“Cross your ankles, bitch!” I hear myself yell as I kneel beside Tallulah with the duct tape and the white of the tiling leaps at and writhes inside my eyes with redoubled intensity; but then it unexpectedly dissipates—only to reappear, then dissipate again: it’s as if I’m gazing through a pane of glass that’s inches from my eyes, alternately shimmering and crystal clear. I see my hands wrap tape about a pair of ankles and bind them tight—am aware of shivering, being bone-chillingly cold, even though my skin’s slippery with perspiration—aware the sight of the duct tape’s silver upon the ivory of Tallulah’s skin is intriguing me, as if it’s part of a dream that’s followed me into the waking state and won't depart. Then I hear, “OK, now your wrists, cross them tight—do it!” and watch ten tremulous fingers wrap tape around them as well; in this case, it’s the crimson of Tallulah’s nails that fascinates me, such that I stare at them for perhaps a full minute without any noticeable impatience on her part, or perhaps it’s that I only stare at them for seconds: my sense of time’s also blurring in and out of focus, as fleeting as my perceptions of distance and space and solidity. Then I’m contemplating Tallulah’s bright red lips, watching them simultaneously advance towards me and recede, repeatedly dissolve and re-materialize; then I’m aware of wincing at the thought of the unkind words, hisses and shrieks, that recently emerged from them—suddenly afraid more of the same will emerge from them very soon—and hastening to place a strip of tape over them. Amazingly, I’m self-possessed enough to retrieve a knife from a drawer and poke a hole in the center of the tape before applying it to her mouth, so she’s able to breathe through it but unable to move her mouth-muscles enough to speak. After all, nostrils can become obstructed and hinder breathing, or prevent it altogether, and that’s the last thing I’d want to occur. Also amazingly, I manage—in the midst of my disorientation and fear—to derive something approaching satisfaction from the sight of Tallulah’s taped mouth, knowing she has no choice but to keep any unkind words to herself. Likewise, the thought that she’s securely bound, unable to use her arms and legs and teeth to attack me, isn’t lost on me. But what am I supposed to do now? What? Suddenly I feel as if I’ve exerted myself to achieve a much-desired goal, only to forget what the goal is!
Continuing to kneel beside Tallulah, I glance about the kitchen: bright light’s whisking from corner to corner, rapidly streaking up and down the walls and about the counters, displacing the space between the ceiling and floor. Suddenly I’m in a sinister white room, picturing buildings where unsavory occurrences are routine—picturing detainment centers, psych wards, prison cells—experiencing sensations of suffocation, paralysis, claustrophobia—feeling pressed in on myself by the very air, as if surrounded on every side by invisible walls. Then I’m aware of a persistent whispery sound and glancing at Tallulah again, noting her eyes have become extraordinarily deep and penetrating, acquired an emphatic expression—that she’s knitting her brow, repeatedly nodding such that her chin’s striking the base of her neck, apparently endeavoring to issue a command—that the whispery sound’s originating from the writhings of her back against the tiles. Then I’m recalling she wished to be insulted and threatened while bound on the floor—again hearing her strident words, seeing the lividity of her face, recoiling from her scratches and kicks. What do I do? It’s not deliberate resolve that leads me to rise to my feet and exit the kitchen and shut the door behind me: I do so in a daze, as if stumbling from a car that’s just crashed into a tree.
Arriving at the living room couch on unsteady legs, I collapse upon it and unseeingly stare at the ceiling: it’s as if I really have been stunned and stupefied in an auto accident. My joints and muscles are aching to such an extent I can’t help but recall the time I body surfed during a storm for too long, was slammed into the sand as often as I obtained the ideal glide all the way to water’s edge—my chest is stinging so persistently it seems to have razor blades imbedded in it or to be on fire—my right wrist is outright throbbing, occasionally painful enough to turn numb and vanish from my ability to feel it; but it’s awhile before I’m able to realize Tallulah’s kicks and scratches and bites are the cause. At some point I become aware of sounds emanating from the kitchen—periodic banging, pronounced rustling noises, slurred yelling (the breathing hole I poked in the tape that’s upon Tallulah’s mouth is enabling her to yell, even if she’s unable to intone recognizable words)—and become highly alarmed. Immediately reaching for the remote on the coffee table, I start the music player and raise the volume loud enough to drown out all else. Then I resume staring at the ceiling, striving to suppress my thoughts as uneasiness—a sense of being wrung tight like a wet rag, inundated with jagged electric heat—accumulates in my breast and all but immobilizes my limbs. I doze off a number of times, but am always jolted awake by fear: I’m sure my fear never allows me to doze for long.
