Women of the Grey- The Complete Trilogy

by Carol James Marshall

  Lisa stood up. She would walk on.

  Allison

  Watching Lisa walk away, Allison knew she wouldn’t stop. Taking out her cell phone, she looked at picture after picture of her daughter. Her beautiful blessing that was everything to her; for her, Allison knew she should stop poking. She knew it was stupid and dangerous. But, she just couldn’t.

  Standing up, she went to the counter and smiled at Israel, the charismatic barista. “I will pay you one thousand dollars to date her. You report to me, get all of the information you can on her, bed her, seduce her, whatever. But you tell me everything, and ask me no questions.” Israel started laughing, really laughing, the best laugh he’d in weeks.

  “Yeah, Mama, I think you need to lay off the espresso shots.”

  Allison looked deeply at Israel; they had known each other for years. “I’m not playing.” With that, Israel sat up, squinted at her.

  “You want me to date that skinny white girl and tell you how she moans? How she be?” Allison knew she had him.

  “Yes, but two rules. You tell me everything, and you don’t fall for her, got it? She’s dangerous…I mean it…dangerous.”

  “Right…damn you ladies all serious today. First date fulfilled, I get half right away, got it?” Allison rubbed her lips together, spending this kind of cash—that had taken her so long to save up—was…worth it. It was worth it.

  “Perfect.” Allison shook Israel’s hand. Worth it.

  The breeze whipped around the coffee house, doing its best to impersonate a tornado. Across town, playing in her grandma’s garden, Allison’s daughter, Lexi, stopped and felt the breeze hit her eyelashes. It made her think of her mommy. Something was stirring in their world.

  James

  Sitting on the church steps, James was feeling fluttery. He felt as if he was throwing himself from branch to branch like the little birds in front of him. There was no sense to the birds’ movements, and James felt there was no sense to him either. He was searching for a spot to sit for a while, think, feel safe, when he spotted the church steps. The steps felt like the perfect location to place himself. They felt sturdy, strong, as if they could hold the weight of his fears.

  The fluttering feeling kept his feet tapping; it was a way to center himself, and he pushed back the poetry that kept sliding across his brain. When he let himself relax, poetry came. The poems would start at his forehead, and find their way to his fingertips. But, he knew now—after seeing Teresa, feeling the commotion of his soul—the poet had to die. James could no longer muse on life; he now had to challenge it.

  James sat on the steps, watching himself tap his feet. How could he challenge life? He was not much of a man. He was made to love, not fight; the battle was real. He knew this, but how would he be better off daydreaming, challenging everything he had ever known, fight to win what?

  There was no winning Teresa. James understood that. Teresa was not right. Godly, angel-like James tapped his feet harder, hoping that it would spring ideas into his head. He’d tap his feet bloody if it meant answers.

  When he saw Teresa’s real face, he knew that hell was real. He knew that’s where Teresa was from. He was in love with a demon, Succubus, a worker of hell. She was a child of Satan. Spawn from the underworld. James couldn’t figure out how else to say it, think it. The woman he had called his own for so long wasn’t a woman at all. For this, he would pay. She would bring nothing but his demise.

  James saw the shadow of the church hitting the sidewalk by his tapping feet; it was calling to him. He wanted his salvation. His heels began to thrust pain back at him from the tapping. But, when looking for a real answer was too much for his psyche to handle, the shadow of the church on the sidewalk told James to give it to God; then a path would come—an answer to his salvation, and maybe the salvation of Teresa, would come. He was caught between his tapping feet and the church shadow—both speaking to him, swaying him to the easier answer of faith. An answer he’d seen his mother choose time and time again when life became difficult. She’d lean on faith to calm her. Until today, James had always considered that a copout. A copout because that was easier than anything else. Or maybe he just couldn’t think beyond anything else.

  “Son, what are you doing?” James’ father appeared out of nowhere to sit next to him on the church steps. “I’m driving by, and I see you sitting here like a lost dog.” James’ father was a large man—large in stature, large in voice, and large in thoughts. There was never a small answer to anything.

  “I need answers, Dad, and I think the church is where I’ll find them. I need answers to things that I can’t explain.” With that James put his face in his hands. He tried to hide himself from his father. He was never the son this man had needed—not wanted but needed. He had failed him. This mountain of a father with his meek boy. Looking at James, then looking at the sky, his father patted him on the back.

  “Well, Boy, I never found any answers here, but your mother thinks she has and that gives her some peace I suppose. You are more your mama than you are me, so I expect this might be the place for you.”

  Getting up, James’ father shook his car keys and popped his knuckles. “I’m heading home…you want a ride, or you going to wait here for divine inspiration?” For the first time, James looked at his dad and shook his hand.

  “No sir, I’m going to walk over to Teresa’s.” Suddenly, James’ father started laughing.

  “Ha, you won’t find answers there either, Son. I’ve tried and tried, but hey, at least it’s fun trying.” With that, he got in his truck and drove off—probably headed home to his wife where they would discuss their day, eat dinner, and pretend to watch TV shows while they both dozed on the couch. James wanted that. He wanted to come home from a job to find a happy house, full of warmth and home cooked meals, but that was no longer an option. He couldn’t have that with Teresa. Sure, there were other woman out there that he could convince himself to play house with, but it was gone for him.

