by Jac Simensen
Gordon was strongly attracted to Nila’s body and the feminine aura that surrounded her. He felt sure that they would be sexually compatible and fantasized how they would make gentle love on the beach, in the pool, and in his empty bed. Despite their differences, he knew that Karen would have approved of Nila. Karen would have been pleased by the tenderness with which Nila cared for her babies.
At the end of the day, the decision was made. But did Nila have the same feelings for him? She had known him for only three months. Would she agree to marry him? They got along well; there was never a cross word, or a mean remark. She had said that she wanted to live in Florida. He felt sure that she had come to realize that his inheritance had made him financially independent and that he could provide her with physical, as well as emotional, security. There was no doubt that she loved the twins. He knew that the only way he could know Nila’s feelings toward him was to ask. He was afraid that she might smile, pat his hand, and say, “I’m sorry, I can’t.” He feared that the feelings she showed toward him sprang from sympathy—or even worse, from pity.
He finished the last sip of wine and took the glass to the sink. The months of abstinence from alcohol, combined with the emotional stress of the day, made the small amount of wine have a greater impact than it might usually. Gordon felt a pleasant glow spread through his torso.
Then he remembered Nila’s letter. He grinned. A letter to her sister might contain some hint of Nila’s feelings. Gordon crept to the guest room and extracted Nila’s letter from the top drawer. He slid open the second drawer: underpants and bathing suits. The bathing suits he recognized, but the underpants were a new experience—cotton thongs with a Hello Kitty face printed at the crotch. He laughed out loud and then closed the drawer.
Back at the kitchen table, Gordon carefully unfolded the unsealed mailer. Nila had filled half of the space with her neat, perfectly uniform handwriting. Although she regularly phoned her mother, Nila wrote as well as phoned her sister.
My Dearest Doo-Doo,
Boring, boring, boring—another perfect day in paradise. Temp about 26, sunny all the day long, tropical birds singing in the gentle breeze. I can’t possibly imagine how I will survive when I return to Dear Old Blighty (as Nana would say). Speaking of coming home, I’ll ring you next week to work out the details. I’m thinking of taking the train or bus to New York rather than flying—might be an interesting way to see more of America. I have about $800 in cash and have another $1200 in the bank. I was planning on converting the $1200 to sterling traveler’s cheques so that I would have some money available as soon as I get back. Will $200 be enough for my air ticket? I assume you can still arrange the same cash transaction with the airline people? Anyway, we’ll chat next week: as agreed, I’ll ring you at the office at half-five your time.
I’m thrilled that the business is doing so well (as I will need a job). It was clever of you to branch out into bookings to India and Pakistan besides Africa and the usual European holidays: then you were ever the brilliant daughter.
I was glad to hear that Mum’s sciatica (sp.?) isn’t giving her too much grief. She must be thrilled to be in the office again full-time; not sure about your feelings, though?
It’s wonderful that Nick’s fixed it so she won’t have to sell the house. Have you ridden in the new mini-lift yet?
Life with my babies continues to be magic. I love them as if they were my own. I can’t imagine us parting; I blank it out of my mind. As I said in my last letter, Janna is becoming the leader. Yesterday she called me Mama for the first time. It thrilled me and broke my heart at the same time. She hasn’t said Mama in front of Gordy yet...
I hope she never does—I’m sure that it would cause him pain. Speaking of Gordy, he continues to be the perfect friend. He’s always cheerful and attentive to my needs and moods. I can tell from his behavior that he’s sexually attracted to me. I’m trying very hard not to fall in love with him. He’ll make some lucky girl a wonderful, caring husband. I wish that girl could be me, but unfortunately, the timing’s all wrong: him returning to Massachusetts, my visa, and then he’s clearly still very much in love with his poor wife. Perhaps if I keep in touch he’ll invite me to come back and care for the children in Massachusetts? From his description, it doesn’t seem that I’d fancy it much—wet and even colder than winter at home. Must say, though, regardless of the weather, I’d jump at the chance to be with Gordy and my darling angels. We shall see what happens.
