The First Principles of Dreaming

by Beth Goobie

  And so it was that my mother lived among them in a realm invisible to mundane men, constructing a Biblical landscape of meaning about everything she did. Rising every morning at five, she would bake a single loaf of bread for the day’s consumption, then scatter the uneaten portion that evening for backyard birds in order to fulfill the chosen’s mandate of collecting only enough manna for daily sustenance. As she frequently admonished me, evil thoughts were washed away by doing laundry, sweeping the floor made the way clear for the Lord, and setting the table was an invitation to any angels that happened to be in the vicinity—the whole of my mother’s physical life thereby shrunk into a low-level metaphor for the truer, brighter reality of the chosen.

  To further shrink herself, she took to wearing a head covering and deferring in all matters to my father. Each act of submission was done with rabid intensity, including an evening ritual in which she went down on her knees before him, removed his shoes, and washed his feet. At meals, she kissed his balding head with a little humming sound, then served his meal first, letting her own grow cold while she peppered him with questions about his day. Only her expression held something back, and this only in part—a tiny obtuse smile that hovered about her mouth like a presence, as if something had come down around her, sealing her off from the rest of us. She wore it most often when she looked at my father, though it vanished if he happened to glance in her direction, her eyes darting sideways and one hand fluttering to her throat. An oddness would enter my father then, and he would lean forward, chin jutting, to stare in measuring silence while no one breathed and we all waited out the ticking of the clock.

  Although I never engaged him on the topic, years of observation led me to conclude that my father regarded the Holy Spirit as little more than a fraction within the divine equation of God the Father. If Lawrence Philip Hamilton’s wife had suddenly and dramatically been chosen as the Good Lord’s mouthpiece, that was the extent of it—God came, spoke, and left; the woman herself constituted no more than a simple entry and exit zone. Certainly, it gave her no call to set watch on her husband—judging and holding her own thoughts as if she were more than a simple vessel, as if the Holy Spirit actually resided within her, holding private consultations that made her answerable to no one. At the Waiting for the Rapture End Times Tabernacle, my father stood in awe before the Divine Sister and her oracles as was required of every deacon in the congregation; within the confines of home and family, my mother answered to him.

  She did her best to reflect his expectations—down to the meek hunch of her shoulders and the defeated shuffle in her walk—but that odd flicker remained in her eyes, and her mouth continued to curve into its mystery smile. During the first few months after the Tongue of Fire claimed my mother, I often came upon my father staring at her over the top of a newspaper or peeking around an open doorway, watching as she worked; but however much he prowled, she kept her truest moments from him. Instead she allowed me to discover her seated on the living room couch, moaning over the Bible in her lap and rocking with growing intensity until her hands abruptly shot upward and she began crying out in wild, beautiful sounds. For weeks after her initial Tongue of Fire, she spent hours each day crying out in a strange, glad voice, and when I tried to imitate her, dancing and flapping my arms like a bird, she laughed and drew me close. What followed then is difficult to explain—like quick spun gold, an essence or vibration passed from her chest into mine, filling me with such high-frequency bliss that I leaped about squealing until exhaustion collapsed me to the floor.

  One afternoon soon after this, my father returned unexpectedly from work to find us, hands upraised and making incomprehensible noises as tears ran down our laughing faces. No Tongue of Fire burned upon my head—both my mother and I understood full well that I had been caught up merely in the echo of her ecstasy—but all my father saw was his little girl dressed in a bed sheet, spinning circles and squeaking gibberish. Without a word, he scooped me up and carried me to my room, where he locked me in. Then, returning to my mother in the living room, he launched himself, the sounds of his attack traveling muffled through my bedroom wall—the body thuds, my mother’s repeated grunts, and the one odd cry that ended it.

  Thus ended our daily ecstasy sessions, and from that time forth, if my mother caught me speaking gibberish or dancing alone in my room, she would shush me, saying, “Go talk to your father. You should spend more time with your father.” But the Sunday following that beating, the Tongue of Fire descended upon her with startling brilliance, and utterances spilled from her lips in heightened rapture. My father must have taken note, for several days later, when this state of bliss faded, he took her into their room and beat her again. Violence was not new to their relationship, but until that point, his attacks had been erratic and rare. Inevitably, this changed as it became obvious that the worse the beating he meted out, the more fervently she called upon the transcendent the subsequent Sunday, and the brighter the Tongue of Fire glowed upon her head.

  Wisely, my father chose never to compete with my mother in public. In spite of the fact that he was the free-walking deacon, the board member, and the man who cleared his thick bull throat to read Scriptures at Sunday services, he faded to insignificance in the Divine Sister’s presence, reduced to little more than her escort. Behind the scenes, however, he kept my mother in a state of carefully pitched anguish—his beatings most vicious before the church’s high holy days, when an especially grand display was required of the Divine Sister. Though I saw this process repeat frequently over the years, I was well into adolescence before I realized that my parents despised one another. For no matter what occurred between them, they continued to converse at meals as they had always done, my mother maintaining her suppertime ritual of washing my father’s feet, kissing his head, and serving his meal before her own. And from the sounds that came to me after the house lights had been turned out, it was evident they continued to engage in sex.

