by J. J. Harkin
Maria often found herself marveling at his gentle tendencies; he had needed so little training. She threw the moisturizer at him when she was dry. “Keep me pretty, honey! You look so cute when you’re servicing me…”
“Oh?” retorted Den. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” Yet he obediently rubbed the expensive regeneratives into her skin all the same, and proceeded to help her dress for dinner and bed. His only thought was to perform his every husbandly duty to perfection, whether he was her husband or not. In truth he was both her lover and her servant, and they had lived together in the highest turret of their American castle quite happily for some time.
The meal they had brought up that evening was intentionally light, but perfect nonetheless. Both were hungry, and they set aside discussion for its duration. Then Den lifted Maria from her seat to bear her toward the bedroom. Their towering co-residence became a cold and starry eyrie after sundown, and though the bed was well provided with blankets, a crackling fire was often present in the grate. It had always been their custom to lay there in discussion until sleep took them.
“Quit your job, honey. Don’t you see how you’re my inspiration?”
“No, not really,” replied Den. If she refused to marry him, he had to keep working. Doing anything else would render him completely dependent on her, defenseless in his own right. Was this what she craved?
“And why don’t you let me moisturize you, baby?” continued Maria. “You’re looking old. I liked this stuff so much I literally bought the company. Remember?” She gestured toward her pristinely regenerated face. “You know they’ve proven it’s safe, right?”
“You don’t find me sexy the way I am?” asked Den. His lover’s taunt was bashful, but laden with seriousness.
“I take for a mate no less than perfection,” insisted Maria, straightening her posture authoritatively. “You are the world’s best man. I have seen it and I have decreed it. Aren’t you willing to remain here with me in perpetual youth and beauty?”
He stalled at this question. A part of him did want to do this, but it was the part of him whose proposal of marriage had been spurned. Eventually he seized on an answer: “Didn’t you foreclose upon the possibility of perpetual anything when you refused to marry me?”
“Can’t you believe in a concept of forever which excludes the possession of marriage?”
Den had no answer for this. He knew that she was somehow right, just as she was arguably right about everything. He had never met a sharper woman, but that was just the problem: the sharper they were, the more blood they seemed capable of drawing, intentionally or not.
“I’m just saying that I don’t want to sit here and watch you get unnecessarily older while I remain the same,” insisted Maria. “You’re up-to-date with every other technology under the sun; let me put some regenerator on you! And stop going to that stupid job! You know my father’s only keeping that company alive because you constantly tell him how much you love working there.”
This was not true, and he knew it. Den had long since decided that Mr. Ahmad only funded Solatron to give the appearance that he was putting his best foot forward. Why else would the Western world’s greatest oil tycoon continue to fund so miniscule a green energy company? This way he could insist that other methods of energy production were being explored for the purpose of conservation, even if that exploration only amounted to the activities of a small front company.
“Stop being so serious!” Maria had been watching the cogs in his mind turn. “What are you thinking about?” Before he could stop her she was tickling him mercilessly, and they struggled playfully for a moment. Crunch! Apparently the resultant fit of thrashing had caused him to bump an expensive trinket from the head of the bed, so that it shattered.
“I’ll get it!” Maria announced, shimmying from beneath the covers. She had never been an avid housekeeper, however, and Den knew she could not be serious. Nevertheless, the two met on hands and knees behind the bedstead, at the little pile of shattered statue which had so recently been the trinket. There, to Den’s dismay – and Maria’s horror – a tiny recording apparatus was evident amid the dust.
Their eyes met, and Den’s head cocked slightly to the side, as the two paused tensely for breath. Maria did not hold his gaze for long. Guilt seemed to be leaking from a tiny furrow in her brow. Had she been secretly recording them while they slept? What might be her purpose in all this? Finally he forced himself to ask: “Maria, did you know…?”
“Yes,” she replied worriedly. “It’s no big deal.”
“Why would you record us while we sleep?” Den was truly bewildered by the thought.
“It’s no big deal,” she repeated quickly. “It used to keep me up, the fact that you talk in your sleep, but I’ve gotten used to it, you see.”
“So it’s me you’re recording?” As far as Den was concerned, their conversation was making less and less sense every second.
“Yes. It’s not just inane babble, the things that you say,” explained Maria. “It’s beautiful.”
“What?”
“You’re very descriptive. I realized it must be me you talk about, and I simply couldn’t force myself to stay up any later than I already do, so I decided to let the computer transcribe anything you might say. It’s more decipherable than you’d think.” The look in her eyes seemed truthful, but nervous.
He even spoke of her in his dreams; he had not known that. “What do I say?” asked Den reluctantly.
Maria seemed to pounce on the trace of curiosity in his voice. “You sort of describe me. It’s never in the same way, but it always seems to be about me. You have no idea how many of my costumes and dances have been influenced by the things you randomly say. I’ve saved all the transcripts if you’d like to see them.”
At this Den began to wonder to himself just how close a pair might get before one of them becomes completely absorbed by the other. Was there such a thing as too close?
