Silence and the Word

by MaryAnne Mohanraj

  Well, fifty bucks is not something to sniff at, y’know? There’s a lot I could buy for fifty bucks. There’s this long black velvet coat over at Goodwill, only twenty bucks, and a nice pair of rhinestone heels I’ve been eyeing, five bucks, and that leaves twenty-five for the kids—half for them, half for me. That’s fair, right? And that sounds so good, that I can see the money’s already spent, so I’d better answer his question. So I tell him, “Shoot.” And he says, “Do you masturbate?”

  So I reach back my arm and I’m gonna belt him a good one right there, only he ducks, see, and hollers out—”It’s for the survey!” And I drop my arm and I say, “What the fuck kinda survey is that?” And he says, “It’s a fucking survey, see? The university is doing a survey on fucking. I got stuck with asking women if they masturbate, which is not making me popular, believe me. My roommate, he gets to ask guys where the best places to get a blowjob are, lucky bastard. You wouldn’t believe how many women have tried to hit me already today, lady. Look, one of them got me.” And he shows me this bump on his forehead, under where his greasy hair falls in his face. So I say, “What the hell kind of school do you go to that does a fucking survey—never mind… . I don’t wanna know.” So he’s standing there, waiting, and I’m standing there, thinking.

  “Do you gotta know my name?” I ask him. He says, “Well, we have to put down a name, and an age, but you don’t have to give me your real name. They won’t know.” And I think it over, and finally, I think, ‘Sure. What the fuck. Give the kid a thrill.’

  “Put me down as Esmerelda. Esmerelda Valentino, age twenty-eight.” Ever since I watched “I Dream of Jeannie” as a kid, I’ve liked the name Esmerelda. “And the answer to your question is ‘Yes’.” The kid scribbles something down on the clipboard he’s holding, and then reaches into his pocket and hands me a five. And I say, “Where’s my fifty?” And he says, “That’s only for the only for the long form, Miz Esmerelda. Nobody wants to answer the long form.” And I say, “Show me.”

  So he hands over the clipboard, and there’s this sheet of paper, with big words at the top—”How Do You Masturbate?”– and a long list of questions below. Questions like, “How many fingers do you use when you masturbate?” and “Do you prefer clitoral or vaginal stimulation?” and “Have you ever inserted foreign objects into your rectum?”

  I hand back the board. “That’s what they want to know? They got this list—that’s supposed to tell them how we do it?” The kid nods his head, looking embarrassed. And I laugh. ’Cause it is just too damn funny, y’know? And I say, “Siddown, kid. Grab a patch of sidewalk. That little list of yours won’t tell you nothin’. I’ll tell you how I really do it.” So we sit down on the sidewalk, and I stretch out my aching feet, ’cause it’d been a hard day at the diner, and I close my eyes and start talking.

  “It all starts with Johnny, see. Not Johnny Stepanino, that lousy no-good bum that I’ve been seeing for the past six years, who keeps promising me a ring, but do you see it on my finger? Not him—he’s got stringy hair and doesn’t remember to bathe half the time unless his momma tells him to; I wouldn’t give him the time of day ’cept he’s got a good business and could really take care of me and my kids. But he’s never gonna get up the nerve, ’cause his momma don’t like the idea of him marrying a girl who’s only a little bit Italian, mostly mutt, and in any case dropped out of high school when she got knocked up at sixteen. His mama don’t like that idea at all.

  “Anyway, the one I’m thinking of is Johnny Viaggi. Johnny Viaggi with the long black hair, that falls into his face so cute—kinda like yours, kid. He smells clean, all the time; clean as spring, with the smell of new bread hanging heavy over him—that’s ’cause he works in the Cantalini’s bakery over on Fourth.

  “That Nina Cantalini! How that little shit managed to snag Johnny Viaggi I’ll never know—oh, she’s all right looking, I’ll give you that, with that tight ass, and those big tits. But them Cantalini women are all drinkers, which is why the men run the shop, and I swear that before she’s thirty that Nina will be drinking up the profits and lettin’ her body go to hell. She’s gonna swell up like a balloon and those big tits are gonna droop over the big beer belly she’s gonna have. And that tight ass is gonna loosen right up, and Johnny Viaggi is gonna be damn sorry he married such a worthless drunken lump of a woman when he could’ve had me.

