Unfinished (Historical Fiction)

by Harper Alibeck

  His methods for doing so, however, became quite clear when he used a hand-held electric cylinder and used it to, as he described it, “cleanse” her of her hysterical buildup. She knew now, after reading medical journals at Wellesley, that the doctor manually stimulated her clitoris to achieve orgasm, releasing her so-called hysteria. The pelvic massage, he assured her, was the only medical treatment that could cure her; if she didn't achieve orgasm, he would need to move on to a more extreme procedure.

  Esther's treatment, however, had been far worse.

  He'd simply removed her clitoris.

  They'd confided in each other, sharing abutting rooms at the hospital, having few words to describe what was done. Esther hadn't known the medical term for the body part Dr. Scott removed, telling Lilith he'd removed her vagina, an image that haunted Lilith's dreams for years.

  Daily sessions of hysterical paroxysm treatment left Lilith anxious and overstimulated, worsening as Dr. Scott added ancillary treatments to release her bladder and bowels, enemas in conjunction with a vibrating chair that he would not unstrap her from if she lost continence.

  Constant vigilance had been her only protection.

  And then she had lost even that, going incontinent in one incongruous moment on his examination table, no enemas involved. He had applied the electric vibrator to her for the ninth day in a row and, within five minutes, a sudden rush of fluid came out of her, spilling over the sides.

  “Oh, heavens!” he'd shouted, rushing to grab a towel. A portly man in his 50s, Dr. Scott's walrus mustache covered the frown she knew lay buried.

  And from that day on, Lilith had been tormented by the episodes. The next day her grandfather had set her free, having worked the legal system to her advantage, and shortly after set up the trust fund. If only he'd trusted her at eighteen.

  No amount of money, though, had saved Esther from Dr. Scott's treatment. Over the years, through careful study of medical journals and whispers of gossip, Lilith had learned of other specialists, the new “gynecologists” who treated women's sexual organs as if they were the source of mental disease.

  It drove her mad.

  Yet the shame lingered.

  She shook herself from the memory. “Nine months, yes, but grandfather's provisions are ironclad. I am not worried.”

  “You should be. He isn't right,” Esther answered, pointing to her head. “Something is missing.”

  “A soul?” Lilith shivered.

  “Certainly a sense of humor. My father said he was the most boring wealthy man he'd ever met.” Esther shook her head. “And my father was a Quaker. The pot calling the kettle – ”

  “A rat.”

  “Is the rat out of town this week?” Esther asked, eyebrows raised. She looked as if she were being shocked by an electric lamp.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, my dear, when the rat's away, the cat can play.”

  “So now I'm a cat?” Lilith scrunched her face into a look of confusion.

  “No, but you have a big cat, a lion of a man, who is game for you.”

  “So what confounding torture do you have for me today?” he teased, licking the curved flesh of her earlobe, soft and pliant as flesh in other regions of her body he couldn't wait to know well. The shiver his simple words elicited in her made a strong, sturdy warmth flood through him and he hardened, a sudden and fierce need in full bloom.

  “A bicycle ride to the edge of town, I thought, should do the trick,” she announced, her blue eyes filled with twinkle and mirth. But James saw more there, irises tinged with concern and regret. He would leave for Chile soon. She could not accompany him. Snaking an arm around her waist, a cinched oval that his meaty hands could encase easily, he nuzzled her neck.

  “Really? Can we dispense with the two-wheeled monstrosities and have a stroll instead?” He hated the bike. An Indian summer stretch of warm weather had sent temperatures soaring, bringing out Lilith's lighter wardrobe and relief in his neighborhood, as the need for coal and wood was pushed back a bit, relieving a few wallets. Sunlight and temperate weather gave them this opportunity, so rare, to seek out each other's warmth without prying eyes.

  Lilith loved to ride, and her answer, in lieu of words, was a simple twist from his embrace and a sprint to her bicycle. She took off. He had no choice but to chase.

  At first, he couldn't balance the damn thing worth a confederate dollar. Finally he found some semblance of a center of gravity that allowed him to leverage his leg muscles to move forward, gradually catching up to Lilith, who moved as if she were grafted onto the machine.

