Bruce, having become more and more consumed by his teased sexuality, tried to fight the impulse to gawk at Rick’s backside, but to no avail. While Rick was turned, Bruce regarded this new skin with the same tenacity as he did the front and was alarmed to see the scar pattern was all encompassing. It was genuine curiosity that brought his eyes down to witness Rick’s buttocks, but curiosity was not what kept them there. He saw how the cuts scraped up the thigh, along the muscle and continued until they disappeared into the implicit darkness cushioned between his cheeks. How deep the grooves penetrated was a charged question and one that brought a familiar stiffness between Bruce’s legs.
His unwelcome hardness distressed him. His cravings were overwhelming, and Bruce was at a loss to explain where they had come from. In his entire thirty-seven years of life, he had never been enticed by a naked man. Yet, there he was, engrossed by Rick’s scored body, wishing he had worn looser fitting pants. Maybe, he comforted himself, it had something to do with the pattern of the scars themselves. They were perhaps primal etchings that conveyed a kind of irresistible eroticism. The truth was, he had talked to Rick many times before without so much as an inkling of attraction, let alone the intense lust that currently boiled his blood. One thing was for certain, he would be in dire need of love making tonight with his wife, both to relieve his restless libido, and reassure himself of his traditional orientation. On top of all this puzzlement was the grotesquery of abuse infused all over Rick’s body. Although sadism and masochism repulsed Bruce, to his horror, in that moment he felt inexplicably aroused by it.
Rick delicately lifted the dark robe from its hanger and laid the fabric down on the desk. He took care in straightening out the sleeves and whisked away any wrinkles.
“You can’t wear that,” Bruce warned, without a drop of conviction. “That used to be the minister’s robe before Don changed it. Remember?”
“What would you have me wear then?” His voice was as cold and striking as his stare.
“I think there’s some overalls in the drawer. And there’s a sweater with a windmill on it.” The sentence had come out rushed and Bruce swallowed deeply after its hasty execution.
“That seems hardly fitting.”
“I’m sure it would fit fine. I doubt Angela cares much what you wear. She’s probably just dying to see you.”
“I didn’t return for Angela.” Rick stopped fixing the robe and turned his body to face Bruce.
“No? What’d you come back for?”
“I returned to lead.”
“Lead? Who?”
“Lead you. Lead you all. Back to where you all began. Back to where you belong.” Rick, although forceful, seemed to treat this sentiment with gentility. He took a sudden step toward Bruce, who jumped back against the wall and froze like a startled puppy.
There was nowhere for Bruce to go, but he pushed against the wall anyway and hoped he would just fall through it. Steadily, the predator continued his approach.
Rick did not stop until his groin was pressed tightly against Bruce’s. Though the fabric of Bruce’s pants was thick, it could not diffuse the heat emanating from the two of them, and so, they shared in each other’s hospitable warmth. Bruce squirmed, but again, did not fight as much as he thought he would or should.
“Rick, Um... You’re still really quite naked,” his voice squeaked out.
“I’m going to lead you. But you have to help me first.” Rick’s hand reached up and caressed the side of Bruce’s face to calm the panicked pup. Bruce twitched at the touch.
In an unexplainable way, this was exactly what Bruce wanted; to tenderly entwine himself with the disfigured male form that now dominated him. Yet he knew this appetite was not natural to him, nor did he think it existed in him before this moment. It was something planted within him, something invasive he had no guard against. Despite having realized this, he allowed Rick’s hand to continue its sensuous journey down to the base of his neck. Once it rested there against his skin, a calmness and complacency washed over him. As if Rick recognized the passive state Bruce had achieved, he leaned in; their lips hovered dangerously close. Bruce’s body shivered under Rick’s influence and a wave of prickling excitement danced over his skin.
“You want to help me, don’t you? You want to help me lead them back.” In response, Bruce barely nodded. “Good. We’ll lead them back, then. We’ll lead them back to the beast.”
