Suburban Cyborg

by Gloria Martin

  Soon there were too cold and had to get out of the water. They traipsed back to their hotel room and took off all their clothes. They ordered up some lunch and ate in bed, naked. There was nothing sexual (just then) about their nakedness; they were just totally comfortable with each other. That was the most startling thing to Samantha. She had never been totally comfortable being naked around people. And now here she was, comfortable being naked around two people.

  After lunch, Samantha returned to her room and took a shower. The three of them were going out on the town this evening. After her shower, she was going to call across and ask the others what they wanted to do until tonight when they walked through her door, fully dressed.

  “Come on, Sammy,” Jack said. “We’re taking you shopping.”

  And I thought this day couldn’t get any better, she thought, as she hastily put on her shoes.

  *

  Standing in front of the full-length mirror in her new dress, Samantha felt sexier than she had in years. She had not one, but two hunky Navy SEALs. Just the thought of it made her feel dizzy.

  That night they dined in an expensive-looking restaurant and then went to a club. Samantha kept insisting that they let her contribute toward something but the men were adamant that they would pay for her. Samantha told herself that when they got back to the States she would treat them to something nice, which she would. It was only fair.

  When they returned that night, they sat in the moonlit hotel room and smoked cigarettes out of the window. There was nothing particularly abnormal about that moment but Samantha felt a change begin to happen within her. She was no longer Samantha the Lonely Girl Whom Nothing Happened To; now she was somebody interesting with some kind of purpose and spontaneity. She felt like she had finally been introduced to life.

  After the cigarettes they made love, all three of them, and then fell asleep together. It was perfect.

  *****

  The four days in Malta ended quicker than Samantha would have liked, but reality came calling and all of them were adults and so they had to return. Samantha apologized to the good patrons of The Spatula and Eli and Jack went north for a meeting with some important Navy people. Samantha sensed that neither of them wanted to talk about it so she didn’t ask. They were uncomfortable with the role they’d played in so many deaths, Eli had told her one night in Malta. It was as though the animal-shield had been lifted and she had glimpsed the real him.

  Samantha didn’t contact the men and they didn’t contact her. It was nice, in a way, to get back to her normal life for a while. It was nice to remember what it was like to be a normal member of society. But beneath it all was the yearning to return to the craziness of those few days. She wanted the SEALs back with her; she wanted them to whisk her away into another realm of craziness.

  Instead of anything so dramatic, she came home one day to Eli and Jack standing outside her apartment building. It was almost two months after their return. It was well after Christmas (which Samantha had spent with Fiona) and the first whispers of spring were beginning to thaw the snow and paint the leaves a yellowish green.

  Samantha knew that some women would be angry at the way the two of them had left her, but she wasn’t. They had never declared love or even commitment. They had shared pleasure and that was that. And now that they had returned, Samantha’s main emotion was happiness intermingled with surprise. She immediately ran over to them and took them both in her arms, wrapping her arms around their necks. They hugged her back, Jack laughing, Eli squeezing her tight.

  “Come in,” she said, and hurried them through the door.

  *

  The three of them sat around the coffee table, much as they had when the two of them first came here, but something was changed in them. They seemed less comfortable. Eli stared at the wall and Jack looked down at his hands for a long time. Samantha couldn’t help but remember. Jack is staring down at his hands. He is nervous. She is nervous. They are fifteen and the summer sun blazes down on them and the river glitters and Sammy knows things will never be this perfect again. He wants to say something but he had to look down at his hands to compose himself. Jack is small and nervous and strong and big at the same time. He looks up and smiles and says it; and they kiss and they do more than kiss and it is beautiful. She was stunned by the force of the thought, but pushed it away. She wouldn’t dwell on the past.

  “We’re going over there again, Sammy,” Jack finally said.

  More was said. There were hugs and kisses and lovemaking and everything else, but that was all Samantha really heard. They were going away. But this was different to the last time. Now they were going away possibly forever.