  At some stage, my father must have become aware of the affair between my mother and Pastor Playle, but the knowledge did not seem to anger him; instead, he grew more cocksure—a few words from him, and the mighty pastor and Divine Sister would topple from their blessed thrones. I do not know what kind of bargain the three of them struck, but over the years, my father’s position at the Waiting for the Rapture End Times Tabernacle accumulated the type of power that directs from behind the scenes, where everything thrives on silence.

  •••

  “He thinks his tongue is a cock,” complained Jez.

  “You wish,” Dee said lazily.

  It was mid-November during another one of Jez’s midnight escapes, several hours into her eighteenth birthday. To celebrate her officially becoming legal, the two of them were consuming the obligatory Molson Canadian, along with a shared joint and half a dozen cupcakes, as they sprawled on the brown plaid couch in bras and jeans.

  “All he can do with it is thrust,” Jez finished triumphantly. Knowing she had scored a point, she settled against the back of the couch, waiting, and was rewarded by the small smile that slipped across Dee’s mouth.

  “Show me,” Dee singsonged, the smile playing with itself, disappearing, reappearing.

  “It’d wreck the ambiance,” Jez replied mournfully. In one corner a lava lamp oozed out the perfect atmosphere, the room as vague and slip-sliding as the smile on Dee’s lips; beyond the wall opposite, reality was a deep-shadowed dream kept at bay by the red-handled jackknife, which protruded from its storage site in Farrah Fawcett’s face. Still, the place was gradually losing its resonance, a by now familiar sensation—over the last few weeks, Jez had become well acquainted with “bye-bye to the high.” It wasn’t the best omen for comparing notes on the kissing techniques of Eleusis Collegiate’s male students, an increasingly frequent pastime; since October, Dee had demonstrated the modus operandi of every point of interest on the senior football and basketball teams. Until this moment, however, Jez had been on the
receiving end, and to contemplate reversing these roles was dizzying.

  “No joke,” she warned as she hovered above Dee’s smirking mouth, choosing the moment, the exact moment to begin. “He thinks he’s an elephant.”

  “C’mere, Elmer,” teased Dee, slouching lower. “De-mon-strate.”

  “First kisses are usually good,” Jez lied, leaning through the last second of anticipation into desire, double desire—lips that brushed and whispered, whimpered and wished.

  “This ain’t no guy,” breathed Dee.

  Without warning, Jez stabbed with a rigid tongue and Dee shrank back, grimacing. “The boy needs lessons,” she muttered, wiping her mouth in disgust.

  Straightening, Jez smiled grimly. “Who’s going to coach him?” she asked. “First string?”

  “The experts,” said Dee.

  “Sure like to meet them,” muttered Jez, reaching for a nearby bag of barbecue chips and picking through the entrails.

  The object of their discussion was a certain George Kovacs, a senior football player who had transferred to Eleusis Collegiate in his grad year due to its superior football program. New to Dee as well as to most of the student body, he lit up daily with the smoking elite—the jock smokers in their jock cars in the jock area of the student parking lot—and had only recently noticed Jez among the smoking proletariat. When he had asked the rest of the first string about her, they had assigned him the task of checking out her finer details. Every lunch hour since had been spent necking in his Impala, Jez insistent things be kept above the waist, and to her relief, while George pawed, groped, and made sounds like a drowning man, he didn’t color outside the lines she drew for him; this wasn’t Dinky’s party—she could kiss for free, tease, and pull back. Or so it seemed until later, when she met up with George’s school-hall grin and the grins of his friends—the way their eyes honed in as if they held some secret knowledge about her, a certain knowing of something that hadn’t yet happened but would.

  Across the walls, the lava lamp’s glow slid through itself, constantly shape-shifting as it flirted with the room’s shadows. Watching it, Jez felt herself begin to detach and lift out of her body—a sensation that was occurring less frequently now that the memory of the rape was retreating into the back annals of her mind.

  “How many times have you made out with him so far?” asked Dee, her eyes closed as if in deep thought.

  “Seven,” said Jez, her cheeks taking on a faint heat. “You already know that.”

  “He get under your shirt yet?” asked Dee.

  “Yeah,” muttered Jez.

  “Details, Jezzie,” ordered Dee, opening her eyes.

  “Why are you interested?” Jez stalled, balling up the chips bag and bouncing it off the other girl’s forehead. “The last two times, okay?”

  “You take off your bra?” asked Dee, perking up.

  “No!” said Jez.

  “He take it off?” asked Dee.

  “Not yet,” said Jez.

  “What a polite young man,” mused Dee. “How much d’you like him?”

  Jez shrugged and Dee shrugged back, their grins effortless and light-headed. From the alley came the contented sound of a car idling past; slowing to a halt, it reversed until it sat with its headlights flush on the window.

