Obsession: Tales of Irresistible Desire (17 page)

She made up a name. He seemed satisfied with it, using it when he asked her if he could buy her a drink.

“I’m not done with this one yet,” she said.

“Then why don’t you just finish it and come for a walk in the moonlight?

“Where would we walk?”

“My apartment is just a block and a half from here.”

“You don’t waste time.”

“I told you I waited close to an hour for you. I figure the rest of the evening is too precious to waste.”

She had been unwilling to look directly into his eyes but she did so now and was not disappointed. His eyes were large and wellspaced, blue in color, a light blue of a shade that often struck her as cold and forbidding. But his were anything but cold. On the contrary, they burned with passionate intensity.

She knew, looking into them, that he was a dangerous man. He was strong, he was direct, and he was dangerous. She could tell all this in a few seconds, merely by meeting his relentless gaze.

Well, that was fine. Danger, after all, was an inextricable part of it.

She pushed her glass aside, scooped up her change. “I don’t really want the rest of this,” she said.

“I didn’t think you did. I think I know what you really want.”

He took her arm, tucked it under his own. They left the lounge, and on the way out, she could feel other eyes on her, envious eyes. She drew closer to him and swung her hips so her buttocks bumped into his lean flank. Her purse slapped against her other hip. Then they were out the door and heading down the street.

She felt excitement mixed with fear, an emotional combination not unlike the stinger. The fear, the danger, was part of it.

His apartment consisted of two sparsely furnished rooms three flights up from street level. They walked wordlessly into the bedroom and undressed. She laid her clothes across a wooden chair, set her handbag on the floor at the side of the platform bed. She got onto the bed and he joined her and they embraced. He smelled faintly of leather and tobacco and male perspiration, and even with her eyes shut she could see his blue eyes burning in the darkness.

She wasn’t surprised when his hands gripped her shoulders and eased her downward on the bed. She had been expecting this and welcomed it. She swung her head, letting her long hair brush across his flat abdomen, and then she moved to accept him. He tangled his fingers in her hair, hurting her in a not unpleasant way. She inhaled his musk as her mouth embraced him, and in her own fashion she matched his strength with strength of her own, teasing, taunting, heightening his passion and then cooling it down just short of culmination. His breathing grew ragged and muscles worked in his legs and abdomen.

At length he let go of her hair. She moved upward on the bed to join him and he rolled her over onto her back and covered her, his mouth seeking hers, his flesh burying itself in her flesh. She locked her thighs around his hips. He pounded at her loins, hammering her, hurting her with the brute force of his masculinity.

How strong he was, and how insistent. Once again she thought what a dangerous man he was, and what a dangerous game she was playing. The thought served only to spur her own passion on, to build her fire higher and hotter.

She felt her body preparing itself for orgasm, felt the urge growing to abandon herself, to lose control utterly. But a portion of herself remained remote, aloof, and she let her arm hang over the side of the bed and reached for her purse, groped within it.

And found the knife.

Now she could relax, now she could give up, now she could surrender to what she felt. She opened her eyes, stared upward. His own eyes were closed as he thrust furiously at her. Open your eyes, she urged him silently. Open them and look at me—

And it seemed that his eyes did open to meet hers, even as they climaxed together, even as she centered the knife over his back and plunged it unerringly into his heart.

Afterward, in her own apartment, she put his eyes in the box with the others.

Her child spoke to her from her womb: Hail, mother, full of grace. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed be the fruit of thy womb.

Nancy Holder

It’s starting.

It’s starting, and it doesn’t even hurt that much. It hurts much less than I thought it would. Not that I mind. I don’t care how much pain I endure for the sake of my baby.

I can’t cry out. I can’t make a noise. If they hear, they’ll come. And they’ll destroy us. I haven’t forgotten what happened the first time. I will never forget.

Here it comes. The contraction. Oh, oh, shit, it does hurt. How could I have forgotten what it’s like? What did Margaret say? It’s like crapping a watermelon. Yes. An elephant, more like. God, I should call her. I’m not sure I can do this alone after all. But what if she tells them? I’m not sure I can trust her anymore. I don’t think she believed me about Bryan.