  The SEALs had taken her; the SEALs had left her.

  *****

  Samantha Fry, the manager of The Spatula in the small town of Barkton, had no idea that Jack and Eli were going to return, or if. She had worked hard over these last eight months and eventually the boss had promoted her and taken a more background role himself. She was able to buy a house and she had no problem staying here. She had flown one wintery fortnight last year that nobody but she and her secret traveling companions knew about. Over the months she thought about writing them a letter, but she just couldn’t do it. She had no clue what to say.

  Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, Jack and Eli re-entered her life. She returned to her three-bedroom house one evening, tired from training a new batch of waitresses, as well as helping along the expansion of The Spatula into a two-restaurant franchise (it had become very popular under her management), and there, sitting on the doorstep, were Jack and Eli.

  They stood army-stiff when they saw her. Samantha giggled. “At ease,” she said, slipping naturally and comfortably back into their old relationship.

  Eli even smiled a little.

  “Have you come to drop a bomb on my life again, boys?” she said.

  “More than that,” Eli said, looking her up and down, and Samantha found herself arching her back a little more than usual, feeding his eyes. All these months, and she hadn’t tried to find a partner. She’d told herself it was work, but—

  “We’re not here to cause trouble,” Jack said, smiling. “We just need a place to stay. Have you got a spare room?”

  “You’re in luck,” Samantha said, not even having to think about it. “I’ve got two spare rooms.”

  The three of them went into the house. None of them said it, but all of them knew it: they were about to begin a new, strange, beautiful life together.

  THE END

  Bonus Story 37/40

  Blood Moon over the Mississippi

  Dead Bouquets

  Violet Miller arrived in Louisiana on April 3, 1923. The train pulled into New Orleans Union Station, issuing a cloud of steam and soot as it slowed to a stop at the platform, groaning with the weight of ten cars and 800 miles of track behind it. A misty rain was falling, and the warm earth steamed up into the cool afternoon air, blurring the outlines of the city. The station master checked his pocket watch. At 4:00 sharp, the doors of the train were thrown open in unison, and a flurry of activity swarmed over the platform. Red caps and chauffeurs rushed forward to take hold of trunks and hat-boxes. Mothers and nannies grabbed hold of wayward children as they sought to slip away into the fog. Men shouted their greetings to each other. Women kissed each other’s cheeks. The din of many accents filled the air as people from every corner of the country congregated there. The train sighed and settled in place. The fireman wiped sweat and black soot from his weathered brow. Violet Miller stepped onto the platform, and smiled.

  Even in the chaos of the arrival, she turned the head of every man in her vicinity. She stood poised for a moment, looking around interestedly at the goings on. Her dark chestnut bob was nearly hidden by a peacock blue cloche hat pulled down low over her deep azure eyes. She wore a grey dress that dropped just below her knees, blue shoes, and gloves to match her hat. A sable stole was draped casually over her narrow shoulders. She held a small
travelling case. She was lithe and tall. The artist Miró had once said to her, over his fifth tumbler of absinthe, that she was the most perfectly proportioned woman alive. Beyond her slender form, it was her bright blue eyes, shining out from beneath thick black lashes that commanded the attention of those around her.

  Her trunk emerged from the train, and immediately a young porter procured it for her.

  “You lead the way,” Violet told him, her voice husky, her words carved out into harsh consonants by her New York accent. “I’m brand new here.” She offered him a smile. He tipped his hat and hurried ahead, cheeks rosy from the encounter. He hailed a black cab, and loaded her trunk inside of it. She gave him the address on Bourbon Street, and the driver whisked her away toward the French Quarter. Violet took in the city from the back of the car, gazing out the window into the rainy streets. Through the gray haze, she could make out ornate porches, and cheerfully painted buildings. Naples yellow and crimson, framed with cast iron vines. Flowers and palms spilled from window boxes and balconies. A streetcar trundled by her window. She was staying at the home of a friend from New York, a banker who had roots in Louisiana. He had warned her of the rough and tumble environment as he handed her the keys, and then he laughed, and allowed that it was probably just the kind of excitement she was looking for.