Rick’s once soothing touch mutated into a violent grip. Bruce struggled against it, but Rick possessed strength far beyond his physical self.
His thumb found its way to the softness of Bruce’s throat and pressed into it, effectively trapping whatever screams might have escaped. Bruce’s terror had been robbed of its outlet, so his panic spun around inside his stomach and sent his entire body flailing. As he frantically tried to push himself free, he was appalled to discover his erection had not lost any of its rigidity, especially when sent to spasm against Rick’s own flaccid member.
The antique razor suddenly snapped into action in Rick’s other hand. The blade glinted sharply in the light as he brought it down to meet the top of Bruce’s head. The tip of the razor cut into his scalp with ease, like the first puncture into the peel of an orange. As soon as the skin broke, the blood bubbled forth and slid down his face in thin streams between his eyes.
Bruce had become more resigned to his fate once the warm liquid coated his face completely. He wanted to live, but it seemed he had little choice in the matter.
The immediate sensations of his death were ample distraction from the terror of oblivion he might soon face, or the longing for the loved ones he would never see again. Considering the pain, his composure was admirable. His panicked thrashings had stopped. He raised his hands out in front of him as if cradling something small and delicate.
“No, Bruce,” Rick warned, with his mouth twisting into a smirk. “Ellie won’t be there. Not where you’re going.”
Bruce’s hands trembled at the words and folded in on themselves like wilting flowers.
The blade was dragged through his forehead toward his chin. It slipped effortlessly into his left socket and popped the eye cradled within before slicing down his cheek.
As his blood escaped him, Bruce managed one more thought of comfort. At least, if he was to be drained of every last drop, surely then, his erection would finally cease.
CHAPTER 15
Clara watched the smoke from her lungs trickle up against the brick wall of the church until it vanished into the air.
What was to be born from the ashes of Angela’s marriage? Clara could not say, but she nonetheless allowed herself the consolation that things might return to the way they were, the way they should be. If Angela and Alex were to move in with her, maybe she could become a permanent part of their lives. What a treat it would be to have enough hungry mouths in the morning to justify a fresh batch of pancakes. It had been so long since she cooked a meal, a real meal with the gravitas to feed more than one. She considered this longing an unrealistic one, but the mere possibility invigorated her.
She had positioned herself in a discreet nook by the side of the church that faced west into the field. The Burward Forest was within her sights and seemed to duck low to avoid the rays of the sun. She too was hidden from the sun’s touch. She tossed the remaining butt of her cigarette far into the field, as if banishing it forever.
If the theme of the day was the end of things, then maybe she, like Angela, should also bid a final farewell to her vices. After all, smoking with a child in the house would be negligent, at best. Could that minute tuft of burnt paper she casually chucked away have really been her last drag? With her newfound motivation, it looked promising.
Just around the corner from where she hid her shame, the back of the church hemorrhaged congregation members who buzzed about with tubs of pre-made sandwiches, sliced fruits, chopped vegetables, jugs of ice tea, paper cups, paper plates, plastic utensils and two large tables – which were the only items carried by m
en.
Clara remained out of view, listening to the hullabaloo generated by the crowd. None of them knew, except for Clara, that their excitement was born of a deceitful, rotten womb. The festivities were an insult to the truth of the matter: Rick was an abusive degenerate and his return should have been condemned instead of celebrated.
She had left Angela and Alex inside the church where the two of them could collect their belongings. Once they were ready to leave, the three of them planned to escape together, before the drudgery of the picnic could begin.
Once Clara felt confident that the smell of cigarettes had vacated her sweater, she edged out from concealment to get a better view on how the picnic was shaping up. She watched as her mother, Dorothy, led Emily Rosenthal, Tina Brown, Susan Greenfield and a handful of other women into the sprawling landscape of the field. She steered them to a precise spot, which had unique features only discernible by her. Once situated, the rest of the worker ants gathered and the picnic started to take shape.