  “You’re wondering why I’m telling you all this. See, when I’m getting off, I’m not alone. No, I close my eyes, and Johnny Viaggi is right there next to me. It’s his big thick hands that lift me up and move me to my bed, his hands that unbutton my blouse and push it down my shoulders and off my arms. Slender arms, and a slender body, and if my tits aren’t as big as that damn Nina’s at least they’ll still be standing up straight in ten years. I don’t fucking care if I’m only a 32A—my nipples are sensitive as hell, and that’s what counts. That’s what Stepanino says, anyway, and for once the scumbag is right.

  “I’ve got great little tits, and when I unhook the front of my cherry red bra and pull it off, that’s Johnny’s fingers doing it, and his big hands cupping my tits so that they disappear under his warm, rough touch. Then my nipples stand up hard, so hard they poke out between his fingers, and he starts playing with them, rolling them between two fingers, squeezing and pulling a bit, all the while whispering words of love, ‘mi amore, cara mia, darling Angie’. And I’m moaning under Johnny’s touch, ’cause it is so good, and my nipples are so sensitive, and his breath is soft against my ear, against my neck—I’m almost ready to come right there, but he likes to take it slow.

  “Then his hands slide down my body, unzipping my skirt and pushing it down, so he can see the red silk garter belt and black stockings I wore just for him, just like he asked me to. No panties, and Johnny’s fingers trail down and down, almost tickling but not quite, sliding over my shaved pussy, until they’re barely touching my clit. And he touches me then, and it is so sweet, so fucking sweet that I moan Johnny’s name, oh yeah. I’m lying in my bed with his body warm beside me and his mouth on my nipple now and his fingers sliding into my pussy, warm and wet and slick and hard, pumping harder and harder until I’m almost about to come and it’s then, then that he whispers, ‘Angie, will you marry me?’ and that’s when I scream ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ and I’m coming hard and fast like you wouldn’t believe.

  “That’s how I masturbate. You got all that down, kid?” He’s staring at me with wide eyes, like he’d never heard a woman come before. Maybe he hasn’t. And I’m standing up and shaking the dust from my ass, and he comes alive quick and reaches into his pocket, fumbling a little, and then counts out nine more fives into my hand. He’s still not saying a word, so I smile at him and turn away, walking down the empty street and not caring that my feet still hurt ’cause I’ve got fifty dollars in my pocket and a sopping wet pussy.

  Take that, Nina-fucking-Cantalini.

  Would You Live For Me?

  ‘…a mythical creature of varied powers and weaknesses. Peasant wisdom claims that garlic worn at the wrists and neck and wreathed around doors and window frames will ward off the monster, and that the touch of a cross or Christian holy water will burn the undead skin, as acid would burn a human. They cannot bear the light of the sun, and the merest touch of it will sear them down to bone. Lastly, their only source of true nourishment is fresh and bubbling blood, preferably human and healthy, though they are inhuman, and cannot be infected by human ills. Among their other compensations are extremely long, if not immortal, lifespans and superhuman strength…’

  “Peter?” The voice that echoed down the long hall of the apartment trembled. The stocky figure bent over the stack of heavy books lifted his fair head quickly.

  “Yes, Ian? Do you need something?”

  “No, I’m fine.” A pause, and the voice continued, slightly weaker. “Are you coming to bed soon?” Peter’s heart twisted in his chest at the high quaver in that once-solid voice.

  “A little longer, love. I’m g
oing to do a bit more reading, and then I thought I’d take a walk before turning in. If you’d like to join me… .” Peter fell silent, knowing the answer. In the last weeks, Ian had grown bitter at the need for the wheelchair and seldom ventured beyond the bedroom, relying on Peter for his food and medicines. He still managed to get to the shower, but it was an arduous trek, and once there, his frail, sunken body simply leaned against the wall while Peter washed him.

  The voice whispered down the hallway, “No, I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll just go to sleep. Wake me when you come in.”