Angie, Ella, Steve: fitfully slipping in and out of troubled sleep, unable to escape the feeling I’ve been confined in a cage and have no place to run or hide, is how I pass the remainder of the night. Instead of relishing Tallulah’s beauty and grace and charm, celebrating the verve and fervor of an accomplished dancer, I’m seeking to forget she’s bound in the kitchen and that I’ll be dealing with her dark side again very soon, re-experiencing her temper and obsessions. I ask: what nefarious contrary instinct of mine compelled me to select her from among the other girls? Of course I accept full responsibility for pursuing her and bringing her home, but why did I do so? Is this how I foresaw passing the night? Did I wish to be tense and twitchy with apprehension, physically and emotionally wounded? I’d dearly love to state No! with confidence, but how do I know what occurs in the murky places behind my conscious thoughts?—how do I know what desires are pulling my strings from locations I’m unable to probe?—how do I know what’s governing me in the impenetrable flow of my blood? But to return to my narrative: it’s when the rising sun’s starting to lighten the eastern portion of the sky that I find myself unable to even attempt to push Tallulah into the background of my awareness, prevent her and my unenviable predicament from becoming the sole occupant of my thoughts: she’s bound in the kitchen and at some point I’ll need to release her and endure the consequences of abandoning her. What will those consequences consist of? Will she spring at me with malice in her eyes again, re-invoke the demons of conflict, outdo herself in demonstrations of displeasure? Will I be enduring her fits throughout this new day and night, until tomorrow’s dawn and beyond? As I sit upright on the couch and face the kitchen door it’s as if I’m sitting on the edge of a gaping chasm: the floor at my feet, even though carpeted in cheerful aquamarine, seems to be falling away into a black hole of thin air; the kitchen door, never mind that it’s ivory white, appears to be vaguely visible at the end of a dark tunnel created by the inexplicable dimming and bending and blurring of the ordinarily clear light of the overhead lamps. The music’s still playing loud enough to mask other sounds and I can’t help but flinch at those I imagine are still issuing from the kitchen—can’t help but picture Tallulah thrashing on the tiles, vicious as a cornered cat. A few more minutes pass. Finally a voice in my head announces I’ve got to face the hellcat sometime! and I robotically rise to my feet, aware of the hard thumping of my heart against my breastbone.
As I commence turning the knob of the kitchen door I’m envisioning what could occur after I unbind Tallulah—hearing ear-piercing shrieks cleave the air, feeling them freeze my spine—seeing her arms and legs flail and eyes flare, feeling her nails gouge my skin—and pause, wondering if I should return to the couch and wait for another hour or two, to better the odds of her being too fatigued to fly into a rage. But then impatience and annoyance—long overdue, it seems to me, as if I’ve been waiting all night to gather the courage to embrace these feelings—enter the picture and brush my caution aside: quite simply, I want this pointless upheaval business over and done with—am fed up with putting up with the twisted predilections of a cutie I thought was balanced and m
ild, allowing myself to be held hostage in my own home, seemingly forgetting I happen to live here and should be laying down the rules. Spending the night on the couch quivering with dread—afraid to hear the stirrings of a girl in my kitchen, waiting for the aches and pains she’s inflicted to subside: how insane is that? Enough! So I yank the door open, step into the kitchen, and what greets my gaze? Tallulah, wide awake, is smiling—there’s kindness in her eyes. But I stop and stare, apprehensive again despite myself: how do I know the benign frame of mind she’s exhibiting is authentic—anything besides a ploy to dupe me into setting her free so she can resume hellcatting with a vengeance? On the other hand, there’s no escaping the fact I need to release her sometime soon: for one thing, she might have need of the bathroom, not to mention she’s presently unable to exit my apartment and go home and leave me be. As long as Tallulah’s bound this nightmare of a night will continue and I won’t be free: the only sensible course of action is to unbind her and pray she behaves herself. Shortly thereafter, still apprehensive but resigned to the unavoidable, I’m kneeling beside her to peel the tape from her mouth while observing the lines of her face and fluctuations of light in her eyes, seeking to discover indications of her true intentions. But as soon as I remove the tape a spontaneous glow of delight, all but impossible to mimic, illuminates her visage from within and she says, “Thank you, honey.” in a sweet dreamy tone. I’m still having trouble trusting her, though, and continue to brace myself: Tallulah’s an extremely bright mercurial girl whose moods can shift into their opposites on the turn of a dime; her delight might be authentic now, but in two seconds it could become discontent. But, again, I have no choice but to finish what I’ve started: half holding my breath, I complete her liberation by unwinding the tape from her ankles and wrists.
What happens once Tallulah’s free of the tape and my jitteriness is at its peak, such that I’m poised to spring to my feet to better ward off an attack? She immediately sits upright and, after briefly stretching her arms over her head with a smile, gently frames my face with her fingers. “I adore your insubordination, sweetheart,” she soul-caressingly purrs. “It was very manly of you, the way you walked out and left me alone. I was upset at first and making some noise, trying to get you to come back, but then I realized you felt I should have my feelings and thoughts to myself and didn’t want to be in the way. After a while I turned peaceful inside, in a very nice and surprising way, and I thank you for caring. And you’re such a handsome head—a very handsome head,” she concludes, planting an indescribably soothing kiss on my lips and embracing me, quivering with emotion.