“Don’t look like that, Denny,” insisted Maria. “Didn’t I say you are my inspiration? Now you can believe me because you know it’s true!”
“I guess so. It’s just a little weird.”
Maria drew herself close, wrapping herself around his chest. “I get it. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you about this. Can’t we just go to bed?” Her flowing black hair was tickling his chin now, wafting a botanical scent toward his defenseless nostrils.
“Okay, it’s alright. Yeah, we’ll talk about it in the morning.”
But it was not really all right, and he could not stop himself thinking that this might not be a good thing. Intentionally or not, Maria was in control of everything, and he could not help missing the broader influences which had been present in his previous life. Den had always heard that healthy couples tended toward compromise, but Maria’s idea of compromise always seemed to render him further and further in her power. Maria was perfection incarnate, but his life was a gilded cage. She was even sucking the life out of his dreams!
As he watched her drop off to sleep, Den knew it was probably best that he was going to visit Grandmother Victoria for a few days. This would give him time to rethink things a bit. Carefully prying himself from beneath Maria’s motionless form, Den stood, and strolled to the wall of windows through which magnificent views spanned the vast apartment. Sleep might not come easily tonight. He fumbled for another smoke. As he gazed down upon the myriad lights in the metropolis far below, his searching hand happened upon the Magic U-Ball.
Only one simple word was visible there: “Escape.”
Chicago Dirge
Eventually every lion falls, upon its stony face.
Old mill rusts still, and ice brings chill, beneath snowflakes like lace.
Oh children do remain inside, to starve safe from stray shots,
And Something Something Homicide’s the show you’ll nightly watch.
As well beware of any street whose name exceeds four score,
The shadows at her southern end shed blis
s for gangsters’ gore.
Downtown all beauty’s locked away, quivering warm in darkling reach,
Where wax waifs waste in wanton frolic, to foul the feast of beasts.
Your angel rides the clouds gleaming, to fan your lusty embers,
And lonely shores ride lakeside streams, where through the night she shivers.
Though any other bone should break, these shoulders last of all,
The Windy City ever speaks, to stretch the urban sprawl.
Chapter II
VICTORIA & THE MESSENGER
Despite Den’s hopes that Maria might have lingered to see him off, she was shooed out of bed by her assistant at the crack of dawn. Some sort of photo shoot evidently required her presence. Their fingers touched as Maria planted a last swift peck on his cheek. Then the door clicked shut and she was gone.
At the alarm, Den lethargically rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Gathering his things took little time. Before he knew it he was sitting in the smallest, least conspicuous limo which the service could provide that morning. It was his tendency to shrug off most of the unnecessary displays of wealth common to Maria’s stardom. He gazed out the window at the Chicago he had once known: the city which existed at ground level. Vagrants, students, the working class, and even executives all fought for space equally here. He was privileged to have become involved with Maria – truly privileged. Only it was a shame that most of his privileges usually inspired some sort of guilt. Perhaps there was something wrong with him.
Den had been born in nearby Cicero, a rough suburb of Chicago. An eternal prowl through the urban jungle should have been his birthright, but Den’s mother had wasted no time in moving them nearer to Victoria’s old place out in LA. The move had provided her more child-rearing help than remaining in Chicago with his thuggish father would have done, so the results had been generally positive. It had been Victoria who cared for Den when his mother disappeared, but the tables had turned in the end.
Now he visited Victoria, and though there was no doubt she had the finest care money could buy, Den could never stop himself thinking that her home was a sad daycare center where people went to die. She had never been much for complaining, however, and as the move had been her own idea, Victoria’s relationship with her grandson had continued to grow blessedly. Den always made a concerted effort not to burden his grandmother with the goriest details of his life, but Victoria never ceased to bless him with a forgiving grace that politely suggested there was nothing he could really hide from her.
As usual, the airport was a mess, so he hurried through it. The private jet was a welcome oasis between the confusion of O’Hare and LAX. Den certainly minded luxury a lot less when there was no one around to stare at him, or ask him silly questions concerning his life with Maria. He was happier with his mind on Victoria and her welfare anyway; she had always been his greatest supporter. The landing in Los Angeles was expedited, as Maria’s fleet enjoyed special clearances, and Den walked right off the runway to another waiting car. As they swerved this way and that through the city, he shuffled his cash to insure he was tipping the cabbie enough. At the circle drive in front of a palatial assisted living facility, he forked over the money and grabbed his things. Somewhere inside, Victoria would be patiently awaiting his arrival.
Before he knew it he was hurrying through the automatic doors into a well-appointed lobby. There she was: the tiny, white-haired woman who held the reins of his every dream. Victoria’s eyes were shining with the highest hopes any mother could have. Den hurried to hug her close, so that Victoria would not be tempted to stand up from her little wheelchair. As always, she wore her favorite satin robe, ornately embroidered with alluring Japanese dragons and trees.
“Hello!” Her excitement to see him was always so genuine.
“Hello, Grandma!”
“How are you, Denny-dear?” she smiled. “How is Maria treating you?” She had hit the nail on the head, though seemingly accidentally, and done so right from the start.
