“This ... this drawing Miriam has—”
“Yes. That was a very good idea, don’t you think? Miriam had a great reaction when I gave it to her. She’s coming along much faster than I expected. It’s not going to be much longer now before we have her confronting reality. I’m sure of it.”
“But she thinks ... I mean, it was so much like one of Lillian’s drawings. How did you do it?”
She sat up straight, the dress pouring around her. I saw a look of pride in her face. I could see that she was eager to describe what she had clone.
“I took a few of Lillian’s old drawings and traced parts of them out. Then I put them together in the form of the new dog,” she said.
“It was something of a shock.”
“I can see that. You’ve had a tough afternoon. You’re very uptight. I’m glad you’ve decided to meditate,” she said, and she got up to go to her dresser. She opened the top drawer and took out a small pill case. “I want you to take one of these,” she said. She held out a pill and took a glass of water off the top of the dresser.
“What is it?”
“Something that will help you relax. A muscle relaxant, nothing very strong, don’t worry. I don’t want to cloud your mind, but I want you to lose some of that tension. Take it,” she commanded. I went to her and lifted the pill from her palms. I didn’t know what it was; all pills look the same to me, but she was so intimidating, like any nurse bringing medication to a patient. “Go on,” she said, “we have a lot to do.” I took the glass of water and put the pill to my tongue. Her eyes never moved from me. I swallowed the pill in a quick gulp. She put the glass back on the dresser. “Sit on the bed,” she said. “Let me take your jacket.” I slipped out of it, and she draped it over the web seat chair. “You look frightened,” she said, something of a smile on her face.
“It’s just that I never did anything like this before.”
“It won’t be hard.”
“Shouldn’t I get into my pajamas? You said—”
“We’ll do without them today.” Her smile now was warm, even inviting, but more like a mask. I felt as though I were being enticed into some sort of trap, or at least coaxed into something that might turn out to be unpleasant. She reminded me of a dental receptionist smiling and saying, “You’re next, Mr. Oberman.”
“Take off your shoes,” she ordered as soon as I sat on the bed. As I did so, she sat on her knees on the bed and moved behind me. When I had my shoes off, she pressed her fingers against both my temples and began to rub gently in soft circles. “Close your eyes,” she said, “and try to relax. Loosen up. Unflex your back muscles and your neck muscles. You feel like a mannequin. Relax, relax.”
“It’s not easy,” I said, but I felt something happening. The little pill she gave me was already into my bloodstream. I was sure of it.
Her fingers moved down to the back of my neck. She had remarkably strong hands, probably from lifting and turning patients. There was a rhythm and determination to her pressing and rubbing. Despite my nervousness, my body began to slacken and become less and less rigid.
“It does feel good,” I said.
“Of course. Unbutton your shirt,” she said. She remained directly behind me. I did as she said, and then I felt her breath on my neck. She reached around me and took the shirt to help me slip out of it. I was wearing an undershirt, too. Without speaking, she lifted it at the bottom. My arms shot up cooperatively, and she took it off quickly.
Immediately her hands were on my back. I felt her trace my spinal cord and move out over the muscles. I knew she had an excellent knowledge of anatomy because her fingers pressed in at just the right places, massaging and soothing tendons, relaxing muscles, and moving over my back as though my skin were transparent.
When she reached my waist, she paused. Then her hands came around and her fingers unfastened my belt. Surprised, I looked down and watched her unbutton the pants. She took hold of my zipper and pulled it down smoothly. I held my breath.
“Slip out of them,” she whispered, her lips practically touching my ear. I felt her breasts pressed against me, and their firmness sent a warmth through my chest. The feeling was telegraphed with electric swiftness to my loins. A nudging and a pressure began to build in my underpants. When I stood up to lower my trousers, a tingling started inside my thighs.
Her fingers moved to the elastic band of my underwear, and she made the garment follow my pants downward. There was a small hesitation as it found an obstacle in my growing erection, but she was gentle. Her fingers came around to the sides and lifted the garment until I snapped free of it. I watched my underwear move down to my knees. I kept my hands one on top of the other, pressed against my chest.
