by Unknown
She’d been back home before noon.
On the bathroom floor, her bare bottom against the cold tile, Clarissa had sat with tweezers in hand looking at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. And as she looked, she groomed. She started with her face, wincing at the sight of her eyelids distorting as each lash was tugged away, watching the pale skin of her scalp emerge as her hairline receded. Clarissa worked her way down. Across her shoulders, down her arms, the hairs that ringed her nipples, the soft down on her belly—nothing escaped her notice. Her arms were aching almost beyond the point where they would obey her direction long before she had finished with her back, but she didn’t let the discomfort sway her. By the time she reached her inner thighs and her pubic mound, Clarissa was numb beyond feeling, and that, at least, seemed a blessing. She hoped that Charles would appreciate the effort.
It was after midnight when Clarissa finally cleared the last tuft of hair from the last toe. She stood, stiff, sore, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hands roamed across her body. It was bare, smooth as a baby’s skin, soft as silk. With a whisk broom, she gathered the mass of hair into a large zip-lock storage bag and hid it at the bottom of her canvas purse, in case she had been wrong about Charles and needed to put herself back together in a hurry later.
In the morning, Clarissa found that the more sensitive parts of her skin were peppered with red welts, like angry goose bumps. After a cool shower, she rubbed them with lotion, closing her eyes and imagining Charles’ hands, enjoying the sensual slipperiness. A healthy splash of perfume to counteract the effects of four days in the sun on her dress, and Clarissa was ready to face the world. She headed for the mall.
By closing time, Charles had still not shown up.
Being abandoned a fifth time made Clarissa more despondent and confused than angry. She had done everything right, hadn’t she? How much more could she do?
Sitting at home staring into darkness, her hand had touched her leg and shown her the answer. Stubble.
When her alarm rang at four, Clarissa got up and beelined to the bathroom. Plucking the short hairs, making herself perfect, proved more difficult than she had thought it would be, and Clarissa did not make it to her spot on the promenade until almost ten. To make up for her tardiness, she wore no underwear and accented her legs by splitting her sun dress to the thigh.
Clarissa was careful about how she sat, crossing her ankles, folding her hands. She was a vision, a goddess, exuding sex and desirability. She caught every eye, aroused every man’s base instincts. The thrill of being the center of attention was an aphrodisiac—invisible to those around her. Clarissa clenched her legs together and rhythmically flexed her thighs, bringing herself repeatedly to climax.
But when night enshrouded her and the crowds thinned, Clarissa found herself alone.
It was when she saw the body of a dead pigeon laying at the base of a tree no more than a hundred feet from her that Clarissa realized Charles was beginning to doubt his love for her.
Clarissa hardly slept that night, tossing and turning, every touch of the sheets renewing her desire for his soft caress. When she closed her eyes, she could feel his dreams calling to her through the ether.
Charles’ dreams were confused, filled with conflicting visions of herself and an aging, hairy thing that could only be his wife. Although the bond of love between Charles and Clarissa was strong, it could not compete with the whining and wheedling of his wife, or the inhuman lustings of her genital maw. Clarissa woke up repeatedly, screaming.
In her heart, Clarissa had believed that true love would out, that Charles would break away from the thing he had married and come to her, but he had not. She was at a loss to figure out what she should do.
Clarissa repeated her morning ritual daily, always hoping that her physical perfection would call Charles away from his marital prison, draw him to her.
It had been ten days since Clarissa had seen her love. She had counted every hour, was counting them still as she stared into the setting sun, watching the restaurant where she had been so sure that he would say the secret words and put magic into the ring on her finger.
Six o’clock passed, and Clarissa felt her resolve crumble. She began to cry.
Why is he doing this to me? she asked herself. Why have I been abandoned? She cursed out loud, drawing stares.
But the calm, cool voice of Charles still lived within Clarissa. It spoke to her of the spark of love and how it needed to be fanned. It asked what she had done to deserve him when he had done so much for her. Beauty was skin deep and nothing more, after all.
The voice asked for a sign, a token of devotion.
At the sound of the voice Clarissa’s anger bred a giggle, and then a joyous laugh. She leapt from the bench and ran down the promenade. A telephone; she had to find a telephone.
It didn’t take long for Clarissa to phone a cab. While she was waiting for it to arrive, she found her lover’s number in the phone book and called his house. The thrill of Charles answering stole her words for a moment, but she found them soon enough. Disguising her voice, she told him that she had found his wallet, asked if he wanted it back. Although he explained that the credit cards had been canceled and that he had already arranged for a new driver’s license, he said that he would come pick it up for the sentimental value of the remaining contents. Clarissa gave him a fictitious address in Brentwood and hung up after he said that he’d be there in an hour.
The last of the money which Charles had left for her bought Clarissa a ride to the address on his driver’s license.
Charles’ house was like something out of a dream. Yellow with white trim, a two-car garage, a perfectly trimmed box hedge under the large front window. The front walk was illuminated by a streetlight, showing Clarissa the way to the door. Almost as if he knew that she was coming, Charles had left a key for Clarissa in the dirt next to the porch, hidden within a box that was fashioned to look like a rock. It took Clarissa only a few moments to locate.