I’m knackered so I think I’ll end for tonight. I’ll finish writing tomorrow with another day of boring experiences and then pop this in the post.
Gordon refolded the letter, returned to the guest room, then carefully placed it under Nila’s passport in the top drawer of the dresser.
12
Hattie pulled back the musty-smelling, dark-green curtains that covered the French doors in the dining room—doors that opened to a masonry staircase leading to the walled garden below. The tarnished brass curtain rings scraped against the buildup of grime and dust on the metal curtain rod and let out a discomfiting screech, sounding like fingernails scraping along a chalkboard. Hattie knew the curtains and doors hadn’t been opened in years. The locks on the doors easily slid back, but opening the doors themselves required the force of her hip and knee. She stepped down the broad stairs into the walled garden, her black, ankle-length robe fluttering in the light breeze. In the background, she could hear the Gulf waters lapping against the beach. Hattie’s tight white curls glistened in the light of a nearly full moon, an orange-yellow moon that had risen only a few degrees above the horizon. Her pale face and hair were in stark contrast to the full black robe that hung loosely on her muscular body.
A weathered stone-and-concrete wall surrounded the rectangular garden. The east wall, the wall nearest the main road, included a wrought iron gate, which, other than the doors from the dining room, offered the only access to the garden. The manicured lawn ran from the house to the mulched beds along the wall. Dominating the far bed were four clusters of Christmas palms, each cluster with either two or three trunks rising well above the six-foot wall. The red seedpods that appeared each December and gave the Christmas palm its name were now long gone. At the center of the lawn was a paved area and what at first appeared to be an oversize birdbath. It was actually a table—a three-by-three-foot, round marble slab that rested atop a carved marble column. Set back and facing the table along each side were three stone benches, each wide enough to seat two. A tall, deep-green viburnum hedge rose above the outside perimeter of the wall and added to the garden’s feeling of seclusion. Flanking the stairs leading down from the house were two greater-than-life-size, antique, iron statues, which were Arab-costumed black-a-moors who held electrified torches above their heads. Other than the moon, they were the garden’s only source of illumination.
Hattie walked to the nearest stone bench, where a metal box rested on the seat. She retrieved a small bundle from the box—a bundle wrapped in black felt. She unfolded the felt cloth and removed a one-piece wooden icon—an icon no more than ten inches high. The icon was brightly painted, with two heads—one with a smiling face, the other with a face that was twisted with rage. Both heads emerged from a single torso painted to mimic an eyeball with a bright-red iris. Two arms and two legs came out from the eyeball. Hattie placed the carving on its legs, upright, in the center of the table, facing the wrought iron gate. Finally, she draped the black felt cloth over the idol, picked up the metal box, and returned to the house.
The master bedroom was permeated by the subdued but unmistakable odor of decomposing vegetation. The property agent that Myra Silk had paid to look after the house during her absence had been negligent and hadn’t noticed the failing air-conditioning compressor that serviced the upper floors of the mansion. As the compressor slowly died, the rising temperature and humidity in the second story provided an ideal habitat for the mold spores that thrive in subtropical climates, and the spores had reproduced by the trillions.
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nbsp; The air conditioning had been repaired and the mold in the carpets and draperies was in retreat. After breakfast, Hattie had sprayed all the upstairs rooms with a floral-scented spray. At first, the spray had disguised the musty odors, but by afternoon the combined odor of lingering mold and scented spray had become the acrid-sweet smell of a vase of wilted flowers.
Myra was naked and lay on top of the green silk bedspread, white towels under her butt and crotch. She was on her back; her skin was the color and texture of a wrinkled sausage casing. Her pendulous breasts drooped over the sides of her rib cage, and her thick pubic bush was silvery gray. Curiously, she did not have a belly button. The ravages of arthritis had transformed her hands and feet into bony, animal-like talons. She was spread-eagled in the center of the bed, her wrists and ankles bound to the four bedposts with nylon cords.
Hattie fussed with a vial and syringe. “I don’t think you’re up to this,” she said. “We should do it like we used to—with a knife.”