  James felt like a bear riding a child's trike, knees poking up near his armpits as he rode the cursed contraption. Lilith had borrowed it from her friend Esther, whose father had owned it. By the end of a frustrating hour of struggle that made building the subway seem like child's play, James developed just enough coordination to motor the thing forward, scraped ankles be damned.

  “Bicycles and brick roads should never marry,” he groused, and Lilith laughed next to him, her blond hair flowing behind her as she rode, defying convention and straddling her vehicle like a man. The wind worked its lift under her loose hat, ripping it from the pins that held it in place so that it cartwheeled through the air. She stopped, set down her bike, ran back for the hat and put it in her basket.

  “Race you!” she shouted, knowing full well her tiny body was made for this sport, while the fifteen inches and 100 pounds he had on her made him as nimble as a mining car full of coal going up a hill. He whooped and threw himself into the challenge, thick legs powering the wheels as fast as he could while her laughter floated back to him, so full and rich he could nearly open his mouth to the breeze and eat it.

  She looked like a debutante, innocent and free though she neared her third decade, but the stirring within him could be triggered by no mere virgin. Over the brick road to a rutted dirt road, he followed her with abandon, trusting she would find a suitable place where they could rendezvous. Open-air fields were one of their preferences. The dirt road narrowed into a path through secluded woods, opening into a wildflower-filled field, the daisies turning their faces to greet them, the Queen Anne's lace accepting and tolerant.

  She dropped the bike and ran through the field, arms outstretched and tagging the tops of the flowers, her hair tagging a second time as the green stems folded back in to hide her path. He struggled to follow, lumbering through the same plants, wondering how nature could conspire with her to give her the advantage in their lover's game.

  Power won out, though, his legs and heart pumping him toward her, and he grabbed her hand, pulling her toward him. Lilith's pixie face with eyes like sapphires turned toward him and her lips were roses that tasted like cinnamon. She returned the kiss and gave him entry, his tongue tracing her teeth and her eager tongue, gently exploring and promising what they both wanted next. Their centers touched as he held her closer, the buttons of his pants pressing painfully against his obvious arousal. Boldly, she reached down and brushed against it, as if confirming its presence, and then flashed a wicked smile with those China-blue eyes, all trace of propriety and virtue willed away.

  He reached for her breast and she moaned, loud and deep and with full abandon. Looking around, he marveled at her choice of location. No one would find them. And if they did, the only person who cared was Lilith's mother, who was currently 200 miles away helping Lilith's sister with the water cure.

  Her father was in Toronto.

  They were free. Free as Lilith's breasts would be in seconds.

  With a groan bordering on a growl, he undid the buttons of her dress and looked around once more, daring the flowers to betray them.

  Her quick letter a few days ago spoke of some change in her. A lightness he knew possible, a peeling back of a filter than darkened her needlessly. Crushing the tall wildflowers with their bodies, soon they were both undressed, their clothing a makeshift blanket, the unexpectedly warm day a gift from fate.

  Fearful of being caught,
yet swept away by desire, James pulled her to him, ravaging her mouth and clinging to her as if he were already gone. She matched his eagerness and stroked him, unaware of how weeks of yearning brought him already to the brink. Her touch nearly put him over the edge, and that simply would not do. He reached for her and found her warm and wet, pliant and groaning as he touched her, testing the waters.

  And then he was in her. His thoughts stopped as she hitched, then gasped, her fingernails digging into his back as he curled himself around her, looming so large he was like a heavenly body in an eclipse, blocking out the sun. The pain brought tears to her eyes. James felt a blur of flesh and bone and lust and then he caught her eyes. The two stared at each other, speaking silently, as he moved gently within her, sweeping both away.

  Her face changed, a look of wild abandon and contortion taking her to a different level of consciousness. James watched her, his own arousal slightly distant from him, but then it caught up, a full cloud pregnant with the rain of emotion and raw sexual power so strong he took her, finding a rhythm they both could enjoy. His climax caught him off guard, a sudden, unthrottled joy that crested within her, mingling with her cries of joy and –

  Then wetness, a rush of thick water between them that made a slight smacking sound, and Lilith cried out, “Not again!” She scrambled from under his hulking form and turned away, covering her face with her hands once more.