“Step out of it,” she said, “and sit back again.”
How fast she had gotten me nude. I think having my back to her made it easier for me, although I recognized that I wanted it, that I enjoyed the sensations. Despite my nakedness, my body was warm all over. Her hands were at me, moving methodically over my shoulders and down my arms, rubbing and stroking. I looked down at my pulsating erection, which had swollen and reddened. Her fingers were at my waist, kneading my flesh. Soon she moved under my buttocks and practically lifted me off the bed.
Every part of my body that she touched responded. Even after her hands left an area and moved on to another, the sensations remained. It was as though she had a hundred hands and could leave a pair at every spot to work. My body trembled with pleasure; my eyes moved spasmodically against my closed lids. Although my breathing was regular, it grew deeper and deeper.
“The power of the mind over the body,” she whispered, “is incredible.”
“Yes,” I said. I could barely utter a sound. Her hands left my body, and she moved just enough to take her breasts from my body. I leaned back, but she wouldn’t touch me.
“I want you to open your eyes,” she said. Her voice was harder now, harder and overpowering. I clung to every syllable; my mind opened to every sound she made. I couldn’t believe how much I wanted to surrender to her, to have her consume me and wash my body with her sexual force. My eyelids fluttered with my effort. I wanted to dwell in the erotic darkness. But she would not permit it. “Open them,” she commanded. She nudged me in the ribs, and my eyes opened.
“They’re open.”
“Good. Now look at the doorknob. Concentrate on the doorknob. Think hard about it.” She paused as I did it. “Try to touch it with your mind,” she said. “Feel it, taste it, taste the metal, feel it turning. Think of its essence, its color, its odor. Can you touch it? Are you touching it?”
“Yes.”
“It gets bigger and bigger when you touch it, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s going to grow as big as you. It’s going to swallow you into it. You want it around you. Think of it; think of nothing but it,” she said. “It’s growing,” she whispered. “It’s growing.”
After a while that doorknob did seem to get bigger, and I felt myself drawn to it. I stared at it as hard as I could, and the longer I did, the more it seemed as though I were moving toward it. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me, but I was moving off the bed, drawing closer and closer to that knob. Soon, I could see nothing but the knob. It filled the screen of my vision.
All the while she was whispering things into my ear, talking about the knob, making it seem like such an object of pleasure. I longed to touch it, to taste it, to press it against my face. When I started to concentrate on the turning of it, I actually tilted my body in the direction of the turn. I was grasping it with my mind, willing it to move centimeter by centimeter.
Her voice became fluid; her words oozing through my brain, trickling down my spine, lifting me from the bed and wrapping me around the knob. I was caressing it, kissing it, pressing myself against it. She was telling me to stroke it, to touch it with the tips of my fingers, to lick it and take it into my mouth.
“Draw it around you,” she said, “like a metallic womb.”
&n
bsp; Suddenly I felt myself growing smaller and smaller. The doorknob ballooned around me. I was slipping into the neck of it. The doorknob on the other side was drawing me. I reached up to prevent myself from falling and sliding, but the walls of the metal knob were as slick as ice.
First I fell into the darkness of the outside knob. Then, like a fetus, I developed and grew. A pinpoint of light came through the opening for the door key. The light grew brighter and bigger as the opening widened. I felt myself being pushed toward it. The very walls of the knob contracted and gently moved me along. The opening widened enough for my feet and then my legs, my hips and my torso. I was sliding out.
As I emerged, I grew bigger and bigger until I resumed my normal size. Now I was standing on the other side of the door, and the knob looked like an ordinary knob. I felt cold because I was naked, so I knocked.
Mrs. Randolph opened the door and greeted me all smiles. Then she drew me to her, and I fell into the depths of her blue dashiki. She wrapped me in it and brought me back to the bed. When I awoke, I was lying on it face up and she was naked.
