Silence and the Word
Mary Ann Mohanraj
Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2004 by Mary Anne Mohanraj
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover design by Zak Jarvis.
Lethe Press, 118 Heritage Ave, Maple Shade, NJ 08052
ISBN 1-59021-014-X / 978-1-59021-014-7
for Kevin
Acknowledgements
Grateful thanks to the usual suspects who gave support, encouragement, and critique at various stages, and who did their best to keep me honest: Matt Austern, Kate Bachus, Jed Hartman, Nalo Hopkinson, David Horwich, Dan Percival, Benjamin Rosenbaum, and I’m sure several others whom I will be embarrassed to have forgotten. Hopefully, they love me enough to forgive me the lapse. Particular thanks to Shmuel Ross for extensive (and repeated) proofreading! Any remaining errors are, of course, my own. And extra-special thanks with gold stars to Karen Meisner, who helped me decide what to leave out.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Table of Contents
Introduction
Esthely Blue
And Can This Ever End?
Silence and the Word
Fringes
Johnny’s Story
Still
At the Gates of the City
Spinning Down
the sock tray
Seven Cups of Water
Rice
A Gentle Man
Listening to My Daughter
Minal in Winter
Under the Skin: A Survey
The Light at Dawn
And the sea is shaking
And Baby Makes Four
Kali
catch me if you can
Wild Roses
the bones want to fly
Exposure
how should I protest?
Mint in Your Throat
Invocation
The Survey
Would You Live For Me?
Amanda Means Love
Poem for a University
How It Started
A Jewel of a Woman
The Poet’s Journey
Flowers and Branches
one of the ways
Letter to Kevin
Sitting Under a Tree, in the Rain
End Notes
About the Author
Introduction
As a writer, you have this opportunity, the chance to use a few words—words which cost you nothing—and with those words, you can try to change people’s minds and hearts. It’s a pleasure and a delight, and while I often have a lot of fun with it (as you’ll see in such pieces as “A Jewel of a Woman” and “The Survey”), I also feel a tremendous responsibility. A sense of noblesse oblige—since I was lucky enough to be granted this opportunity, I had better make the most of it.
That’s what pushes me to take on difficult material—and please be aware, some of the pieces in this book are difficult. Stories like “Amanda Means Love,” which deals with child sexuality, and “Mint in Your Throat,” which explores sexual assault and its aftermath, have been more than a little controversial, have come close to starting fist fights (as you’ll see in the story end notes). Most of the stories in this collection aren’t that edgy, of course—many, like “Johnny’s Story” and “Seven Cups of Water” are fairly straightforward erotica. But while social response to erotic fiction has markedly mellowed in the ten years that I’ve been writing and publishing the stuff, I still frequently collect shocked looks when I admit to writing about sex, slight drawings back, as if to avoid guilt by association, contamination. It’s not nice, writing about sex. My mother would much rather I wrote children’s stories instead.
I do love children’s stories, and I’d be happy to write more of them. (I did sneak one into this collection—“The Poet’s Journey.”) I’ve written a fair bit of poetry too, mostly romantic rather than sexual, and there’s lots of it in here. I’ve dabbled in speculative fiction (see “At the Gates of the City” and “Would You Live For Me?”), and certainly my recent dissertation novel-in-stories, Bodies in Motion, is far closer to literary fiction than erotic fiction. There was a strange time, a few years ago, when I was living in Salt Lake City (and perhaps influenced by the overwhelming conservatism). I wondered why I was still writing about sex, why I spent so much time and energy on it. Was it purely for the shock value, the admittedly sometimes fun role of the black sheep?
My sex writing may have started that way, a little, but I believe that there’s more to it—that the real reasons I keep writing about sex are intimately tied to the power of the material. Sex writing, perhaps because of its taboo nature, has the power to reveal aspects of human nature that are otherwise inaccessible. Writing about sex can be scary—when I’m writing revelatory memoir pieces like “Silence and the Word” and “Under the Skin,” it can be downright terrifying. But that only underlines its importance, and its interest.
After ten years, I still find that writing about sex is the most interesting writing I’ve done—not sex as simple titillation, or for shock value, but sex as it relates to and reveals the intricacies of the human heart. In passion, we are stripped bare, we reveal our fragile and vulnerable selves. We can only hope that the world will value us for what we are, will see us clearly and with generous eyes.
Sometimes, when my mother asks me with that wistful tone in her voice, if I’m sure I don’t want to be a doctor, or at least a programmer, instead of an often-broke writer, I’m dumbstruck, not knowing how to answer such an impossible question. I try to explain to her that I have the best job in the world, not the easiest, but at least for me, the most rewarding. All I can do is be grateful to you, my readers, for giving me this job, this opportunity. Especially to those who have been reading me online since the early days of the net, who have stayed with me all this time, thank you. And to all those who have found me since—I hope you like what you find in the following pages.
I hope the stories, poems, essays in this book interest you, that they surprise you, move you. I hope they make you think, draw you into arguments, that some of them trouble you. I hope at least a few bring you pleasure, arousal, delight. Writing the best I can is the only way I can thank you properly for the last ten years, so I hope I’ve done a good job. Enjoy.