  Whoa there, Jamie. Don't ruin this. She was terrified and angry and embarrassed and he was in lust shock, unsure of what to say or do next. As she turned away and dressed quickly, she cried out when she found a large, wet spot on the front of her blue gingham dress.

  “Lilith,” he whispered. Tiny shoulders tightened, then relaxed as she sighed. “Look at me.”

  “I can't,” she said quietly, her voice like a child's echoing through a tube.

  “You've nothing to be embarrassed about.” It was déjà vu, except he'd just experienced this with her before. How could he make her understand that this was fine?

  “My father was right.” Plaintively, she added, “I am a freak.”

  She didn't want his pity. Or even his compassion. She wanted to unwind time and make these damn episodes end. In a wildflower field on the edge of town she stared at him, gloriously naked in a sunny patch of Queen Anne's Lace, his muscled chest sprinkled with brown hair, waist tapered, a thatch of darker hair leading down to –

  Oh, my.

  Modesty disappeared, as did her humiliation. Before her lay this man, stretched out and unpretentious, comfortable in – literally – his own skin.

  And wanting her.

  Accepting her.

  Cacophony bloomed inside, competing voices and memories vying for the prestigious role of shaming her out of being with James, of believing that any man would love her for her heart and mind.

  Disbelief won out, claiming victory in her next words:

  “Good day, James. I – I don't know what else to say.”

  She ran through the field, jumped on her bicycle, and rode away from the only person on earth who welcomed her into his arms and heart.

  She turned hot and cold – no, flesh and granite – so easily. How? Why? What secret did Lilith hold that made her so damn unreadable, as hard as a statue at the Museum of Fine Arts, yet so delicate and soft and luscious? All angles and bones, with few curves between, she twisted like an overpruned grape vine along Lake Erie, arms akimbo and legs spread in a perfect ratio, a triangle whose northernmost peak housed the key to nirvana.

  Yet that mind held even more. A mind tortured in hospital seven years before, an experience that had shaped her, made her mind loop and rattle, one thought ricocheting in rapid advance until it made a vibration even he could feel. She couldn't let ideas go. Or events. Or pinpointed images, riveted into her skull, a photograph embedded in her psyche.

  Freud would have a lifetime of research analyzing Lilith.

  James was a poor man's Freud.

  The damn woman left him naked in a field. Post coital. Without a penny in his pocket, and to add insult to injury, she'd managed to take one sock with her, leaving him limping with blisters from riding that damn bike back home without a sock. Too-tight shoes were bad enough. Being left without his clothes, like a scene from a nightmare, was worse. Living with the constant reminder as pain gnawed away at his ankles made him just want her more.

  Who was the freak?

  Who could give him more? No Boston Brahmin would address him from ten paces. He'd lose his job – and possibly his mining investments – if he asked too many questions among the moneyed class. Economic imperialists, the lot of them. And he was exploiting them as they exploited him, the mutual understanding clear. Deliver, Southie, and we'll make you rich.

  But you'll never be of our kind.

  He needed their kind, just for the initial push into Chile and Peru. After he'd proven his claim, they could all go to hell.

  Yet who could tell him more about Lilith?

  Ah. He knew. And a fine Scotch whisky, a week's worth of wages, might do the trick.

  Chapter Seven

  BELLY UP TO THE SHINING OAK BAR, Jack Reed was half drunk already before most men had wandered home from the evening commute. James wouldn't have to spend nearly as much of his wages on getting Reed far enough along to spill his guts. Two or three more shots and he'd be good to go.

  "What are you doing here?" Reed asked, clapping James' shoulder as he sidled up next to his boss, motioning to the bartender for a pint of cheap beer.

  "I figured I'd lower my standards this once."

  "Hah!" The bar on Newbury Street wasn't James' style, but it certainly was Reed's. Overpriced beer and liquors at a fancy half-basement bar, with a small window at street level for foot watching. The decor was warm enough and the scent of spoiled alcohol was covered by thick, rich pipe tobacco. A few men played darts in one corner but, mostly, the point of the place was for social climbers like Reed to be seen and to preen.