I’m freezing. There’s no heat in here and the mattress is soaked. I hope my water’s broken. I hope it’s not blood. It doesn’t smell like blood—and believe me, I know what blood smells like. All I smell is dirt and rust and my own sweat. But I’m so wet! I wish I could check, but I can’t even turn on my flashlight. I have to do this in the dark, like an animal. I’m furious. I’m terrified.

But it will be worth it. I have to remember, it’ll definitely be worth it.

But does it have to hurt so much?

I remember how it was, with Bryan. Clean and antiseptic, with starched sheets and broth afterwards and smiling faces. The nurses wore perfume and makeup and looked so happy for me. There was a picture of the Holy Mother on the wall, and a crucifix. The nuns were there, cloaked in black and white as they should be. Brides of Christ, but so old. Too old for a thirty-three-year-old man. Jesus, you know, is perpetually thirty-three.

Bryan. My lovely boy. I remember wanting him so badly. I tried everything. I remember walking in the snow to the cathedral to pray: Hail Mary, full of grace. Heaven and earth are full of thy glory. A son, Holy Mother, give me a son. Give me a baby. Give me a child.

In the olden days, kings chopped off the heads of their wives when they didn’t give them sons. But you know, I didn’t care if my baby was a boy or a girl. I just wanted someone to call my own. I had nothing in this world. I had no one. Surely the Holy Mother understood my plight. She had a family. She was loved. She was a queen who had everything. She stood on top of the world, and she could give me what I wanted. I knew if I did my part, she would do hers.

Christ! This is tearing me apart inside! I can’t do this. I have to get help.

But no one will help me. That’s the terror. I can panic. I can call someone. But once they see, once they know—

Think about other things. Think about the Holy Mother.

Yes. I prayed to her. I screwed like crazy. I knew she’d understand. It wasn’t lust; I wasn’t enjoying it or anything. All I wanted was a baby. I wanted to feel the weight of a child in my belly, to feel it crawl from between my legs into the world. I wanted to carry it in my arms and suckle it at my breast. I wanted to smell that baby smell and see that baby smile. My child. My Sacred Infant.

So I prayed to the Holy Mother while I was having sex with some man—usually not very good-looking, not very intelligent, not even very clean—oomphing and umphing so he’d come and I’d get his good, sweet sperm. I thought about the Holy Mother’s sweet, patient smile and I’d move faster and harder. The guys loved it. Hundreds of them. I don’t have any idea who Bryan’s father was. I mean, his earthly father. Because I firmly believe Bryan was a gift from God.

Then the day came. Oh, God, oh, God, oh God. Hang on. Hang on. I can’t do this.

The day. Came.

Yes. I knew I was pregnant before the doctor told me. I felt a spark of life deep inside me. It was like a spiritual orgasm. I lit a hundred candles to the Holy Mother and gave everything I had to the poor. I was the most radiant pregnant woman in the world. The doctor marveled at my health, my happiness. He said it was nice to see a woman so unabashedly delighted to be pregnant. Unabashedly was the word he used. I wouldn’t forget a thing like that.

Oh, God, God—

Why, am I calling to God? That’s over. Over.

I went into the cathedral and thanked the Holy Mother. The depths of the holy place swirled with incense and candlelight. I heard the choirboys practicing. And she stood there with her arms open wide, roses at her feet, and I got to thinking: she wasn’t such a great mother after all. Look what she let them do to her son. Where was she when they flayed his back open? And drove nails through his palms? A real mother would have protected him. Would have done anything to keep him from harm.

Shit, shit, shit. I took Lamaze classes, but that was so long ago. I round my cheeks, I puff, puff, puff. It hurts too much. I can’t.

Lady Mother. The Lady Mother was too much of a lady. A good Catholic, maybe—

Right before Bryan was born, Margaret was mugged. Mugged? Why do they call it mugged? The man beat her. He stole what little she had left. I think she was raped, but she never admitted it. She had a breakdown. She’s never been the same.

I saw what an evil place the world was. The nuclear arms race, the pollution, the crime. I saw what could happen to a wonderful person like Margaret. Was I supposed to stand by like the Holy Mother, smiling that sick, pathetic smile, and let my child grow up in a world like that?