  James’ life, his world, his thoughts were turned to the left and smudged with dirt. Everything was different now. Crawling into bed with Teresa, he savored her neck, lingered on her hips, and promised himself that when he’d had his fill of her, when every inch of him had reached its capacity to inhale her, then he’d go back to those church steps, walk inside, and sign his soul away.

  But for now, he’d be a weak man, and lay with the serpents.

  On the other side of town, James’ father walked into his house, grabbed a beer, and headed for the bedroom. He had an empty house and was going to enjoy it. Planting kisses on his wife’s chest, while listening to her giggle after so many years, made him happy. Happy wife, happy life. It was just that simple to him.

  Teresa

  James’ hair always smelled of James. There was no other way to think about it, other than just ‘James’. There was no amount of shampoo or cologne that could erase the smell of him. Teresa was busy trying to get as much of that smell into her as possible—soon it would be taken away.

  She took his every touch as her last sensation—every kiss as a last taste. Each of them mixed into one another, desperate to feel adored for the last time. To feel skin to skin, palm to palm, each was saying goodbye without the other knowing. Teresa wanted James all over her so that when they took her, maybe there would be the echo of his touch on her back. James knew that Teresa was the last for him—the last kiss, the last feel of breasts. After Teresa, a woman in bed would be a thing of his past. After Teresa, a woman to love would be a thing of his memories. Each said goodbye, each grabbed for tokens to remember what love was.

  Teresa knew that any moment, the Mothers would come. She’d be hauled away and there wouldn’t be a goodbye to James. There wouldn’t be choices on her future. She would be taken back to The Grey—for what, she didn’t know.

  Back to The Grey for Teresa was probably a death sentence. Finding out that she was the first woman of The Grey to be barren, they would do away with her quickly, then she wouldn’t h
ave to wonder what death was. She would know. Superior Mother would not allow defects in her flock. Kissing James on the shoulder, Teresa thought, if not death, then what? What would be done to her?

  The ‘then what’ hung on her with such weight that it was impossible to shake and exhausting to try. Now, every minute that she was awake, she’d spend looking over her shoulder. And, every minute she was sleeping, her mind would pop her awake, thinking she had heard something—something coming for her.

  Teresa and James lay arm in arm, tied together like a knot—both grieving for the other and themselves. Every kiss was desperate, every thrust was an empty promise, and each lover couldn’t get enough of the other.

  “When they come, and if you’re here…you run. That’s it, nothing more. Never come back.” James kissed Teresa; it was all so melodramatic, but he had to remind himself to kill the poet who wanted to devour this scene.

  “And what’s your promise to me?” He wanted something in return, but what? What could he ask a demon to do? How far was her reach into hell?

  “Nothing…because I will not be the one pulling the strings.” Teresa thought she heard a bump outside her bedroom window, and every inch of her tightened. She gently pushed him away from her. “Go now. They’ll be here soon. I want you far away, safe away from me.”

  James got up and looked outside. “Nothing…” He put on his jeans and gave Teresa a nod while he found his socks, then the door. He didn’t give her once last kiss or even a nod. He simply left the room, leaving a void so massive that crushed Teresa’s chest and spit on her.

  Teresa laid in her sheets, wanting a good cry, but it was useless. We are all the same and none different. Except me, Teresa told her pillow. All, but me.

  Outside Teresa’s apartment, two Mothers stood. Both glancing at each other, then into her bedroom window.

  “Not in the mood today, are we?” Mother Janet looked at apartment building next door, wrinkling her nose. It was a nice building, she had to admit it, but ugh, humans with their noises and smells.

  “Well, I feel so dang sorry for her…that’s it.” Mother Eleanor knew what had to be done. She’d do it; in due time, she’d do it. “I just know the poor thing is trying. I’ve been peeping on her, and damn it, she’s trying. She’s just…”

  “Barren,” Mother Janet wasn’t amused or sentimental about Teresa the way Mother Eleanor was.

  “She’s barren. Okay, whatever, get on with it.” Eleanor disliked Janet. Janet had done her duty and bred for The Grey once back. She was always annoyed by the slightest assignment with the humans and constantly in hurry to get back to The Grey. Janet reminded Eleanor of a little mouse scurrying about, always wanting to be back in its hole. Eleanor liked moments on the outside; she was never in a hurry to go back.

  “Maybe it’s better this way…she won’t know the heartache. She won’t know the pain…” Mother Janet sat down, not caring about the state of her pants once she stood up. Eleanor was astonished by what Janet said and wanted to ask the question of heartache. What was the heartache to Janet?

  Instead, Eleanor stayed on the task at hand; information in The Grey was tricky and questions even trickier. She might get an answer from Janet that gave her more intimacy than she’d ever wanted, “but…thing is…” Eleanor leaned into Mother Janet, “What happens to her once we get home?” Both Mothers stopped—neither knew. Neither had ever heard of a woman being barren. It was an anomaly. Superior Mother was not known to care for anomalies.

