"I'm sorry I intruded." What am I saying, she thought, this is Carl's house, and he told me no one was here. "I don't think you belong here," she said in a shaky voice. "This property belongs to a friend of mine, and, believe me, he takes ownership very seriously.''
"Does he own you?" the figure managed to rasp out.
Megan tried to decide whether this thing was human. At length, she figured it might be. She proceeded to the next step: decoding which sex it was. The robe was black velvet. A shiny line seemed to drip down the front collar; Megan couldn't tell whether it was a fresh stain or some substance that had dried with a sheen. A dark woolen shawl was pulled over its head, the edges of the covering resting across the thing's small shoulders. The figure's feet were fitted into leather boots, the toes of which protruded incongruously from under the soft robe.
"Do you need a home? You can't really stay here, but maybe I could help you. Do you have any family?"
"Carl."
"Are you related to Carl?" Megan was confused. "He said the house was empty."
"Carl lies."
Megan watched the figure draw one of its hands out of a pocket. The hand was gloved in leather and beckoned Megan forward.
She gulped and asked whether the figure wanted her to get Carl. The hand quickly shook a negative response.
"Come closer, girl, I cannot speak loudly. It strains my vocal chords."
With a sigh, Megan inched forward. As she did, she noticed that the air clouded with a stink that had to be issuing from the body before her. Megan sniffed a bit, then reasoned that this person had not bathed in some time, if ever. She had done some work at a homeless shelter, but this went beyond anything she could remember. It wasn't dirt; it was more like decay. Trying to overcome her aversion, Megan stopped an arm's length away from the figure.
"You're frightened of me. I'm not the one who's planning to hurt you. No, you sleep with him, slut."
Megan stepped back. The figure wavered and shook as if it were about to go pool and disappear before Megan's eyes, but it didn't. Slowly, it returned to its former placid, stiff position.
"I'm sorry, child, but he comes so rarely now, and I miss him."
The figure was whining and pawing the floor with the soles of its black leather boots.
"Is he your son?"
"My . . ." The figure nodded almost reluctantly, thought Megan.
"Are you ill?" Megan realized how stupid the question was after she asked it. The figure obviously smelled of disease.
The figure shook its head in denial.
"Past ill, girl. I'm beyond hope."
"What's your name?" Megan moved closer, holding her breath occasionally so that her breakfast would not rise up in protest.
"I was Beverly."
Carl must have wanted to keep her a secret because of her health. She did seem delicate. How could she bear all that clothing?
"I'm Megan. I was hiking and ran into your son a few days ago down by the river. He must have just finished visiting. Come to think of it, I hope I didn't disturb the both of you." Megan remembered the movement at the jalousie. "Perhaps you remember seeing me." Beverly gave no sign of recognition. "I had hurt my knee earlier in the day, then clumsily tripped over your son's boat." Beverly's body stiffened. "Carl invited me back to his home so I could take care of the wound. He asked me to stay awhile to keep him company, but today he's working and I'm on my own."
Megan had been talking slowly, precisely, and a little more loudly than normal.
"Do you like the garden?"
Megan enthusiastically praised the stunning flora. This pleased Beverly, who invited Megan into the house.
"Gosh. I don't want to disturb you."
"There's an enclosed porch at the other side of the house with all sorts of gardening tools, even some fertilizer. I'd like you to care for the garden, since I no longer can. Please." Beverly moved to the right, turned sideways, and extended a gloved hand in invitation.
This was like tripping over Dracula's lair in the midst of the forest, thought Megan. If the woman smelled bad from here, what could the house be like?
"I'm sure Carl would prefer to take care of the landscape himself; after all, he is planning on renting the house." Megan bit her tongue. "I mean, he has some sort of plans for the house." She knew there was no way out.
"Yes, he has plans, but not just for the house. Maybe I'll share them with you one day."
"Listen, I have to get back. Carl and I are going to take photographs this afternoon."
"Really! But he likes to sketch."
"Sketch?" Megan decided that the old woman must be a bit senile, confusing her son's interests with the hyacinth woman's. It dawned on Megan that this woman could fill in many of the blank spaces. What was the hyacinth woman like? How hard had Carl taken the breakup? The questions were probably too personal for his mother to answer right now, but if she continued to visit and helped in the garden . . . Megan peered past the woman into the shadows of the bedroom.
"You say the tools are on the enclosed porch? Is that near the bedroom?"
"I'll show you where they are, or better, would you like me to bring them to you?"
Megan looked at the old woman. Somehow she didn't look strong enough to carry a garden spade. So why be afraid, Megan? Hold your nose and make a dash for the equipment.
"Would it be easier if I came around the front?"
"Either you carry them through the house or around it, child."
Around somehow sounded safer and allowed for more fresh air.
"I'll meet you at the front door, if you don't mind."