  Though the rain fell harder as they drove, the streets were filled with people of all colors and origins, crisscrossing in front of them, huddled under umbrellas or the necks of their jackets. Violet smiled to herself. Soon the car pulled to a stop in front of a two story house. It was painted a deep emerald green with grey painted shutters, and the cast iron porches of each story were overflowing with spring flowers. A light hung just above the front doors, glowing warmly in the fog, beckoning Violet into her new home. As she walked up the steps, the cab-driver close behind lugging her trunk, the double doors opened, and she was greeted by a matronly woman with a friendly smile.

  “Welcome, welcome, Ms. Miller. I’m Caroline…Mr. Astor has instructed me to take very good care of you. Come in, come in!” She beckoned Violet forward, shuffling around, taking her hat and her fur and instructing the driver on where to bring her luggage.

  “Thank you Caroline,” Violet smiled, relieved to be rid of her belongings. She looked around the inside of her new home with great interest. She was standing in the front hallway. The grey light of the day filtered in through long sheer curtains, illuminating a room decorated in the latest style. There were bits and pieces of Mr. Astor’s travels on display—an alligator head sat on a small table. Violet recognized paintings by some of their friends. A Picasso nude hung next to a Dalí sketch.

  “I’ll give you the grand tour, shall I?” Caroline bustled back into the room. She was a small, round woman, with rosy cheeks, dressed in a classic grey maid’s costume with a flour-dusted apron tied about her ample waist.

  “Yes, thank you,” Violet replied. “I love it already.”

  Caroline lead her through the first floor. The dining room, drawing room, water closet, and through to a back garden, surrounded by high walls, and replete with a small swimming pool. They stood on the back porch for a moment as Violet took it all in. It was nothing like New York City. The colors of the rose bushes that surrounded the yard appeared brighter and more vibrant somehow. The rain had stopped now, and the clouds had begun to turn golden in the early evening.

  “Can I take my supper out here?” Violet asked the maid.

  “You can take your supper in the bath tub, for all I care,” she replied with a laugh. “Speaking of, you must be in quite a state after two days of travel. Why don’t I show you upstairs to your quarters?” She led the way back into the house. Violet followed her up a staircase lined with photographs of exotic places. She glimpsed the pyramids of Egypt, and a Japanese garden as she passed.

  “This the guest room,” Caroline pushed open the door to their right. “And the studio, should you find any use for it.” She opened a second door. This room was unlike any other in the house. It was painted completely white. Even the wooden floor had been whitewashed. The windows were wide and exposed.

  “I say, this is awfully wonderful,” Violet breathed, stepping into the room. There was a desk by the windows, and an easel stood folded in the corner. There were two shelves, each bursting with paints and pencils and chalks. “Mr. Astor is terribly thoughtful, isn’t he,” she said, turning to Caroline with a smile.

  “Yes ma’am,” the woman replied. “Now if you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to your quarters.” She showed Violet to her room. It was a large room with windows on two sides. The walls were painted a deep dusky blue, and the dark mahogany bed was dressed with white linens. Before the windows, green plants, exotic ferns, and cactuses were stacked on ornate iron stands. Some hung from the ceiling, dripping with pink and white blossoms. A small white couch sat across from the bed with a matching chair. The room gave off an impression of calm. Violet was beside herself with its beauty. Everything in New York was dingy and dirty compared to the vibrancy of this place.

  “And here’s your washroom,” Caroline concluded the tour. “The furnace is going, so the water’s nice and hot for you. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Violet stood alone in the blue-tiled bathroom. Slowly, she turned the knobs of the deep tub, letting it fill with hot, steaming water. She sprinkled soap, and a sprig of lavender into the bath, and watched the water as it became milky with heat and the scent of flowers. She stripped off her clothing slowly. First her shoes, and then her dress. She stood for a moment in her grey chiffon teddy, before gracefully slipping off her thigh-high stockings, and letting the last of her clothing fall to the ground. She stepped into the steaming bath, and with a small sigh, sank beneath the suds.