“Do it, now,” Myra hissed without opening her eyes. “There’s no time left. It has to be tonight!”
“Have it your way, old lady, but if your bones bust outa your skin, remember that I warned you—you hear?”
“Do it!” Myra shouted. “Do it now!”
Hattie tore open the foil envelope from an alcohol swab. “Don’t know why I bother with this. There’s more germs inside a you than there is on the outside.” She swabbed the area around Myra’s navel-less belly. “You ready?” Hattie asked.
Myra gritted her teeth and nodded.
Hattie picked up the syringe with a two-inch needle from the nightstand and in one deft movement darted it into Myra’s belly. Myra screamed. Her wrists and ankles jerked hard against the confining ropes. Hattie ignored the continuing screams and slowly injected the blue-green fluid. When she withdrew the now-empty syringe, a spurt of bright-red blood followed after the needle. Hattie pressed a wad of surgical cotton to Myra’s belly and taped it in place. Myra’s screams turned to whimpers but her arms and legs still flailed against her nylon bonds.
Hattie took a damp cloth from a plastic container and began to wipe the sweat from Myra’s face. “Tha’s it, we ain’t doin’ this so late again—never.”
Myra’s eyes remained closed and her breathing was labored. “Wake me—in one hour—exactly,” she panted.
Hattie gathered up the medical equipment, and as she left the room, Myra began to snore.
~*~
Although each transformation was somewhat different, when she re-entered the bedroom Hattie knew what to expect. “Wake up, Lilith,” she cried as she slapped Myra Silk across the face. “This ain’t pretty,” she called. Myra’s teeth had turned black and her aged, wrinkled skin was now gray and reptile-like. Black claws had begun to emerge from under her fingernails and toenails.
It took all of Hattie’s considerable strength to drag Myra’s nearly comatose body from the bed and dress her in a white robe. Hattie struggled with Myra down the grand staircase, through the sunroom and dining room and out into the garden. Out of breath, Hattie lowered the body onto a stone bench, the bench that faced the east wall and the wrought iron gate. Myra’s brilliant blue eyes were slits, and her breathing was labored.
Hattie removed the cloth that covered the two-headed idol. The idol began to mumble an unintelligible, repetitive phrase. She shook her head and looked down at Myra. “Don’t know why we have to have that filthy thing on the table.”
Myra weakly responded, “The Du-Mon amplifies and focuses my powers—that’s why.”
Hattie continued to shake her head. “Filthy thing!” she repeated. “You ain’t gonna fall off that bench, are ya?”
Myra almost imperceptibly shook her head.
“Don’ move none,” Hattie said as she walked toward the far wall and opened the rusty gate. To her surprise, the gate opened without squealing. Gardeners must oil it up, she thought.
Hattie returned to the stone bench and huddled close to Myra’s hideous body. The night air was cool, but still comfortable, and the stone bench had retained much of the sun’s warmth. Hattie knew that this was the tricky part. They could sit here for minutes or for hours, perhaps even until sunrise—it all depended on the uncertain strength of Myra’s powers. The cold-blooded moon was now high in the night sky.
Around the edges of the garden, unseen legions of insects scratched out their mating invitations. Myra leaned heavily against Hattie’s left side. The stone bench was growing uncomfortable and Hattie’s bony butt was aching. She guessed they’d been waiting for over an hour, when suddenly—with no sound or warning—a naked woman appeared at the gate. She strode through the open gate without hesitation and continued to walk across the grass toward the stone table that Hattie had turned into an altar. The woman stopped in front of the table and inclined her head toward them, as if her pupil-less, white eyes could still see. Her blonde hair was greasy, tangled, and hung limply over her shoulders. Her face was expressionless, and her pale feet, legs, and hands were muddy and covered with bloodless scratches, as if she had walked through a field of brambles.
As the woman approached, Myra’s body became rigid and her breathing became even more shallow. The two-headed icon increased the volume of its chants, a separate shout issued from each of its heads. When the woman reached the altar, Myra sprang up from the bench. Hattie rose to assist her, but Myra roughly pushed her assistant back onto her seat.