Esthely Blue
My toes curl and release. I am lying with my back against his chest, with my ass against his groin and him slowly going limp inside me. I am catching my breath, slowing down, listening to my heartbeat fill the room. I am waiting for the right moment to shift away; though it would be nice to cuddle, I’m dying of the heat. Yes, long enough, and in one movement I slip a little forward and he slides out and only our toes are touching now, way down at the bottom of my bed. And I look down the curve of my body, smiling, down the faint moonlit bed, down my thighs to knees and calves, looking for my toes—they are not there. Ankle, heel, and emptiness.
I can’t feel them, either.
My heart thumps loudly. I blink, and my toes are there, returned, and I am tempted to put it down to a trick of the light, but… . Well. Nothing to be done about it right now.
“You okay?” He seems concerned.
“Mmhmm…how ’bout you?”
“Oh, fine.”
We’ve cooled a little, and shift, so my head rests on his shoulder.
“I can’t stay the night.” He’s apologetic. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep.”
“Shh…that’s okay. Thank you…it was lovely.”
He chuckles. “Thank you!”
I am tempted to a
sk him, if, during the act, he happened to notice any odd flickering, but decide against it. A little too intimate a question—I’ll save it for Mark or Peter.
“So, you do this often?”
I smile. They always ask. “Not so often. But occasionally, when the mood strikes… .”
“And Mark… .”
“Has his own diversions. And friends.” I don’t mention Peter. Mark is usually enough to explain, the first time round.
“You don’t get jealous? He doesn’t?”
“Hmm…he says he doesn’t. I do, sometimes. But I’m not sure that really matters. It hasn’t been enough to stop me.”
“Interesting.”
The moonlight slides across the floor. We talk, about little nothings. The bed is left entirely in darkness, and now it is my desk that shines palely in the night, doubly illuminated by moon’s light and flickering computer screen. Swirling screensaver, cool blues mixing into greens. Finally, he gets up, peels off the condom, cleans up, gets dressed. He sets my alarm for me: six a.m. Deadline tomorrow—mustn’t oversleep. Then he sits by me until I start falling asleep, kisses my forehead softly, slips out. Sweet boy.
I keep my eyes resolutely closed, until I fall completely asleep.
I won’t be visiting Mark for a few weeks. My flight’s booked for the twenty-second. In the meantime, the work for the new magazine has assumed nightmare proportions. Every hour seems to bring fresh complications. If I had known how much time this would take, would I have started it? A little late to worry about it now—the first issue’s due in three weeks. Sometimes, as I’m typing, my fingers seem to flicker away—but the words keep appearing on the screen, and since I touch-type, I’m not really looking at my fingers anyway. Maybe I need new glasses?
I’m on the phone while I work, talking to Katherine. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. Yes, that’s terrible… .”
Her boyfriend’s causing trouble again. I make appropriate noises—that’s all she needs. This is a recurring theme, and it no longer needs all of my attention. I know my lines. “No, I wouldn’t take that either. You should talk to him.” She starts crying—time for reassurance. “Aw, c’mon. It’ll be okay… .”
While I murmur, I type. She’ll never know. A brief pang of guilt, stifled.
“Dear Mr. Rossiter-Parks, thank you for your kind submission to our new magazine. I’m sorry to have to inform you that… .” I really need to take the time to set up a template and automate part of this. More efficient in the end. Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow. In the meantime, I can do this kind of letter in my sleep. Heh. Now that would be efficient. “Please do feel free to submit to us in the future… .”
Her sobs quiet a little. My cue. “You know he loves you.” Her sobs get louder, making it hard to concentrate. “Look, it can’t be that bad!” Whoops. Not too exasperated. She’ll just get more upset. Soothing. That’s the way to go. “I think you’re great, kiddo, and I’m sure he does too… .”
I’ve been sitting quite a while in one place, and my neck has started to hurt. I reach up to switch the phone from one ear to another…and my hand isn’t there. My forearm ends at the wrist. I freeze, and Katherine weeps on, while I stare at the computer through the space that should have been filled by my hand.
I bite my lip, hard. I draw blood.
Then my hand is back. Just as if it had been there all along, almost as if it had planned this—just a little excursion. A rest, perhaps? Have all of my body parts been doing this all along, behind my back? Ducking out when I wasn’t looking? Maybe I haven’t been paying enough attention to my body lately. Maybe it wants some exercise? I have been skimping on my sit-ups, after all. Just haven’t felt like I had the time for the full workout in the mornings.
I haven’t heard anything Katherine has said for minutes.
“Kiddo, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back tomorrow, okay? Sorry! Bye.”
I hang up the phone. She was still crying. My lip is still bleeding. I have not taken my eyes off my hand, but it seems pacified. It stays right where it’s supposed to be. My heart is thumping—a few toes were one thing, but I need my hand. I can’t type without it, and if I can’t type, then the magazine will go under, and it’s not just my project, people are counting on me, it’s my responsibility—not to mention that I won’t be able to make my damn rent…was that a flicker?!
Okay, okay. Deep breaths. Calm. Just calm down.