“What happened?” I asked her. She was kneeling beside me, patting my forehead with a damp washcloth. Her face was flushed as though she had been in a steam bath. The redness that I had seen emerging from the top of her cleavage appeared under her breasts and over her stomach as well. It made her breasts whiter and their nipples a much brighter almond. Those nipples had risen firmly and were extended fully. As she leaned toward me, I longed to lift my head and touch them with the tip of my tongue.
Her smallest movement brought a quake in her bosom. Her breasts were so firm that it was just a slight shudder, but the motion was magnetic. When I could gaze downward, I followed the lines of her stomach to the inside of her thighs. They looked soft and warm and filled with promise. She sat back and watched me visually explore her body.
“What happened?” I repeated.
“You had a vision,” she said, “a true meditative experience. How do you feel?”
“Strange. Like I’m floating. I feel very light, filled with hydrogen. I think I’m going to rise to the ceiling.” I laughed. I was a little giddy. She didn’t smile, but there was a look of pleasure in her eyes.
“Yes,” she said, “you might.”
There was a pause during which I continued to gaze at her body, traveling from her neck down. As I reached her waist, she took my left hand and brought it to the inside of her thighs. She moved her legs apart just enough for my fingers and palm to slip within. In a moment I began to feel her wet, warm softness. I blinked slowly. Things were becoming hazy again, and I fought to keep my full awareness.
Her left hand moved up between my legs until she cupped my balls and fingered the stem of my erection. She had it in a soft, scissors grip and tugged gently until she had me at my fullest and hardest. I squirmed in exquisite agony. I closed my eyes and turned my body toward her.
She pushed my shoulder back to the bed and straddled me. I watched her lower herself, taking my penis in her right hand and guiding it carefully as she descended. She took it into her in a single, smooth motion. I slid the palms of my hands under my buttocks and lifted myself upward to make the furthest entry possible and then brought my arms around so I could reach up and massage her breasts and stroke the stiffened nipples. She sat up straighter, and I had to lift myself awkwardly to fully enjoy her bosom. Her pistonlike action drove me flat against the bed.
All the while her eyes never closed. She scrutinized me as though she were putting me through some medical procedure. I thought she was analyzing my complexion, observing the dilation of my pupils, monitoring the quickness of my breath and the very pulse of my heart. The sterile aroma of rubbing alcohol traveled down to my nostrils. I had to close my eyes. I was afraid she might somehow steal my sexual pleasure just before the climax of my ecstasy.
I listened to the sound of the bedsprings, my own groans, and my own heavy breathing. I reached out to touch her thighs, but she caught my hands with hers and held my arms away from both our bodies. She began to move more vigorously, pumping and squeezing my hands in synchronization with her bounce. I couldn’t keep up with her momentum, but the pitch of my excitement was such that I exploded in long, hot spurts. When it ended, she released her grip on my hands and I opened my eyes.
As she straightened up, she seemed to grow taller and wider. Her breasts looked enormous. I shriveled beneath her. She dismounted and took the ends of the dashiki to wrap it around me until only my face showed. Then she went to the closet and took out a bathrobe for herself.
“Just lay there,” she said, “until you feel solid again.” I nodded obediently and watched her go out to the bathroom. After a moment I closed my eyes. Because of the dashiki, my darkness was a blue black darkness. I felt myself drifting and sinking. I fell asleep for a few minutes, but when she came back into the room, I awoke. She studied my face, framed in blue. “You’re coming back,” she said. “What you need to do is take a shower, lay down for a few minutes, and then dress for dinner. I’ll be going down to help Miriam.”
As soon as she mentioned Miriam’s name, the reality of what I had done hit me. Regardless of how it had happened, I had, in fact, made love to another woman. Up until now, I had made love to only one woman in my life, and from what I knew and believed, she had made love only with me. I could say the nurse seduced me; I could say that it was the result of more than six months of frustration and denial, but no matter how I characterized and explained it, there was only one conclusion: I had betrayed Miriam.