Then he was born, and laid into my arms. I can’t tell you how much I loved him. So sweet, so gentle, so helpless. I took him home and locked all the doors and windows. I didn’t let anyone except the priest see him, not even Margaret. At night, I tied a rope around his little hand and hooked it into a belt I wore. I kept a knife and a gun under my pillow in case some one tried to attack him.

Blessed Mother, oh, help me. But I can’t pray to the Holy Mother anymore. No matter; what use could she be?

We were watching TV one day; or rather, I was watching. Bryan was nursing. I think it was Leave It to Beaver. But it occurred to me that Bryan wouldn’t stay a baby forever. And I wouldn’t be able to protect him from the world because he would want to go out into it like the boy on TV.

No. No, no, no. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

I think that’s when I realized the Holy Mother’s mistake. Now that I’m more sophisticated, I can’t believe how dumb she was. Because if Jesus couldn’t have gone out into the world . . .

I thought for a long time about if I was doing the right thing. I considered all kinds of methods. Cut off his pudgy, smooth legs? But there were wheelchairs. Sever his spine? I might kill him, and of course I didn’t want to do that. I just couldn’t decide what to do, so I prayed again to the Holy Mother.

And three words came to me: the soft spot. He was still a tiny baby, and very tender there, you see—

And it worked! He lived through it, and he would never care about going outside.

Things would have been perfect, but then I realized I’d made a terrible mistake: I had sinned. I was a sinner. Bryan had been baptized—foolish of me, I know, but I hadn’t thought things out too well. He would never be held accountable—he would never be able to do anything construed as sin, nothing intentional, you see. So I would go to hell and he would go to heaven.

The anguish! I’ve seen pictures of the Pietà. Where Jesus is lying across the Holy Mother’s lap and she’s still got that same, vacant smile on her face. She’s supposed to be sorrowful, but you can see the smile. Because she expects to see him in heaven. She let him suffer—she thinks because she was born pure, she stayed pure, but God, in a way, well, God raped her. She is actually quite filthy.

She should be screaming, raging! What have you done to me? To my son? You bastard! She should be running after those Romans with an axe. She should have called down the wrath of God on them.

Passive. Unbelievably passive.

I, on the other hand, took action. I could congratulate myself on at least making an attempt. But the more I thought about what I’d done, the more obvious it became that I’d insured Bryan and I would be separated for all eternity.

I realized I would have to start over.

Oh, no! I’m going to scream. I am screaming! I am! I am!

Now I whimper. I listen. No one’s coming, thank God. I’ve lived in this hovel for seven months—they were supposed to tear it down two months ago, but I know how bureaucracy works; I used to be a secretary for the planning commission—and I guess they’re used to squatters and drug users making a stir now and then. Yes, there are drug dealers and other scum living in this building—hence the knife, and did I mention the gun? Did I mention the other day when one of them tried to get in here?

Perhaps I would’ve been safer back at Margaret’s house. But I can’t trust her, you see. And all those people she lives with—the man, the little children, her old granny. And I’m scared to death someone will find little Bryan underneath the dog house. The police are still looking for him, but if God is merciful, he will rest in peace.

Still, it would be wonderful to be somewhere clean and warm. I could be in the bed with the pink and green blankets, a pot of chocolate on the bed stand.

The Holy Mother delivered in a pig sty. I can do no less.

Giving birth is infuriating. It’s one of the most passive activities there is—you lie there, screaming and panting while the doctors handle everything. That’s how it was the first time, calling me “dear” and “honey” and telling me when to breathe, when to push. If I hadn’t listened, if I’d just sat up and said, “No! I will not!”

Calm. I must stay calm.

I gave up on the Holy Mother, who wasn’t smart enough or brave enough. She certainly didn’t know how to love enough, with her foolish smiles and her roses and her hopes. So I prayed to the Devil instead. And he came to me.

He was beautiful, glowing red with a huge penis and round, firm testicles that I knew were loaded with sperm. No mortal man comes close to the devil. He’s muscular and brawny and very tall. The color of his hair changes with his mood—blond when he’s playful, black when he’s angry or stern or amorous. The Devil can he very amorous. I never enjoyed sex until I slept with the Devil.