Myra faced the woman. “You’ve been very naughty, haven’t you, Maggie?” she asked in a powerful voice. “You should have known you could never escape from me. You know you are mine—my daughter who must serve my needs.” Myra slowly walked toward the woman. “And after all of my careful planning, you ran and then you killed—killed twice and without my permission. You’ll need to be severely punished, won’t you? Purged. Eliminated.”
The scratched and muddy woman stared sightlessly ahead with no reaction.
“You’ve made the transition needlessly complicated. You’re a wicked, wicked girl.” Myra was now only a foot from the woman’s side. She stepped closer, grasped the woman’s wrists, and pulled her body around so that the two stood face to face, only inches apart. Myra spread her arms, and the flowing white robe fell from her shoulders onto the concrete. She stood naked in the moonlight—her back hunched from the ravages of osteoporosis, her pendulous breasts sagging nearly to her waist, her gray, lizard-like skin and the extensive varicose veins on her legs and butt accented by the overhead moon. Myra started to laugh. At first, her laughter was light, but it quickly became loud, guttural, and animal-like. The icon joined the laughter. The sound stilled the insects’ calls, bounced off the garden walls, and returned as frightening echoes. Myra threw back her head.
“Now, you evil girl! Do it now!” she screamed at the sky. Without hesitation, the vile woman seized Myra’s throat with her teeth and began to violently twist her head like a predator tearing meat from a fresh kill. Myra’s ancient body writhed back and forth in the woman’s powerful jaws. Bright-red arterial blood began to drip from the corners of the woman’s mouth and flowed down her sallow breasts and belly. Quickly, the trickle of blood became a steady stream. The woman grasped Myra’s shoulders and tore at her throat with renewed energy. Myra’s arms thrashed in the air and her legs collapsed beneath her. Then the woman released her grip on Myra’s throat, letting Myra’s torn body fall to the ground.
Hattie stood. She removed her gown, carefully folded it, and placed it on the stone bench. Her naked, muscular body glistened like polished alabaster. Carefully stepping around Myra’s corpse, she walked toward the blood-spattered creature. Hattie looked into the gruesome woman’s face. Her eyes were no longer white and sightless—they were now bright blue and fixed on Hattie.
“You’re there, Lilith?” Hattie asked.
“I’m here,” a youthful, resonant voice replied.
Hattie smiled, kissed the woman’s bloody lips, and embraced her.
“What we do with the body?” Ha
ttie whispered in Lilith’s ear.
“We’ll cut her up and burn her—burn her tomorrow. But now you must clean me up. Ah, what a joy to have a young body again! Even a body so broken and damaged.”
“We’ll get Maggie’s body all fixed up. In a couple of months, you’ll be even more beautiful than she ever was—you’ll see.”
Lilith moved her hands around Hattie’s waist to her butt and pulled Hattie tightly against her.
13
“Nila, come on! Our reservation’s for 7:30—get a move on.”
“I’m just setting out some things for Sally, should the girls awake and need changing. Won’t be a tick,” Nila called from the nursery.
Gordon opened the kitchen screen door and looked at the sky. Dark clouds were forming. Good chance of rain, he thought. Better bring an umbrella.
He stepped back into the kitchen just as Nila entered from the hall. “Do you know where the umbrella—” He stopped in midsentence and whistled. “My, aren’t we spectacular!” He took her hand and twirled her about.
“You like the dress? It isn’t too tartish, is it?”
“Sensational!” Gordon was impressed. He’d never seen Nila in anything other than shorts, jeans, or a bathing suit. The off-white, form-fitting dress was suspended on a pair of spaghetti straps and belted at the waist. Her hair was drawn back in a braided bun and she had applied just a touch of rouge and pink lip gloss. Except for her jeweled Moroccan sandals, she could easily be dressed for a night out at any of Boston’s chicest venues.
Nila adjusted Gordon’s tie. “And don’t you look smart? See? I told you that tie would go well with your jacket.”