Dead in the Water

by Nancy Holder

  She didn’t wake until the cabin was dark. She started violently. A trick, just like Curry said! They were back! They—

  “Shh,” Glenn said. And she asked questions, dozens of them. He told her the Coast Guard had been searching the area since first word of the Morris’s difficulty. They had found Donna’s lifeboat within thirty nautical miles of the freighter’s last known position. She had been missing for a week.

  “I don’t think that’s right,” she murmured.

  She slept a deadened, dreamless sleep.

  Then she woke again and said, “I hated you when you said … when you told me you were going to get a new partner.”

  Naked beside her, Glenn gaped at her. “Donny, I haven’t talked to you since the day you left Long Beach.”

  Reade was that good? She shuddered.

  Later, they talked, on the small Coast Guard cutter, tiny cabins, gray and white, bunks, everything, and it seemed so amazingly simple, so lifelike, so real: “We had it out that day I dropped you off.” His exquisite smile was grim and sad. “At Disneyland. She knew I’d driven you up. She told me it was cruel to her and you both, pretending. She … she said she had someone else, too.” His face was flushed. “I don’t really think that’s true, though. I think she’s just hurt.”

  “God, I’m sorry,” Donna said. “I shoulda—”

  “Donna, if you’d died out there …”

  They made love again. Not protected, she thought; birth control pills lost at sea, too. Then; who the hell cares? And they slept in the cherishing embrace of the smooth blue waters.

  She woke to ravings. Curry was out of it, Glenn told her, and who was he anyway? Not from the Morris, so where was he from?

  She told him, and he didn’t believe her.

  She didn’t know how she was going to handle it, if she’d explain it away eventually, forget about it. But there was Curry, the evidence.

  Oh, Matty, John, Ruth. Poor Phil. Elise, how had they died? She never saw them. Tears ran, pooled on the pillow. She drifted.

  Her eyes opened in the dark. For all she knew, they could have still been alive when she abandoned ship. And she hadn’t gone back for them. She’d let Cha-cha convince her. Or was it Curry who had convinced her? Or was it all a lie?

  Had they been alive, the ones she hadn’t seen?

  Finally, land ho. Hawaii, Don Ho. At the bow of the Coast Guard vessel, she stood on wobbly legs and stared at Diamond Head.

  “Do you know you can die from drowning two-three days after you’ve been revived?” she asked, tracing the landscape with her eyes. Palms. High-rises. The blessed, blazing sun. “It’s called hypoxia.”

  “Yes, hon,” he said, careful of her sunburn, of her. “Yes, baby.” Like she was crazy.

  Across the deck, something moved on

  little

  cat

  feet,

  but there was nothing there. Once out of the fog, Nemo had proved to be dead, too, and all her babies. Little kittie-ghosts, nurtured by the milky evil of the fog.

  Nevertheless, a few of the crewmen now swore they heard kittens mewing; and Donna had felt the pressure of a small animal between her legs as she dozed.

  “How’s Curry?” she asked.

  “Still sedated,” Glenn replied. She wondered if Curry’s mind had drifted away to a safer sea; if it would ever drift back.

  The Coast Guard vessel moved past Aloha tower. A helicopter buzzed overhead.

  They talked about what they’d do back in San Diego. Barb was moving out. Donna said she’d need some time, but she knew that was a load of crap.

  He was beside her, really there, in the heart and the flesh; and inside she was cracked and opening for him … hello, my love, please, please, don’t hurt me.

  They walked off the ship together, hand in hand. And then a man in a white uniform gestured Glenn aside, and he collapsed.

  They had drowned: Barb, and the two little bastards, in a freak accident: facedown in a neighbor’s pool, and no reason for it. Their new swimsuits. The girls had been drinking lemonade. Barb was there to get some emotional support—the neighbor was somebody’s ex-wife, too.

  No reason for it.

  * * *

  Donna threw back her head and screamed. She ran for Curry, ran and roused him; and on the nightstand beside him, in a pool of wet, a sparkling green glass bottle spun lazily in a circle.