The house was dark inside, and Clarissa made her way through the rooms with care and respect. In every room in the front of the house, Clarissa could feel Charles’ presence. The fireplace, the chair by the reading lamp, the shelves of books, the dining room table, all had his aura about him. Only the kitchen was dominated by the stench of his wife.
The hallway proved to be another matter entirely.
All along the hall’s walls, barely visible in the shadowy light, were framed photographs of Charles and the wife. Wedding photos, party photos, group shots with the extended family. Clarissa was repulsed by them, by the stain of the other woman that they smeared on the image of her intended.
There was a picture of Charles coming out of a hospital, walking next to a nurse who was pushing the wife in a wheelchair. The wife held a newborn baby.
Clarissa wondered if Charles had been fucking the nurse and knew that he probably had. He was that kind of man. Clarissa was willing to forgive him for such indiscretions—such was her love for him. Could the woman holding the child say the same? She thought not.
Something clicked in Clarissa’s mind and she made note of the fact that the woman, the wife, was in a wheelchair in every picture. How pretentious! As if every day were the day of the birth of her child. How selfish! The woman was horrible, thoughtless. Charles deserved more. Much more. Charles deserved perfection.
The photos faded into darkness as they got farther and farther from the dim light that filtered in through the front window, but Clarissa could feel them even when they were swallowed by blackness. Her illness at being in their presence was equaled only by the gut-wrenching shock she received when a voice from the darkness beyond an open door whispered, “Charlie?” It meant nothing to Clarissa that the wife was at home—Clarissa was not here to see her—and she wouldn’t let the woman become the center of attention by answering her call. In fact, it was all Clarissa could do not to laugh at the woman’s ignorant usage of the diminutive “Charlie.” Instead of lettin
g herself be distracted, Clarissa went right ahead with her plan.
What she intended to do was leave the engagement-ring-to-be on Charles’ pillow. That would be the sign of her love that he needed. It would tell him that Clarissa would only wear his gift if he put it on her finger himself. What could be more clear? More romantic?
The ring didn’t come off easily because Clarissa’s finger was a bit swollen, but she’d managed to get it off with the help of some tools she found on a workbench in the garage and the flame of a burner in the kitchen. Clarissa reveled in the scent of Charles which covered every inch of the workbench and breathed only through her mouth while in the kitchen.
With the aid of a few other tools, Clarissa cleared off the bed and placed her present on the pillow. She took the hair from the bag in her purse and spread it around the room, banishing the wife’s spoor and replacing it with her own. When Charles returned, he would walk into a sanctuary, a temple of their love.
The baby was another problem altogether. In the confines of its crib next to the bed, the child was never quiet for long, even when Clarissa tried to feed it. She was tempted to take it from the room but decided against the idea. Charles loved the baby dearly and, in any case, it would one day be their child.
In the end, the room was perfect but Clarissa’s gloves were ruined. That, she supposed, was what she got for doing heavy work in dainty clothing. In any case, the way that the empty ring finger drooped made them look too silly to wear, and they were tainted with the smell of her burnt flesh.
Clarissa took the gloves off and stuffed them in her purse as she left the house, noting with dismay that, to add insult to injury, she’d broken one of her long, lovely nails while packing the wife into the garage refrigerator.
Because she knew that Charles would be home soon, Clarissa hurried down the street. It took her three hours to walk home, but the night air did her a world of good.
The next morning, Clarissa stayed at home. She groomed herself as before, more out of habit now than necessity, and placed herself next to the telephone, waiting for Charles to call.
He didn’t.
Noon passed, but Clarissa knew that he was just stalling, trying to find the words he would use when she answered his ring. It was so like him.
As the afternoon wore on, Clarissa turned on the television to distract herself. There was a game show, then Oprah, then news. The news talked about scandals and taxes and war and controls, then it talked about Charles. Clarissa almost shrieked when his picture flashed into view to the left of the newscaster’s head. She turned up the volume.
“—his wife and at least one other woman last night. The police report that they were responding to a neighbor’s 911 call just before nine o’clock when they found him kneeling on the blood-stained floor of his garage screaming hysterically. Only a few feet away stood the open door of the refrigerator in which a dismembered body was found. Upon searching the house, police found a pair of severed breasts which had been left in the baby’s—”
Clarissa was stunned. She couldn’t believe that Charles could have done such a thing. Still, it was on television, and where there’s smoke… “—time being, little David has been taken into custody by his grandparents in Santa Monica. Although Mr. Orman claims to have no knowledge of how—”
The sight of their baby, flesh of Charles’ flesh, being handled by cold, uncaring strangers made Clarissa’s skin crawl. None of them had Charles’ look of love in their eyes.
“—unverifiable alibi. Police are making no comment at this time, but News Extra sources report that the only fingerprints police found on the murder weapons were those of Mr. Orman. Because of the special circumstances involved, the district attorney is expected to request the death penalty. In other news, federal agents—”
With a touch of a button on the remote, Clarissa silenced the television.