  When Violet entered the drawing room an hour later, she was refreshed and elegant in a filmy sea-foam green dress. She wore a similarly colored shawl with bright red tassels over her shoulders. It was almost seven o’clock now. The sun shimmered through the windows, and the furniture cast impossibly long shadows across the room.

  “Caroline?” Violet called, gliding from the room and walking towards the back of the house. The woman emerged from the kitchen door, “I’ll spend my evening on the porch, and would you mind fixing me a mint julep?”

  “Certainly,” the woman replied, disappearing into the kitchen. Prohibition was the talk of the town, but Mr. Astor’s cabinet was stocked with every manner of alcoholic delight imaginable, and Violet certainly wasn’t going to allow a silly government ruling to impact her cocktail hour. Now was the emergence of the ‘bright young things’, the rise of the bohemians and their exciting, colorful lives out of the ashes of World War I. It was as if an entire generation was attempting forget the agony of conflict.

  Violet made her way to the back door. She stepped gingerly out into the evening sunset, following the flagstone path that surrounded the swimming pool through a variety of roses. Her favorites were the bushes of huge white blossoms. Their aroma was sweet and light. In the remains of the day, they appeared almost ghostly, delicate and beautiful. The birds of the garden were chirping their quiet ‘good-nights’, and Violet could hear a murmur of voices from next door. She wondered who her neighbors were, in this strange and exciting city.

  Caroline called her back to the porch for her cocktail, and a delicious supper of alligator gumbo. As the sun set, Caroline lit an oil lamp and set it on the table.

  “I’ll be turning in now, Ms. Violet, unless there’s something else,” Caroline said.

  Violet dismissed her. She wanted to be alone—to take in her new home without interference. She sipped her mint julep and stretched her long legs out in front of her. The train ride had taken two days, from New York to Chicago, and then Chicago to New Orleans. She had hoped for some exciting company on the ride, but was disappointed by the dreariness of her fellow travelers—families and businessmen.

  Violet’s life in New York was far from uninteresting. She had been a model for Vogue and Vanity
Fair since her discovery by Condé Nast himself at the tender age of 14. It happened that she was working as a maid at the famous Waldorf Astoria hotel, where Mr. Nast enjoyed the occasional indiscretion. She was supposed to have been making his bed and cleaning his rooms, but had become enamored of one of the dresses that hung in the wardrobe there. She could still remember the feeling of the fabric against her skin: soft white silk that clung to her slender frame and transformed her from girl to woman. Mr. Nast had discovered her, transfixed by her own reflection. He should have been angry—furious that a lowly maid would be so bold as to fondle the garments of the rich—but instead he was delighted.

  “Now aren’t you just a picture,” he had said as he stood just behind her, taking in her appearance in the mirror. Violet thought that he was going to take her—to use her misconduct as an excuse to lay hands on her and make her his own for the night—but instead, he offered her a job.

  Since then she had starred in a few notable films, and become a regular at the cocktail parties of the rich and bohemian. She made fast friends with the artists that came to New York—a rotating cast of surrealists and cubists and every type of artist under the sun stayed at her park-side apartment. She loved the excitement of Midtown, the grime and naughtiness of Downtown, and the perfect beauty of Central Park, but the time had come for a break from the constant chaos of the Big Apple. New York City was like a martini. Delicious down to the last drop the first hundred times, but bitter and sickening after the 101th glass. Violet had reached the bottom of her glass, and she was ready for something else. She was ready for the smoky sweetness of bourbon—for dark spiced rum and cocktails that were slow to mix and easy to drink. She needed a slower pace and a sliver of solitude.