“Everything is good. Maria is fine, but very busy with work; as am I, to tell the truth.”
“Well, I know you’ll have plenty of time to fill me in. Are you hungry?” Victoria’s priority was always his wellbeing, no matter how hard he tried to return the focus toward her. So Den agreed. At this stage it was no longer safe to take Victoria outside the home, away from constant medical attention; thus the two resigned themselves to having a sad little meal in the nursing home’s bewilderingly large cafeteria.
“This place goes on forever,” remarked Victoria as they entered, looking around aimlessly. “You’d think they were expecting some sort of elderly stampede…” Actually Victoria made this same comment every time she entered the dining room with Den, though he never made mention of the fact. He liked his grandmother just how she was.
“I think we’re here at an off time between meals,” explained Den habitually, waving to the steward as they took their seats. As usual, he encouraged her to eat, and they began to talk. He hoped he would never live to such an arduously advanced age as Victoria had, for Den felt certain she was secretly unhappy. He did his best to interest her with stories of his business ventures. Though he did not know why, he carefully avoided the subject of Maria, but watched Victoria closely. It had always been her tendency to eat very slowly, and today was no exception, but Den could not help noticing that her energy level seemed a bit low.
“And what is really on your mind, Denny?” asked Victoria presently, with her usual persistent clairvoyance.
There was no point in resisting, so he gave in. Den explained the strange one-sidedness which characterized his relationship with Maria. Was he just ungrateful? Was he succumbing to some archaic, masculine tendency toward dominance?
Victoria smiled proudly at the high-mindedness behind such questions. “Perfection is an experience, not a vacation destination,” she said. “No matter how perfect a relationship is by worldly measures, that can never outweigh the validity of your own experience. You’re content but incomplete! Everything’s fine except for the something that’s missing.”
“What’s missing?”
Victoria answered only after a mouthful of broccoli had been carefully swallowed. “It sounds like the only thing missing in the relationship is your voice. Maria cares for you, but only if the majority of your doings continue to revolve around her.”
“And is that bad?” Den thought he knew the answer to this question, but still ventured to ask it.
Victoria paused in her persistent effort to force down the vegetables. “No, it isn’t necessarily bad, but I find it funny how things change. I can remember a time when I was asking myself these same questions in regard to my marriage to your grandfather. He was kind, certainly, but believed strongly in the subservience of the woman.”
Den smiled. “I suppose I’m the woman in my relationship, then?”
“Well, no, but it seems that the youth of your generation determine dominance by whom is the more wealthy and powerful counterpart. Women have greater opportunities today, and Maria’s decision to take advantage of all that is quite understandable. On the one hand there are signs of immense progress, because she has opportunities I never would’ve dreamed of at her age. But on the other hand, Maria still has to deal with the papers labeling her a ‘harlot’ and a ‘blasphemer,’ so perhaps things haven’t really progressed all that far.”
“I had no idea you read The Times!” laughed Den in surprised mirth.
“I honestly don’t,” assured Victoria, seeming finally to give up on her dinner, “but there’s always Harriet.”
“Who? You mean that lady who’s always wearing the funny T-shirts?” asked Den.
“Yeah. Evidently her family thinks sending her a thousand shirts labeled ‘Del Mar’ is nearly as good as driving up the coast to visit her once in a while. She reads every sad rag of a newspaper in creation, and never misses an opportunity to show me the latest lurid headline. Seems the loneliest ones always thrive on gossip.”
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“Are you lonely, Grandma?” asked Den, genuine concern lining his face.
“Course not!” said Victoria, waving the question aside. “I’ve got my Denny visiting me!”
Den could find no merit in contradicting Victoria’s well-intentioned positivity, so he let the subject drop. Leaving the dining room, they spent the next hour or so chatting aimlessly, while he wheeled her around the hospital’s well-kept grounds. They even stopped to smell the flowers around a quaint gazebo, until Victoria complained that the wind was “mussing up” her hair. The nursing home had a little chapel with an electric organ, so Den rolled her in that direction next. Victoria had been an expert pianist and organist in her day, so Den often took the opportunity to make a quick stop by the little room, thinking that playing awhile might do her good.
“This one’s an old hymn called ‘He Hideth My Soul,’” said Victoria, nodding familiarly, as she prepared to strike out on a fascinating musical voyage. The organ was a rickety little instrument, nothing like the grand machines she had played with the orchestra during her youth, but it was worth a try. Victoria had not played more than a few bars, however, before she gave up. She seemed thoroughly exasperated, for many of the notes were sour and out of tune. “This place is a dump!” she concluded. “They can’t even afford a decent church organ with all the money I shell out every month?!”
“Maybe it’s time for a nap, Grandma?” She was right, the machine did not seem to be working properly, but Den had no intention of getting her overexcited.
“I guess…” she said, her voice trailing off in utter dissatisfaction. So they returned to her room. The nurse was called, and soon Victoria had been helped into bed.
“Sweet dreams, Grandma Victoria.”
“See you after a quick nap, Denny-dear,” Victoria smiled. “You remember that I love you, don’t you?”