  “Of course,” Peter promised, knowing that he wouldn’t have the heart. The voice was silent, and Peter bent again over his stack of musty books, dredged from used bookstores and almost deserted libraries. He was no scholar—a carpenter who worked more with his hands than his head, but his hands had been all but useless for months now, good only for taking what care they could of Ian’s swiftly decaying body. If the books could not help him, Peter was lost, so he had strained his eyes for months, desperately seeking the answers he hoped were hidden in the yellowed pages.

  ‘…can often be found in cemeteries, for they must sleep surrounded by their native earth, or they will not rest…’

  The moonlight was bright, and Peter’s blond beauty shone in it as he walked, restlessly, in the shadows of ancient mausoleums. Encased in a long coat too heavy for the warm summer night, he strode back and forth, pausing occasionally to poke at the weeds above a gravesite with a wooden cane, searching for a break in the grass, a hint that the grave might contain more than it seemed to. His search went unrewarded, and eventually he sank to rest on a stone plaque that lay low to the ground and buried his face in his hands.

  “Why so sad, pretty boy?” A woman’s voice, low and laughing. Peter’s head jerked up and there, kneeling before him, was a pale young woman. Silver hair flowed smoothly down her back and across one naked shoulder, and a silver ankh hung on a chain around her bare neck. Black leggings and leather boots would have completed the effect, were it not for the white crop tank she wore, decorated with a bright yellow smiling face, and “Have a nice day” inscribed below. Despite the incongruous top, Peter knew that he’d found what he’d been seeking. He froze, knowing the urgency, too frightened to speak.

  “No answer? Of course not. Let us see what I can deduce of you, my beauty, since I have robbed you of speech. Why would an exceedingly handsome young man like yourself—so strong, so muscular—be haunting my cemetery, for seven nights in a row, with such a sad and sorrowful face?” She raised a slender hand and reached out to run a black-nailed finger along the curve of Peter’s cheek, stopping only briefly at the collar of the coat, before reaching underneath to draw out what hung on a heavy chain around his neck.

  “Garlic and crosses, my sweet?” She laughed. “I know a delectable recipe for garlic and rosemary chicken—not very filling for me, of course, but the taste is sublime. The tales of garlic’s power against my kind are just tales, I’m afraid. As for the crosses—you don’t believe in their power, so I’m afraid they have no power over me. So sorry. But I do appreciate your doing your homework. It’s nice to have a client who really cares. Now don’t worry—this won’t hurt at all…” She bent towards him, crimson lips drawing back to reveal sharp teeth. Just as her tongue licked out to taste the salt-skin above the pulsing artery of his neck, Peter managed to whisper, “Wait… .”

  She pulled back, frowning. “Now, you shouldn’t have been able to do that, my pretty one. That’s what the ‘look’ is for, after all, to calm and freeze our clients. I won’t kill you, you know, no matter what the stories say. Crude and tasteless to treat a human so—only the very young are so unrestrained, and I have not been young for millenia. So just relax—you might even enjoy it, and you’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.” She bent forward again, but before she even touched the skin, Peter was whispering, “Please…oh, please… .”

  A look of frustration crossed her face, and she stood up, her body a dark shaft in the pool of moonlight. The night suddenly grew quieter around them, as the wind died down and the small animal noises disappeared. “Don’t irritate me, lovely boy. Even if I let you live, the blood-taking doesn’t have to be pleasant… .” Peter was silent again, and the moment hung between them, low and heavy. One, two, three, four seconds passed like hours, and then she laughed again, her mood shimmering and shifting like the moonlight.

  “All right, talk! Whatever’s bothering you, it must be tremendously strong for your emotions to overcome the ‘look’. But your story had best be a good one. And I’ll have to take this…an ingenious version of a wooden stake, by the way.” She reached out and pulled the cane from his hand, then settled onto the grass, leaning against a nearby gravestone. Peter’s voice was suddenly free again, and after a long breath the words spilled out, stumbling over themselves in their anguished plea.