The woman emitted a cackle, which took Megan back to her childhood days of witches and Halloween.
"It's not me you should be afraid of. Do you feel safe in Carl's house? Do you touch him and feel the hellish fire in him? Do you cling to the fiend's sour flesh and believe he loves you? When his seed spills down your thighs, does it ever burn like acid?"
"Maybe today is not a good gardening day, ma'am. I'm sorry if I disturbed you." She turned to go.
"Megan," the crone called. "I have something important to tell you."
Megan hesitated.
"It's about Carl. He's sick, but he won't let anyone help him. Perhaps you could cure him."
She faced the woman again. "I'm not a doctor or a nurse or anything like that. I was barely able to dress my skinned knee."
"Give me some time, Megan, please. I'll think of a way to . . . to help. Meet me at the front door. The spade, hoe, and gloves will be on the porch when you get there. You like the garden, and it, too, will die without your help."
It, too? What did this woman mean? Megan wondered. Was Carl so ill that his life was in danger? Megan remembered how resolutely her father had met death. Why couldn't he have let his daughter save him from the solitude?
"Do you have pruning shears?" Megan asked.
"Of course. Meet me at the front door."
For most of the day, Megan worked silently in the garden, while Beverly leaned against the frame of the French door, chortling once in a while asthmatically, until Megan noticed that it was almost three o'clock. Hurriedly Megan pulled all her supplies together and left the bundle on the garden swing.
"I'll be back tomorrow, the next day at the latest."
"Oh, Megan, don't mention that you spoke to me. Carl, well . . . he thinks I frighten people. We know better, don't we?" Beverly let out a low, strident cackle, and Megan grudgingly agreed while sprinting out of the garden.
24 - The Photo Shoot
Carl was sweeping bits of eraser off of his nearly perfect profile of Megan when he heard the front door bang. His watch, which rested on the windowsill, read four o'clock. Thinking Megan would be furious, Carl speedily hid his work before unlocking the door.
"I'm sorry, Carl. I got caught up in what I was doing, and I forgot our date. If you give me five minutes to throw some water on my face and tidy up my hair, as tidy as I can get it, I'll be right with you." Her voice got dimm
er the farther she strode from him toward the bedroom.
He scratched his head and smirked at his luck.
"Take your time," he said generously. "I'll make sure the camera is ready."
While in the kitchen, Carl cut himself some Edam cheese and fetched a few crackers out of a tin he kept in the back of the cupboard.
"What a good idea," Megan said as she entered the room and eyed the snack Carl had set before himself. Carl tossed her an apple from the fruit bowl, then offered her a slice of the cheese.
"How far did you get in the journal today?"
Megan shrugged.
"Weren't you reading?"
"Not all day."
Carl heard the apple crunch against her teeth.
"Okay, part of the day you read. What did you do with the other part?"
"Wandered around."
"Where?" Carl's voice became hard. His hand dropped a cheese-covered cracker back onto a dish.
"Here and there."
"Mostly where, Megan?"
"Down by the river."
Relieved, Carl continued to finish his snack.
"Does that mean you spent most of the day lazily dipping your feet in the river and seeing how far you could throw stones?"
"You know me very well." Her smile displayed an impish guilt.
"Reading my journal is not a school assignment, Megan. If you're bored with the"
"Not bored, too full of energy to sit still and concentrate."
"Think you'll be able to sit still for me?" he asked, reaching across the counter to lift his camera.
Megan fluffed up her hair, straightened the collar on her denim shirt, rubbed her index finger across her front teeth, and smiled brilliantly.
"Perfect." Carl snapped several shots.
"Denim looks very nice on you, Megan, but what we need is a little hint of femininity. Perhaps some lace or ribbons."
"Got it." Megan scurried into the bedroom, and Carl followed. She looked surprised when, after rummaging in her backpack, she turned around and saw Carl in the doorway. She had a lacy camisole dangling from her fingertips.
"Good contrast." Carl was disappointed when Megan rushed into the bathroom, calling back that she would only be a minute. He tapped his callused fingers against the camera as he walked to the wicker chair, where he allowed his body to collapse onto the threadbare cushion.
Megan reappeared with just a snippet of the lace showing at the top of her denim shirt. He snapped another picture.
"A few more buttons and show some shoulder."
"What kind of photography did you do, anyway?"
"I was a photojournalist. Took pictures of things I was writing about: cities, towns, royalty, homes, women."
"I can guess which was your favorite."
Carl laughed. "And you, too, know me well." Carl saw the blend of ego and fascination in her eyes. Here was a girl who hadn't yet been allowed to explore her sexuality. Not a virgin, but not sure of her powers. He watched as she surreptitiously pulled on the sleeve of her shirt, revealing a white shoulder. He snapped another photo.