  “No! No!” She rattled him hard. “Where are we? Are we there? Curry!”

  “No more!” Curry sobbed, half-unconscious. His face was white, his eyes wild. “No more!”

  She had faced the Lorelei:

  (Oh, baby, I am so lonely.)

  I want my man.

  (What is your Desire?)

  My man.

  (What is the thing that will draw you to me?)

  To protect. To save. My man.

  “No!” Donna picked up the bottle and smashed it against the nightstand. It didn’t break. It glittered in the soft light like a beacon as she brought it down again and again, swearing, weeping, hefting it with both hands. Curry staggered out of bed and fell to his knees, pleading and begging with something, with someone.

  They pounded on the other side of the closed hatch as she fell down beside him and shook him, saying, “Are we still there? Damn you, are we on the Pandora?”

  But it didn’t matter. Because either way, she was going back. It wasn’t finished. It—she—knew Donna would go back. For Glenn—the threat to him was clear. For his wife and babies, to save them from a hellish existence, if that was what it was now. If they needed saving. And she wouldn’t know that unless she went. And the … thing knew it.

  Oh, baby, I am so sad and lonely.

  Lonely enough to make Donna—who also understood lonely, who could be a soul mate—a mate—come back.

  Or was this one of Reade’s games? Was she really back on the Pandora, right now?

  “Cha-cha, don’t you have any say?” she whispered. “Are you there at all?” Perhaps he’d been too gentle, too crazy. Maybe the creature was already looking for another Dreamer.

  And reeling her in.

  The bottle spun lazily, as if to say, Remember, there are plenty of other ways—and people—to drown. The particulars don’t really matter. Someone else’s boat might sink, or their plane may go down, and there are, as you know, ponds and lakes and rivers. And bathtubs. Or hot tubs. Dreadful things can happen in Jacuzzis. Have happened.

  You will be my Life-in-Death. The woman who brings death …

  unless you come.

  The bottle spun slowly, like a boy on a lake. Is that where it all began? Because she didn’t go gentle into that frigid water? No second chances, big girl, on the Sea of Death.

  How do you know we aren’t still there, at the place we met, oh, my lady of the lake? How do you know I haven’t caught you, and now we’re beneath the surface, you and I, me beauty. And as the shadow passes above us, you think, Thank God, thank God, you’re saved. But you know how wrong you are.

  You know.

  The bottle twirled, rolled.

  To protect and to serve. To rescue. To save. Donna’s foremost Desire. Oh, my man, I love him—

  “All right, you goddamned monster,” she whispered. “Okay, I’m coming. Alone.”

  But she knew that wasn’t true.

  She knew.

  And that is what it will be like. And more or less, how it will happen.

  So nice you can join us.

  NANCY HOLDER is the author, with Melanie Tem, of the acclaimed Abyss novel Making Love. She is also the acclaimed author of various women’s fiction titles, as well as short horror fiction. Her short story, “Lady Madonna,” won the 1991 Bram Stoker Award for Best Short Story from the Horror Writers of America.

  Bonus

  Short-Stories

  Following are three award-winning short stories by Nancy Holder:

  Lady Madonna: Copyright © 1991 by Nancy Holder. First Published May 1991 in Obsessions edited by Gary Raisor, published
by Dark Harvest. Lady Madonna illustration by Glenn Chadbourne.

  I Hear the Mermaids Singing: Copyright © 1993 by Nancy Holder. First Published January 1993 in Hottest Blood: The Ultimate in Erotic Horror edited by Jeff Gelb and Michael Garrett, published by Pocket Books.

  Cafe Endless: Spring Rain: Copyright © 1994 by Nancy Holder. First Published November 1994 in Love in Vein: Twenty Original Tales of Vampiric Erotica edited by Poppy Z. Brite and Martin H. Greenberg, published by HarperPrism.

  Lady Madonna

  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 head 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 Mothers 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 someone 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, anything intentional, you see. So I would go to hell and he would go to heaven.

  The anguish! I’ve seen pictures of the Pieta. 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!”