  Teresa, who was dozing in bed, breathing in her grief, was granted a pardon from those two Mothers. Just for now, neither Mother could stomach tossing Teresa into a void where they did not know the outcome. Both knew that, if they did nothing now, then something would soon happen. They were only buying her minutes of freedom, not hours.

  At the dinner table with his parents, James looked at his mother and father—who were chipper and seemed happier than usual. Steak for dinner, pie in the oven, everything was clicking how it should in their household.

  “I’m going to seminary school.” James took a bite of his steak and watched his mother’s reaction. He expected joy. He expected an aura of complete understanding that her boy was giving himself to God.

  She finished chewing, keeping her glare on him. It wasn’t her look. She didn’t look at him the way mothers look at their children. It was a glare, where a mother does her best to x-ray the child’s brain to see if there are worms in it. What virus has taken over her child and turned it stupid?

  “You don’t even go to church on a regular basis. When’s the last time you went twenty-four hours without sex? I’ve never seen you pray. I’ve never seen you believe, and now you tell me you’re going to give yourself away…shit, you don’t even wear black.” With that, James’ mother tossed her fork down on her plate, got up, and got herself a glass of wine.

  Then, she unleashed words that James never thought he’d hear from his mother, a normally loving, gentle woman; it was his father he feared. His mother blurted her thoughts—words that weren’t considered before they came out. “You’ve been playing at life until now. Never really living. Never really doing much of anything, and I’ve allowed it. Why I allowed it, I do not know, but now, Boy, you are playing with God, and I will let you burn.”

  James’ mother kissed his father on the forehead and left the room. Clearing his throat and finishing his steak, James’ father calmly looked at his son. “I’m going to go watch the news, take the pie out of the oven when it’s time…” He got up and James couldn’t help himself.

  “Dad, you’re not angry with me?” The huge man stood up, grabbed his beer.

  “No Son, I’m not angry, not disappointed, not nothing. You’re a man now… your choices are yours, and my choices are mine. Clear-thinking, rational adults respect the choices of others without it influencing their own. Don’t forget the pie.” From the doorway, he heard his father chuckle. “But boy, mothers have never been known to be clear-thinking, rational adults when it comes to their babies.” More laughter, then the loud boom of the TV being turned on.

  Upstairs, James’ mom turned on her TV. She had given up hoping a long time ago that her son would ever be the ‘winner son’ when she was with her girlfriends. He’d never be the neurosurgeon; he’d never be the teacher, or hell, the auto mechanic. He was just James the thinker as far as her friends were concerned, and that was something she had learned to accept, and love him despite it. But, now again another blow to her motherly heart. She always believed that sooner or later he’d come home with grandchildren. There would be little feet running around her house, and she’d be able to do all that grandma stuff.

  James’ mother had always wanted more than one child; she clung to the belief that one day there would be grandchildren. James, at the very least would give her the joy of grandbabies. But now, he’d sell his soul to their church, and for the first time, she saw faith as the enemy.

  Bringing his father some pie and sitting down to watch the news, James knew his parents would never understand his path. He’d held hell, kissed hell, and loved on hell. There was no explaining himself to his parents or to himself for that matter.

  Lisa

  Walking the town at night seemed more interesting than it was. There really wasn’t anything in this town but sleeping houses and businesses closed up for the night. Despite it all, Lisa walked block after block, trying to find the end of the town. Where does this place stop and where do I begin?

  Walking down the street, she could imagine finding trees and a path that led to more trees and a steeper path. She would go on and on until she found a slice of woods where she could sit and listen to the sounds of nature. Lisa could see a stump of a tree in her head, where she would sit. Maybe she would get lucky and there would be hungry wolves that could devour her. Then, she would be free of herself.

  Shaking her head, mostly to rid herself of the wolves tearing her apart, Lisa wanted only to be free to think for herself. To order herself around. The dema
nds and pace of her day should be her choice. Step after step, she thought to be free of the weight of her thoughts, her body, her ever present—looming over herself—self. Then, she could think clearly without interruption or doubt. The path to freedom was now an easy answer for Lisa—break The Grey. Pouting at her own concept, Lisa focused on a street up ahead; it looked lonely and desperate. There were a few lights on a couple store fronts, and even those blinked with unresolved issues.

  Seeing the street ahead get closer and closer, Lisa felt a tiredness start in her knees, jumping down to her feet. It was time to go back to that apartment, that couch, her blanket, the self-inflicted jail cell. Time to go back to that apartment and stop pretending she didn’t exist—start preparing for what she was about to do.

  But, again Lisa told herself not to listen to warnings. Instead, she walked up the street into a little dirty bar that seemed abandoned; yet there was a bartender and a couple old guys sitting inside, sipping their night away.

  “You lost pretty girl?” Lisa looked at the bartender. He was elderly, but still had a twinkle to his eyes. His comments were a little leacherious, but it didn’t bother Lisa at all.

  “A little lost yes, and thirsty.” Sitting there, sipping the temped beer, listening to the pervey old bartender try his best to flirt, and ease dropping on the two old men down the bar argue about who should be the next president was enough to make Lisa understand that this was not her place either. This bar didn’t sit right in her stomach.