  ‘avoid their haunts, for though they possess a unearthly beauty, these undead monsters have no soul, and therefore have nothing in them of human kindliness. There is no warmth, no pity to them, and even the most impassioned of pleadings will not sway them from their dark desires…’

  She listened, and questioned, and responded to Peter’s words, and when he had finished, she paused a long moment before shrugging her response. “A very sad story, not amusing at all. And so common nowadays…my little golden child, even assuming that I do possess the happy ending you so greatly desire, why should I give it to you? What can you offer me?” She tilted her head, so that the light washed against the delicate planes of her face, and waited for his answer.

  Peter’s hands clenched at his sides as he gave the ancient creature the answer he’d prepared. “Myself. It’s all I have, all I can offer. My money, my home, my body, my life…my service through the centuries to come. Make me one of you as well and I will be your devoted slave, lady, if you will do this one thing for me that you could do so easily.” He was trembling now, breathless with his need.

  “Ah, there you’re wrong.” She paused, and what seemed to be, but could surely not be, fear crossed her narrow face. A moment later she shrugged and continued. “Doing what you ask would leave a horrible taste in my mouth for weeks…but you are somewhat appealing. Perhaps a trial run, to see if you can please me? The grass is soft, and the night is warm… .” She was laughing now, a fine full laugh with head tilted back, as she watched Peter struggle to step forward, to wrap her slender body in his strong arms. He finally managed to overcome his distaste, and she whispered softly, “See, women aren’t so scary. Just wait ’til you see what you’ve been missing all these years… .”

  She tore the chain from his throat, briefly and terrifyingly reminding him of her unnatural strength. Then she discarded the garlic and crosses, wrapped her arms tightly around Peter, and pulled him down to the soft grass. She gently moved his hands under her top to her white breasts. He shivered slightly, and then bent to kiss her. The kiss—his first with a woman—was surprisingly sweet, though her lips were shockingly cold. A current ran between them, and without volition his hands closed on her breasts, tighter and tighter as she sucked deeply on his lips and tongue, careful not to even brush him with her teeth. She moaned encouragingly, and Peter struggled to remember what his female friends had told him—all the ways in which a man could do too much, or too little. So much depended on his pleasing this creature tonight—who was at least female, if not human.

  He rubbed his rough fingers over her nipples, tentatively at first. She twisted beneath him, and Peter almost stopped…then he realized that she was arching up into his touch. He rubbed harder, and she slid a thigh between his, wrapped her other leg around his hips so that his left thigh pressed against the curiously smooth intersection of her legs and hips. Peter kissed down her face, along the line of neck and up to bite gently at her earlobe, teasing it as he had teased Ian’s so many times. They slid against each other, her hands on his buttocks urging him on, in a motion that was not so different from ways in which he
had moved before. His own sweat was rank in the air, but from her came the scent of sandalwood and soil, and while her flesh did not warm beneath his touch, he could taste the femaleness of her, the sweet musk permeating his skin.

  Peter was curious now, and began to explore her body, sliding the black leggings down to her knees and laying bare the triangle of hairless flesh that lay between her thighs. She arched blindly as he did so, seeking his touch, and he denied her, amazed at his own temerity. Slow…slow was what women liked, or so he’d been told, and now he staked his own life and that which was so much more precious than his own life on the honesty of his friends’ gossip. Slowly his fingers trailed over the sharp angles that were her body—yet not so sharp as what had become of Ian’s body, as the wasting took him, and the flesh melted away. Her skin was chill, but firm, and as he curved his large hands around her rounded buttocks a thrill of lust shot through Peter, shocking him with its presence and intensity.

  He lowered his head, to lick circles around her belly and up to her breasts, her top now pushed high to bare their small firmness. He sucked each nipple gently, then firmly; then, as her nails sank into his back, perhaps drawing the first blood, he bit down, his own fingers digging into her soft skin, his crotch pressed hard against her thighs. Down again, and this time only a little teasing, a light dip and taste before he dove, tongue searching and prodding, and she tasted like flowers and soil and moonlight wrapped together. Though she moaned and shivered beneath him, no fluids appeared to coat her passageway, and so he licked long and hard, finally licking a finger and thrusting it deep inside her. She screamed then, and Peter thought he’d hurt her until he looked up to see the smile on her face, the fierce possessive smile that said yes.