  And, hopefully, be heard.

  "That John Stone is one hard man," James said quietly, shaking his head. "Moving you off his accounts and all."

  Reed's boozy features tightened with anger. He cocked his jaw to the left, simmered for a bit, then tossed back a jigger of what smelled like scotch. "Ayup."

  "How long had you worked for him?"

  "Just a year or so. But I've been around the Stones for a long time." He chewed on a peanut. "Too long."

  "What do you mean?" James flicked his hand toward Reed's glass. The bartender refilled the jigger. A half day’s pay was about to be converted into back alley piss in the lawyer's body, but James didn't care. Expensive urine was worth what he needed to know.

  "My father was one of the first partners in the firm. He was nothing but another self-made lawyer trying to chase down criminals for clients until John Stone hired him to help with some dock worker busting. That was when me and Lilith were about ten. We're a regular old pair of siblings, we are," he hooted, slapping James' knee and pounding the bar.

  "So you've grown up around her?"

  "Here and there, sure. She was all spit and sunshine when she was little, that one was. Looks like a strong wind could snap her in half but she had the balls of an Indian elephant and the brains of a man."

  "Was? She seems pretty strong to me. Nothing like most women," James prodded.

  Reed snorted. "What you see now is just some cold shell. Actually, she's improved in the past few years. For a while there, after he – you know -- she was just dead inside. Dead outside. Closed up and plain old hard as granite. Like a stone." He cocked his head and mused for a moment. "Well, she is a Stone, so that's something!" More slurred laughter.

  "After who did what?" A creeping, prickly cold started in his legs and traveled up behind his knees, settling in his gut. Now he was hitting pay dirt.

  "Stone. After he had Lilith committed to McLean."

  She had mentioned that in the meeting the first time they'd met. But he hadn't thought much of it; plenty of
wealthy women went away for a few weeks for nerve attacks, or after having babies, all to clear their minds or to be pampered in a way no woman he'd met in his neighborhood could ever imagine.

  James waved his hand dismissively. "Most of the Beacon Hill women have spent a month or so there."

  Reed's face went hard and wistful, a touch of fear and pity filling his features. "Not like what he did to her," he whispered, leaning in and breathing sour air across James' ear and face.

  Easy, boy. Don't overplay your hand, he warned himself. Closing the gap, he left two inches between his ear and Reed's mouth. "Like what?"

  "He had them experiment on her." Reed's voice was barely a whisper, and the tremor wasn't from alcohol. "With electric devices and, rumor be believed, on parts of the body that no person, and 'specially no woman, should have them on."

  The prickly, cold sensation spread. He swallowed and heard a click, then pulled away from Reed in horror.

  "Why would someone do that?" James' voice came out louder than intended and Reed looked around, skittish and unsettled.

  "Because he can." Reed popped back another shot. "Remember how I told you the rich aren't like us? I wasn't kidding."

  "No, but...I mean why? What did he hope to accomplish? What did Lili -- Miss Stone -- do to deserve treatment like that?"

  Whoosh. Reed's sudden, long exhale filled James' breathing space with rancid peanut breath. "Well, now, James, you're going to have to get me a bit drunker to hear that one." He winked.

  Ah, shit. Found out. James suppressed a grin and nodded, acknowledging his transgression. A quick wave brought two more shots to the men and James gulped his, along with the rest of the beer. If Reed needed even more alcohol to reveal what was coming next, then so did James. What could be worse than this?

  "She ain't his," Reed mumbled.

  "She isn't -- " James's eyes went wide.

  "Once you know, it's obvious. Look at her. She's teensy tiny, just like her mother, but with those blue eyes that ain't made in nature. John Stone is thick and dark. Now – I'm telling you this in confidence. You tell anyone, I'll have you and every dirty cousin related to you fired from the firm and from every factory, office, and household I can control. You got that?" Reed wavered between geniality and bitterness. James liked him better when he was unctuously ambitious. This snake had some poison in his bite.