  “Midnight cowboy,” teased Dee, her eyes fixed on Jez’s. “Ready or not, here he comes.”

  Out in the alley, a car door opened and a male voice called, “Hey, Jez!”

  Astonished, Jez sat up, her mouth soundlessly open as she stared at the brilliant window. Then the headlights shut off and the window went dark, returning the room to the dim ooze of the lava lamp. Again the voice in the alley called, “Jez!” but she remained glued to the couch, one hand necklacing her throat. Beside her, Dee’s eyes were an unreadable glimmer, that indolent smile once again playing her mouth. Getting to her feet, Dee crossed to the window, opened it, and leaned out into the black November wind.

  “You looking for the birthday girl?” she called.

  George’s voice paused, taking its time. “I think so,” he drawled in reply.

  It took all of two seconds for Jez to realize she had been set up. George hadn’t been tipped off as to her after-midnight whereabouts by her—she hadn’t known she would be here herself until a quarter after midnight, when she had heard Dee’s coded horn honk down the block. So it was Dee who must have invited him, lured him over with promises of…what? Apprehensive, Jez mulled over the possibilities. With Dee Eccles, those could include anything—nirvana, sticky fingers, the Apocalypse. Pushing up from the couch, she crossed to the window and leaned out beside Dee, who promptly pulled back, leaving Jez alone with the cold rise of her skin and the low-cut, ice-blue bra she had been given upon arrival. With an audible gasp, George stepped forward, his eyes widening.

  “Coming up?” called Dee from deep inside the room. “Stairs are at the side.”

  Instantly, George lunged to the left, the staircase thundering under his charge.

  “You invited him here!” accused Jez, turning to Dee, who was watching her, face inscrutable. “You—”

  The door swung open, taking Farrah Fawcett’s knifed face in against the wall. “Okay, so I’m here!” grinned George, stumbling into the room. “Birthday party’s on now!”

  Without missing a beat, Dee pointed at the bed. “All hands on deck,” she said.

  “No shit!” said George, diving onto Marilyn and rolling onto his back.

  “Kissing lessons, Jez,” said Dee, giving her a pointed glance. Then, crawling onto the bed, she leaned over George’s wide-eyed grin. “Okay, George,” she said. “This is the scoop. You’re a lovely, well-bred boy, but you need expertise in the kissing department.”

  “What’s the matter with my kissing?” asked George, his eyes darting toward Jez.

  “Hey,” teased Dee, straddling him. “Good kissers get everything they want in life. You want to get everything you want, don’t you?”

  “Oh yeah,” George muttered agreeably, his hands sliding up her thighs and hooking into the front pockets of her jeans. With a smile, Dee leaned forward, her purr almost audible, then pulled back at the very last second as George’s tongue shot out, rigid and wiggling at the tip.

  “Uh-uh,” she said, her tone lightly scolding. “No tongue.”

  “No tongue!” said George, his entire body convulsing.

  “And stick your hands under your butt,” Dee added firmly. “You are going to spend the next while thinking about your lips, boy. Just the lips.”

  “Slave driver,” muttered George, but he put his hands away.

  “That’s a good slave,” purred Dee. “Now, we’re going to take turns. No tongue for anyone until Jezzie says so. Jezzie’s the birthday girl, and she’s in charge here.”

  Again she leaned forward, then pulled back swiftly as George’s tongue shot out and his hands jerked free. “No, no, no!” she scolded, slapping them off. “No dessert if you don’t eat your din-din.”

  “Sorry,” grunted George. “Habit.”

  Cautiously, Jez edged onto the side of the bed. The stunned rush that had hit when Dee had initially straddled George was now gone, and she was riding a wave of frank curiosity. Seeking, she sensed it in the air—two girls on the hunt, and the innocent, easily led boy on the bed had no idea. Eagerly, he tongued another foray into Dee’s mouth and she nipped him sharply on the nose.

  “Bad boy, George,” Dee scolded, frowning down at him. “Bad boys have got to learn the hard way.”

  “Hard?” said George, grinning at Jez. “Did someone say ‘hard’?”

  Reaching under the pillow beside his head, Dee pulled out a pair of nylons, knotted one of the legs around George’s left wrist, and tied it to the headboard.

  “Hey!” he protested, but continued to grin as she tied his other hand.

  “Hey not
hing,” soothed Dee, pushing his sweatshirt up his chest and over his head until it rode his wrists. “We’ll make it worth your while. You know that, don’t you, Georgie-Boy?”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard,” muttered George, quivering as her fingers ran his chest. “Okay, so this is the deal,” he added gruffly. “You can tie me up, but no one’s telling no one, or all the girls in Eleusis will think they can have their way with me.”

  “Deal?” questioned Dee, that unreadable glint back in her eyes. “Who’s talking deal here? You’re already tied up.”

  George’s grin faltered. “You need me to play,” he said.

  “We have you,” said Dee. Straightening, she unhooked her bra and teased it across his face. “You do want to play, don’t you?” she asked liltingly.