of him. She found his erection and guided it into her with cold fingers. Roman candles exploded in Drew's forebrain. A siren went off in his ears. His cock felt like a fuse popping. He tried to say something but his ability to speak had washed away in the storm of ecstacy. Like a helpless infant he gawked up into the face of his mother.
The thing that was Laura Taubman grinned back at him. Its teeth were the shiny black plastic needles of a marital aid.
Drew closed his eyes.
— sssssinnerrr —
He was swimming.
— sssssssinnnerrrrr —
Swimming away.
Praying he would drown in the vast sea of pleasure before this angry god devoured him.
BIG BUST AT HERBERT HOOVER HIGH
It was hotter than a Barstow burrito on the morning that Arlie Staggs awoke transformed.
Arlie figured he must be having another anchovy dream. The way his noggin felt all spongy and disengaged, like the time he awoke under the mesquite tree down in Guaymas with a mescal worm stuck in each nostril and a tattoo of Pancho Villa on his ass. His wood shop teacher, Mr. Richard Dick (AKA Double-Dick, or Dick-squared to the slide rule crowd), had taken Arlie and a couple of other underachievers from Herbert Hoover High down to Mexico last summer on a field trip to ostensibly learn indigenous woodworking techniques; but alas, all the boys really learned was how to get
crabs and chronic cases of Montezuma's revenge. But the memories of past degradations were fading quickly as Arlie realized something was seriously wrong with his face.
His nose felt funny, all tight and puckered, and his vision was tunneled severely. All he could see was a pin-point of gauzy white light. He tried to blink. He tried to turn over. He tried to move but his lower extremities were completely numb. As though they didn't exist at all. And that's when Arlie started to panic, and that nagging Russ Tamblyn voice in his head started yapping.
You finally did it, Bucko — you choked your chicken so much you got the paralysis, the disease, and that is so uncool, because you're only like sixteen, man, and you're like terminal, Bucko. Like curtains. All because of that nasty Madame Thumb and her four sisters!
Arlie shivered. The heat was making him dizzy, making the flesh around the base of his neck crawl with prickly rash. He tried to breathe, but the air was close and stuffy, thick with a strange mélange of odors. Stale baby powder, sweat, traces of Prince Machiavelli. He squinted his single eye and tried to make out the shape in front of him. A pale netting pressed up against him, white pickets criss-crossing, and something along the lower edge of his vision. Looked like a word stitched in fabric.
Playtex.
Liquid terror washed over him. All at once Arlie began to recall the events of the previous night. The strange intersection of events. And the inescapable realization that he had stumbled into a nightmare.
A nightmare that only Arlie could have wreaked upon himself.
The Kingman sunset had come early the previous evening. It made the edge of the sky melt like desert peach cobbler with whipped cream whisking out across the heavens.
Five years earlier, Arlie's father, Maynard Staggs, had relocated his family from Kansas City to Kingman, mostly on account of these "darned beautiful sunsets" (not to mention the job opportunities opening up for an enterprising young nuclear research technician in this part of the desert). At first Arlie had hated the place; if you looked up the word boredom in the dictionary, it would probably say "see: Kingman, Arizona." But then Arlie's hormones had kicked in, and he had discovered what an impressive array the Herbert Hoover High student body offered in the way of student bodies.
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