Aggressively, Carl walked over to Megan, unbuttoned the denim shirt, grabbed the collar, and pulled off the shirt without any reprimand from Megan. The lace of the camisole clung to the mold of her breasts. Each nipple darkened the center of a sheer swirl in the material. Carl undid the button and zipper of her jeans. Megan's hands reflexively rose to her hips, barely touching the material.
"Sit on the bed; the lighting and background are better. Snapping pictures of you in front of the bathroom doesn't quite do it."
Without untying the laces, Megan slipped off her sneakers. She folded one foot beneath her as she sat down on the coverlet. Carl watched as she pulled her shoulders back and gave a pretty pout for the camera. Yes, she was enjoying the attention. It was a chance for her to experiment with her sensuality.
"Turn sideways and throw your head back."
She followed directions very well.
"Have you photographed a lot of beautiful women?"
''I've photographed a lot of women with a wide range of charms."
Megan looked at Carl and squinted. "What range do I fall into?"
"A bit more skin, and I could tell you for sure."
She smiled and bowed her head, allowing her red curls to fall over her cheeks and forehead. Slowly she drew her hands up her thighs to the waistband of her jeans, then with an exaggerated wiggle she slipped the jeans down her hips until at last the jeans fell to the floor. While throwing her head back, Megan reached her right hand up and drew her fingers through her hair. When she rose onto her knees, Carl could see that she wore a tiny thong that hardly covered anything in front, and in the back it seemed to emphasize her firm, spreading buttocks.
Carl kept taking shots, although his slim linen trousers felt weighted by his growing desire. He knew that Megan was not performing for the camera. She was testing her ability to snare this older man with her charms, and she was succeeding. However, before he could seduce the seducer, he had to have several nude shots in order to complete the drawing.
"Push the straps down from your shoulders."
Obediently, the girl complied. Her nipples were pointed and hard, her breathing rapid and shallow.
"Don't tease the camera, Megan. Take that damn camisole off."
"Are you sure it's the camera I'm teasing?"
"Can't you see the smoke coming out the back?"
Megan glanced down at his crotch. Obviously, she knew what she was stimulating. She nonchalantly lifted off the camisole and dropped it over the side of the bed.
"You can do better than that, sweetie."
Megan stuck out her tongue and licked every one of her fingers, then with digits spread wide she slid her nails under the thong's band, stretching the material as she deliberately eased the silken panties down over her skin.
When the discarded garment settled on the lens of the Nikon, Carl almost lost control. Rubbing the silk between his thumb and index finger, Carl lifted the material from the lens and raised it to his lips, then dropped the garment and furiously started snapping the writhing, wriggling Megan.
Carl advanced slowly on his subject, the click of the shutter the only sound to be heard above their thick breathing. Tentatively he reached out a hand, touching one of her firm breasts. He pushed his hand forward until he could feel the dense, tender teat. Megan had not brushed away his hand or cringed from the calluses he knew crusted his large palms. This picture-taking session had been as titillating for her as it had been for him. One goal was complete. Could he push for the bonus points? Carl watched Megan through the viewfinder. Her hands were searching her own body, skimming across the most sensitive areas as if the heat burned her fingertips.
With one hand Carl carefully laid the camera on the rug at the foot of the bed, while retaining his hold on the extended tip of Megan's breast. His hand slid from her breast, trailing the girl's hand downward. Both hands halted for a moment, Megan's small hand hovering over Carl's, until he gradually meted out a rhythm for her passion. Her hand settled upon his in harmony with his circular motion, her taut hips raised to gain the full vibration of his beat.
Carl's free hand began unbuttoning his shirt and fly. Afraid to break the metered touch that hypnotized the girl, Carl pulled his trousers down with one hand just enough to free his tumescence. Once he had slipped two of his fingers inside her, he knew she would not reject him. She was flooded with the thick, inviting fluid of her womanhood. He raised his body over Megan's and easily entered her. She squeezed her arms tightly around his middle as she bucked fiercely and cried out her panting breaths. Soon they each erupted in their own release, without the comfort of a spiritual union.
Megan held on to Carl long after his desire had diminished. He escaped in his mind to the delights he would find on film, the delights that would unblock the barrier preventing him from completing the drawing of Megan.
He heard her whimper softly into his shoulder and instinctively brus
hed her hair back from her face, kissing the pert nose he had managed to duplicate so perfectly that day. A girl forging her way into womanhood, into death, he thought. A pang of regret almost filtered through his armor, but he didn't love the girl. She was sensuous, a good bed partner, that was all. Still, he knew he was stealing something precious from someone who would never be able to identify the thief.
She eased her hold on his body. His ribs ached from the vehemence of her hug. Her lips touched his collarbone, his neck, his chin; she was searching for his mouth when he pulled away.
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