Angie, Ella, Steve: these are what are known as pinching-myself-to-confirm-I’m-not-dreaming moments. My anxiety instantly falls away—the wound-tightness of my muscles becomes fluid and expansive—the knife-edges of my nerves melt into softness, as during a massage—warm energy engulfs me, delightful electricity soothes me from the inside out. I kid you not: the amount of relief I’m overcome with borders on delirium. After all I’d imagined of stress and strife, and for Tallulah to be an extraordinarily affectionate sweetheart instead: the contrast between the tumult I’d dreaded and the heaven that’s happening multiplies my elation to such a degree it’s as if I’m soaring through the ceiling into the sky. We’re soon gazing at one another in rapture, exchanging tinglingly tender looks—every line of Tallulah’s beautiful face has united and brightened to communicate the most pulse-quickening amount of joy imaginable.
“Love me gently,” Tallulah says. “Here, come to bed.” Gingerly taking me by the hand and rising to her feet, she guides me from the kitchen to the bedroom and once we’re in bed you’d never know she’s the same girl who was hissing threats and kicking and scratching a few hours ago: such sweet grace is in her manner as she wraps her arms around me and nestles her head against my chest, taking care to avoid rubbing against the wounds she’s inflicted while apologizing for their existence with her eyes, soothing them with soft applications of her tongue. But that’s how it is with these metamorphosis girls: they seem to have next to no awareness of the long-term implications of their behavior; their past actions, regardless if they took place minutes ago, are of little consequence to them; they live exclusively in the moment and their current emotions always color their interpretation of what’s transpiring between us. It’s almost as if they could set my apartment on fire and then choose to be nice and suddenly be blind to the flames. Not that I’m complaining—obviously I like that Tallulah’s as good as forgotten the strife she’s sown and is being the darling I want her to be. Why dwell upon the hell she’s put me through when I can reap the benefits of the bright side of her disposition? I’ve earned this windfall of heaven.
“Handsome head,” Tallulah half whispers, regarding me with the crystalline blue of her eyes, brimming with affection, as she reclines onto her back. With her head pressed into the pillow and her golden curls framing her happy face she’s the living image of innocence and guilelessness. She was kindly disposed when I first brought her home (already it seems like an infinity ago), but she soon demonstrates an amount of tenderness that causes me to gasp with awe and tingle in every nerve. We make love for the second time and, as always, I’m omitting the details. I’ll simply say she couldn’t be more of an angel, whereby she not merely coaxes the remaining aches and pains from my body but instills an overwhelming sense of serenity: it’s as if nepenthe’s flowing through my veins.
But where hellcats are concerned one should never dare to completely let down one’s guard, become overly comfortable and trust all’s well and fail to measure one’s words, not even during the heavenly intervals, and at the approach of ten I’m reminded of the fact. Picture it: Tallulah and I are radiant with love-satiation—exchanging kind words and soft caresses, playfully rubbing against and tickling each other, laughing a great deal—and then, at my suggestion that we shower and dress and go out for breakfast, she knits her brow. “Are you trying to get rid of me?” she inquires in a testy tone, jerking her hands from my body and scooting a good yard away. Instantly it’s as if she’s on the other side of an invisible partition: the warmth departs from her manner, regard drains from her face, hardness flashes into her eyes—every curve of her body, suddenly tense and immobile, is shoving me away. There’s a distant hostile aspect to her that’s plainly saying, Hands off—don’t touch!
Need I say a jolt of panic shoots through me and I’m already picturing Tallulah in strife-torn mode, bracing myself against the possibility of another upheaval? Here we are in bed, mere moments ago it was a place of safety and joy, and now it might erupt into flailing arms and gashing nails and shrieked curses, turn into another journey to hell. No! That cannot happen! Guided by courage that’s fueled far more by fear than anything else (as in I can’t take credit for being particularly bold), I raise myself to my elbows and do my utmost to breach the barrier Tallulah’s placed between us: I smile into her eyes, seize her hands, softly stroke them, say with fervor, feeling time’s at a premium and I have little of it in which to speak before turmoil ensues, “Tallulah, I thought you might be as hungry as I am and wanted to treat you to breakfast, wherever you want to go—your choice, anyplace. I’m not trying to get rid of you—I don’t want our night to end. You’re an absolute sweetheart and I want you to stay all day, or longer, if you can—all weekend if you can. My plan was for us to come back here.”
For a few moments after I finish speaking I’m still highly uneasy: the tension hasn’t exited Tallulah’s body and she appears thoughtful, there’s no clear indication of which way she’ll turn—I can’t help but think tranquility and turbulence are hanging in the balance in identical measure. But then she, so to speak, unfreezes her body—becomes soft and supple again, pliant and accessible, lissome and welcoming. I hear her say, “Well, why don’t we order out and have breakfast in bed, where it’s warm and toasty and no one’s watching? I want me to stay too! I want to be your special treat and make you feel good! I’d say you’re deserving!” And, wit
h that, Tallulah pulls her hands from mine, crawls close, and softly dances her fingers up and down my neck and about my face while steadily gazing into my eyes. Of course I’m immensely relieved, but I also find myself detecting something of a threat in the cast of her eyes: they’re kindly enough on the surface, but somehow very intent in their depths. They seem to be saying, I’ll be good as long as you show me you want me to stay and I’m the one who decides when it’s time to go.
Tallulah Tempest Page 3