I pledge that I will do my exercises every morning, okay? I wonder if saying this in my head is enough, but it would sound so silly to say it out loud.
I get up and close the door. “I pledge that I will do my full exercises every morning.” I add an “I solemnly swear” just in case. I would have liked to start with “I, Sita Mathuri, being of sound mind and health”…but that seems a bit risky, since I’m not certain of either.
I go sit at the computer again. Eyes fixed rigidly on the keys, which means that I make far more errors than usually, I start typing names again. Everything will be fine.
I call Mark, but he’s neither home nor at the office. He could be anywhere—the boy tends to wander. No voice mail either. I consider sending him e-mail:
Mark. Disappearing rapidly. Send help.
Or maybe:
Sweetie, I regret to inform you that I am losing my mind. Since I know you love me for my mind and not my body, please let me know if you’d like to dissolve this relationship… .
Perhaps something like:
I’m not sure what’s going on, but body parts are going AWOL. Would like to discuss this with you. I know it sounds mad, but maybe it’s just some strange disease. Hopefully not communicable. Come soon!
I settle for the ever-useful:
Call me, please. Soon.
That should worry him nicely; I think that’s what I wrote the last time I broke up with him. Or maybe that was the time before last? In any case, I could use some company in my misery. I log off and go make dinner. I watch my fingers very carefully when I chop. I can’t afford to lose any.
Peter’s here for dinner. He got delayed in traffic, which explains why he wasn’t here to help chop. He’s nothing if not prompt. We have curry and I have wine. A couple of glasses. He doesn’t drink.
“So? Tell me about last night.”
“Last night?” What? Has he guessed? I hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to tell him yet… .
“The one you took home from the reading. Pretty boy—so, how’d it go?”
Oh, him. Right. “Oh, fine. He didn’t stay the night, but we had a nice time.”
“Think you’ll see him again?”
“Don’t you think I have enough on my hands with you two?” A little sharper than I meant.
He looks surprised. “Well, that’s hardly stopped you before, has it? Wasn’t your record five, concurrently?”
“Yes, and I neglected them all. Two of those lasted less than a week as a result… .”
“So, even you have limits. Glad to hear you admit it.” He sounds a little bitter. I haven’t been able to spend much time with him lately—so busy. What does he expect? Besides, it’s not like he has tons of time either… .
“I have plenty of limits. I have as many limits as anyone.” Ridiculous. Why am I snapping at him? “Look, let’s just go to bed. We can do the dishes in the morning.”
Once in the bedroom, I am suddenly shy. Stupid, after all this time, but I don’t know how to tell him, and I don’t want to meet his eyes. I pick up clothes and put them away. I straighten books on the shelves until he comes up behind me and slips his arms around my waist. I stiffen, then relax into his arms.
“You okay?”
“I’m sorry—I’m just kind of cranky. It’s been a long day.” I twist around so I’m facing him, his arms still loosely wrapped around me.
“Anything in particular?”
I kiss him instead of answering. I don’t know what to say. I raise my hands to cup his face, and he pulls me closer, his mouth opening against mine, his fingers starting to di
g into my back, soon so hard that it hurts a little, the way I like it.
We stumble towards the bed. We fall onto it. My mouth is now on his cheek, his neck, digging under his shirt, my fingers unbuttoning as fast as they can. It’s one of the best things about sex with him, the way it blazes up out of nowhere, burns me up so I can’t think, can’t slow down even when he wants me to—and does he really want me to? He’s egging me on, his fingers shoving up my skirt, sliding into me, and I’m glad Mark got me out of the habit of wearing underwear years ago ’cause I can’t wait for it, I’m squeezing my thighs around his hand, I’m slamming down as he slams up and rising and rising, with my whitened fingertips digging into the bed, arched and ready to scream…
…and it’s gone.
Not gone the way it is when you get there and fall over the top and down the other side. Definitely not that kind of gone. It’s almost as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on me at just the wrong damned moment—except that then I’d have felt the ice at least, I’d be cold and shivering and wet. And I am wet and shivering, but only on my skin, only cooling sweat, ’cause what’s between my thighs is absolutely nothing except for Peter’s hand, wet and slippery and hanging there in air.
Peter’s face is chalk white. He looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. Then everything suddenly goes back to normal and his hand has disappeared between my thighs again, except that I am not on the verge of coming anymore, I am not even close, I am about as far away as you can be, and I am not happy. Peter slowly pulls out his hand; even if he’d wanted to keep going, he could tell that I didn’t. He pulls it out and wipes it on the sheets and then looks up at me.
“Okay. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.”
That’s not going to satisfy him. It doesn’t. I tell him everything, starting with last night’s toes and proceeding through missing fingers and a disappearing hand and ending with today. And as I do, I get more and more scared—and more and more angry. Toes I could deal with. Even fingers or hands—I can always dictate, right? Voice recognition software gets better every day. But if I can’t have sex anymore ’cause the relevant parts have chosen to wander off at the crucial moments…my fingers are digging into my thighs. They hurt. I am hurting myself. I am hurting my body, which is not behaving at the moment. I am wondering what will happen if I try to actually tear away some skin—will it disappear before I can? Would it come back?
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