Clara and her mother were congenial, but not close. They respected each other, but when it came to honesty, their relationship never seemed worth it. Like when Dorothy, who at the time was feeling acutely vulnerable, had asked Clara if she thought her father, Albert, was in Heaven, and if they would ever see him again. In Clara’s mind, their relationship wasn’t worth a candid response, as that would inevitably spur an exhaustive debate about each other’s beliefs. So, she chose the easy answer and told her mother that she believed they would all be together again one day. This was not a complete lie; Clara did have faith in an afterlife. She just was not convinced by the prevailing version of Heaven that she would one day be floating on a cloud with daddy. That scenario seemed just too clean to be true.
However, despite their disparity, Clara had a sudden urge to seek her mother’s guidance. Perhaps it was the fact that, from Clara’s angle, Dorothy appeared to be literally planted in the soil of the field like a crop – grounded and wise – as she ordered around the other members. And it had recently dawned on Clara that the escape plan they had proposed could be construed as kidnapping. Before she ran off into the sunset with her two amigos, she needed an outside opinion on Angela’s slippery situation, even if the one she sought out proved useless, at least she tried, and at least it would give her mother a chance to berate her one more time before she gets hauled off to prison.
With these burdens nibbling behind her eyes, Clara turned back to the church and glanced up at the stained-glass window once again. The directness of the midday sun had robbed the window of its radiance, and therefore, its life. With no light passing through its tinted shards, the whole thing appeared rather dreary, as if it no longer had faith in Heaven. The angels had dead eyes, muted by shadow, and the paradise of clouds was reduced to a muddy hodgepodge of fragmented shapes, dribbled irregularly around the top of the composition.
The dimness of the glass had transformed the window into the surface of a placid swamp. It was on account of all that stillness that Clara was able to catch, out of the corner of her eye, the subtle movement of someone inside. It was impossible to tell who they were, only that they moved fast. The dark form stirred like a wave through the different shapes and shades before vanishing back into obscurity. Although she barely caught sight of them, she was sure they had headed deeper into the sanctuary, and were therefore still in the room. In fact, they could be just on the other side of the glass, peering right back at her; there was no way for her to know.
Clara backed away and out of view of the glass. Once a few steps were between her and the veiled window, she stopped. It felt like a spider had crawled down her spine and cocooned her stomach. The shadow in the church could have been Don grabbing his Bible, or Sandy checking the organ, or even Matthew helping Flora out to the picnic, but something worrisome had hatched within her that told her it was not.
Maybe Rick was well enough now to search out Angela and his son. What if he found them, what would Angela do? He could be on the hunt for his family right now. He could be hunting for them even as Clara stood there doing nothing. Her distress fed on itself until the spider from her stomach infested the rest of her body, spreading shivers wherever it roamed.
For the sake of Angela and Alex, she had to act fast.
CHAPTER 16
The breeze in the field was incorrigible and meddled with the picnic preparations every chance it got. Its sneaky fingers peeled away the cellophane from the sandwiches, tugged at the tablecloth, and, most mortifyingly, lifted skirts and dresses to improper heights. But still the spot was chosen and Dorothy was not about to let a juvenile gust bully them back inside. Instead, she applied tape to the cellophane, anchored the tablecloth, and simply pretended she did not just get an eyeful of Emily’s undergarments. Her delegations were succinct and stately - General Patton would have been impressed.
The food could not be haphazardly strewn about; it needed to be arranged, to be presentable. This was Dorothy’s vision and she had conceived a logical order for each dish. The first, and most important items were the sandwiches. The choice between tuna salad, ham or turkey would influence every dietary decision that was to follow. Obviously, the salads were next so people could choose an appropriate green to accompany their main dish, followed by some dip options with sliced vegetables and crackers. Lastly, there were the deserts, but that was a given.