I thought about her working downstairs, thinking I was up here getting some therapeutic treatment. All the while she was happy for me and even excited by the prospect that the nurse could be of some benefit to my health. I thought about the times we had sworn our endless faithfulness to each other, times when we denied that their could ever be anything to come between us. Miriam had always been so fragile and delicate, so precious to me. If she ever found out what really happened in here ...
All of it would come thundering down on her—Lillian’s death, my infidelity, her own vulnerability, the sense of loneliness, the terror that comes from having no one to believe in—and it would be my fault, my fault.
I sat up to look for my clothing, which the nurse had piled neatly at the corner of the bed. Silently, I dressed. She put on her uniform. I didn’t want to say anything to her before I left, but she said, “I’ll tell you when I want you to come back for another session.” As I closed the door, I thought I heard her laugh, but I couldn’t be sure. I was too much in a fog, like someone who had just awoken from a very deep sleep and had trouble focusing and orienting himself to consciousness.
The moment I entered my bedroom, my guilt intensified. How many times had Miriam and I made love in that bed. What I had just done with the nurse was nothing like it. Miriam and I made love with affection and care. We were soft with each other and always found mystery and thrill with each other’s bodies. I never felt sick or perverted afterward. I wondered if I would ever make love to Miriam again like that. The nurse had ravaged my sex. I was unclean and certainly not good enough for anyone as pure as Miriam.
I showered, but I was still not totally myself afterward so I decided to continue following the nurse’s prescription. I put on my underwear and lay down. I had no head pain, but I felt like a man fighting a hangover. I closed my eyes, thinking I would take a ten-minute nap, but when I opened them again, I realized rather quickly that a considerable amount of time had passed. In fact, I had slept three hours.
The house was dead quiet. Curious, I dressed quickly and headed downstairs. I knew there was no one in the nurse’s room because the door was partially open and the room was dark. I moved down the stairs quietly, listening hard.
Downstairs, the kitchen light was off and the dining room light had been turned down very low. It made the room soft and seductive, but there were no sounds; there was no one in it. Although the hall light was off, I could see clearly down it because li
ght spilled out from the living room. Again I listened hard, and again I heard nothing. What were they doing?
“Miriam?” I didn’t realize how softly I had called. “Miriam?”
“We’re in here,” she said.
Perhaps it was my sense of guilt, but I thought I heard something accusatory, something threatening in the tone of Miriam’s voice. I walked slowly, even cautiously, to the door and peered in.
They were both sitting there on the couch, side by side, looking out at me. The nurse’s uniform looked whiter than ever, giving her even more of a crisp, authoritative demeanor. She wore no makeup, and her face had a bland complexion. Her eyes were unflinching; her face so still she looked frozen and as cold as Death itself. It was terribly unnerving.
Miriam’s smile was different. She looked confused, half frightened, half happy. I got the distinct feeling that my next few words and how I said them would make all the difference. Suddenly I felt thrown into a new crisis. I looked to the nurse for some guidance, but she simply glared at me threateningly. Could she have ... would she have ... told her?
“Well,” Miriam said, “it’s about time you came down.”
I thought I caught a quick, side glance at Mrs. Randolph, who didn’t look back. She kept her hands in her lap, her posture straight. Her stillness was intimidating. She radiated with such power. She would have made a great judge during the Reign of Terror in France. I was standing there with my hands clasped before me and rested against my body, my head slightly bowed, my eyes moving nervously from side to side like a man about to be guillotined.
“I slept longer than I expected.”
“Meditation can by physically exhausting,” Mrs. Randolph said. There was a wry smile on her face. I looked quickly at Miriam, but she had no reaction.
“That’s right, Michael,” she said.
“Especially if you’re like Michael and you get right into it,” the nurse added. There was laughter around her eyes now. She enjoyed watching me squirm.
“I suppose you’ll have more respect for what Mrs. Randolph says now, Michael,” Miriam said condescendingly. “She is a professional.”
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