Well, that certainly explained why Charles hadn’t called, she thought to herself as the weight of grim understanding settled on her. For a while Clarissa felt angry, betrayed. All the time he was supposed to be coming to see her and get his wallet, Charles had been doing these things with another woman. She had to admit that betrayal hurt more than she ever could have imagined. Still, deep inside she knew that she would not be able to stay mad at her man for long.
Charles was the one great love in Clarissa’s life. She could forgive him anything. If he were destined to spend time behind bars away from her, then she would learn to be patient. Just look at how well she had done over the last few days!
That afternoon, she looked up Charles’ parents and brought her child home. She would show it a mother’s love, use baths and powders and tweezers to keep it clean and pure. Clarissa would teach her child about its father, loving and concerned although far, far away. And when Charles was finally freed to return to his true home, he would find them waiting for him—arms open, smiles wide, and skin very, very smooth.
Father Bob and Bobby
WHITLEY STRIEBER
We think Whitley Strieber is a great short story writer as evidenced by his career-spanning Evenings With Demons published by Borderlands Press. “Father Bob and Bobby” is his most recent journey into the darkest regions of a tortured soul. A Strieber story never shies away from what is truly terrifying.
The church stank of dead incense and the thick perfume of old women. The school reeked of floorwax and the tang of overheated children. The walls of the rectory were infused with cigar stench, and the portraits of pastors that lined the staircase were stained yellow by years of nicotine laden smoke.
He hated it all. No, loathed.
He loathed the church, the school, the rectory and, above all, their smells. He loathed with the infamous zeal of the convert. For he once had been a lover of all these things, even the damned cigars, which he had smoked because his pastor and his bishop smoked them. He’d been thrilled when he administered the sacraments, felt a quiet warmth at being called father, gratitude that the people brought him their problems. He’d coached basketball and soccer, taught Catechism, visited the sick and polished off ten masses a week. He was a priest in a hurry, scurrying after the needs of his faithful.
Now he despised the mere sight of the damned cross on the wall above his iron bedstead, saw the grandeur of Archbishop Potter as the destructive affectation of a dried up old queen, and the love affairs and hate affairs that smoldered among the old men of the cloth who surrounded him as the death rattle of an institution of the human imagination at its most perverse.
If some character named Jesus died on a cross in first century Palestine, he’d stayed dead. The sacraments had all been invented later to infuse the organization with power. They were meaningless.
Still, he wanted to confess his fall from faith. He wanted to beg the Palestinian to help him and to find solace in the weathered Holy Office that had been at his bedside or in his pocket for nearly fifty years. He wanted to hear the angels singing. He wanted the love of God that burned in him, exploding like a little supernova into the unseen world, to be not just in his damn head!
He kept to his duties because he had nothing of his own and when you left the church it cut the cord completely. He’d seen plenty of other guys, better than him in every way, fall and keep falling, past foundation work, past insurance sales, past pumping gas, until there was nothing left for them to do but live in the wind.
Don’t set that bum on fire, boys, he gave you your first holy communion. Don’t set that bum on fire, boys, he heard your desperate confessions and set your souls free to sin again.
Oh, what the hell, burn him, boys, burn the old fool!
He feared the street and he feared prison, and both were now shadows in his life—oh, the life of any priest, really. The thought of being behind bars made the stink of his own fear rise off him and mix with the incense that haunted the nave from the Mercurio funeral two days ago. He’d come in to check that the lights were out, but now he found himself pausing before the altar, mesmerized by the glow of
the sacral candle. He’d consecrated the hosts in the tabernacle this morning, so the Blessed Sacrament was here, so the candle was lit.
“Jesus,” he whispered. Listen to the acoustics! Oh, yes, the wondrous St. Mary Martyr acoustics, famous all over this side of town. Maria Gennaro once said that this was a wonderful place to sing, and she tried out for the Met in New York City.
“Jesus!” Listen to the echo! Oh, yes, the famous St. Mary Martyr echo, famous all over—
“JESUS!” The word went whonggg off into the flickering, candlestunk dark. “Jesus loves you Jesus hates you Jesus isn’t sure!”
He thought to take out his dick. He could. He was all alone. It was his frigging church. Then he thought, ‘this is madness. I’m actually going mad.’ Immediately there washed over him a gigantic regret, that his madness must be this stupid, this religious, this awkward and pitiful.
“Confetior Deo omnipotenti, Beatæ Mariæ semper Virgini, Beato Michaeli Archangelo, Beato Joanni Baptistæ, Sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo—I have given this thing my life blood and I will not feel the need to confess! I will not!”
He shouted at the stone, the marble, the candles, the wood, the little pile of bleached, sterile wafers in the tabernacle, in their golden chalice there in the dark. “What can I have been thinking, to have given my life—my whole damn life—to pieces of bread?”
Kneeling there as he was, he would have appeared the very picture of devotion, but who was watching him knew his weakness, had heard everything, and knew, now, exactly how to execute his plan.
A few moments later, Father Bob went striding across the sanctuary and into the sacristy … and into a great darkness.