For the sweet tooth, Tina had brought her delectable brown sugar squares comprised of an assortment of nuts held together by baked caramel. She used to bring homemade peanut butter cookies that would send your knees shaking, but after Tom Enright’s near fatal allergic reaction that almost turned those shakes into violent convulsions, the church unanimously decided to ban peanuts.
With a formidable knife that looked like it could be used to clear away jungle vines, Tina hacked at her squares with a vengeance. Across the table from her, Emily quietly rolled the extra slices of meat and lined them up on a platter.
“Angela must be so happy,” Tina commented between jabs that sent hunks of caramel soaring through the air.
“She didn’t look happy,” Emily replied without looking up from the meat.
“Her husband is back, Emily. She has to at least be relieved after all the worry she’s gone through.”
“Did you think she looked relieved when she ran out of the room crying?”
“Well, no, but intense emotions can make people do strange things.”
“If your husband went missing, God forbid, and then was miraculously returned to you, how would you react? Would you hold him tight the way the Lord intended, or would you run away?”
“I don’t know. I suppose... I guess I would...” Tina refused to finish her sentence, so Emily finished it for her.
“You would go to him, tend to him. You would kiss him and not let him out of your sight again.”
“I suppose that’s right.”
Susan had joined everyone outside and walked past the two women with a basket of buns. When she came within earshot, Tina and Emily stopped talking.
“Hi, Mrs. Brown!” The earnestness of Susan’s salutation to Tina beamed from her face.
“Oh, hi, honey. You looking for a place to put those?” She motioned to the basket.
“Dorothy Muller told me they belong on this table.”
Susan walked over to the first free spot she could see and laid the basket down. Almost immediately, Dorothy descended upon her like a swooping hawk and snatched the basket away.
“No, Susan, dear,” Dorothy corrected, “the buns have to go at the beginning. Otherwise, what will people put the condiments on? It’s not much good to have a glob of mayonnaise on your plate before you even have the bun. Right?”
“Yes, sorry,” Susan reached for the basket again. “I can take them.”
“No, it’s alright, I’m already holding them, so...” and with that, Dorothy brushed by her and carried the buns back to the beginning of the table. Susan was left to stand uselessly by, as Dorothy busied herself wit
h her micromanagement.
Tina, spontaneously reinvigorated, continued her conversation with Emily.
“Of course Angela’s happy. She’s happy Rick is alive. She’s only showing it in a peculiar way. It’s silly to think she’s not.”
“I don’t think it’s silly at all.”
“Angela is ecstatic right now. Rick’s not dead.”
“He only looks dead,” Susan interrupted. No one laughed, but worse than that, no one even looked at her.
“You want to know what I think?” Emily baited.
“Yes, of course.”
“I think Angela brought it on herself.”
“What? How can you say that?” Tina asked out of obligation.
“Things happen for a reason. You saw the way she was, so don’t pretend you didn’t. She’s hiding something.”
“Hiding what?” Once again, Susan spoke up as the eager, but completely ignored, audience.
“What are you saying, Emily?” Tina inquired, as if Susan had not just asked the same thing.
“Maybe it’s Angela’s fault Rick went missing in the first place. She can fool us, but she can’t fool God.”
“You really think so?”
“Oh, Tina. Yes, I think so. And you do too, I know you do.”
“I don’t think that.”
“Yes you do. After Angela charged out of the sanctuary, everyone knew she was running away.”
“Well, are you saying she was involved?”
“Maybe. Maybe she even wanted Rick to disappear.”
“Why would she want that?” Tina had become addicted and needed more.
“I don’t know.”
“What if Rick was fooling around with another woman and Angela found out? And then she was so upset, she decided to get rid of him.” Tina’s love for late afternoon soap operas was beginning to pay off.
“No. That’s not it.” Emily was quick to dismiss Tina’s hypothesis.
“It could be. I hate to say it, but I always thought Angela had an angry side. You can tell in her eyes. I doubt she even has faith anymore.”
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