Tallulah Tempest

by Robert Scott Leyse

  “Sir, your will is my will,” she says, standing while continuing to direct her gaze towards the floor. “I’m marching to the kitchen immediately, where you should strictly supervise and make sure I don’t deviate from conscientiously preparing for the work ahead. I’d sooner die than disappoint you.”

  “I’d intended no less—don’t instruct me what to do, if you know what’s good for you,” I respond curtly. “I’m perfectly aware you need to be watched every moment, don’t presume to concern yourself about what I know better than you.”; then, gesturing towards the kitchen with my foot, it being in the line of her gaze, “No more chatter—get going. And didn’t you hear me grant permission for you to look at me? When I grant permission it’s not an option—it’s a command. You either look at me or you’ll get a cut of my belt right now, for insubordination.”

  But Tallulah, still declining to lift her eyes to me, starts strolling towards the kitchen. No sooner am I hot on her heels and about to seize her by the nape of the neck and take her to task for disobedience than she glances back at me, very intently and meaningfully, while whisking her hair from her face; and what breath-stealing richness of multi-faceted expression, spinning towards all points of the emotional compass, is in her glance. It’s almost as if I can reach out and touch and caress what’s in her glance, so vivid it is; but it’s also elusive and ghostly, like an image reflected on the surface of a swift stream. Delight, desire, serenity, insouciance, innocence, shyness, vulnerability, mischief, courage, verve, admiration, trust, an invitation, some teasing, and the hint of a threat—as in if I fail to follow through on what I’ve started and neglect to continue to discipline her we’ll be wrestling on the floor again and a bonfire of unkind words will blaze in my ears—is all in her glance. And there’s more in the flash of Tallulah’s eyes—the quality of their silver light: I catch a glimpse of sheer impulse, as in she’s in thrall to restive ever-volatile currents of yearning and it’s up to me to contain them and turn them in my favor. She wishes to shower me with the abundance of kindness within her and make me feel like a God among men but first I must free her from the tension that tears at her and scatters ease of mind. She wishes to be sweet, but I must earn her sweetness—enable it to flow forth and cradle me in its warmth. Yes, it strikes me then and there: Tallulah’s infatuation with this discipline ritual isn’t caprice and contrariness—it’s neither a product of brattiness nor boredom nor disenchantment with a privileged upbringing—it’s not the wish to gratuitously accumulate out-of-the-ordinary experiences, collect novel emotional souvenirs—and least of all is it the desire to plunge me into tumult, give me a taste of hell. It’s a religious rite, self-purging, her means of overcoming unmanageability of mood and fragility of mind—of stepping into the light of love, where she truly wishes to be, from the darkness of self-doubt. And it also strikes me that I might learn a thing or two tonight—that the hellcats always had something to teach me but I was willfully turning a deaf ear, unaccountably wallowing in incompleteness, discontent, and isolation.

  Angie, Ella, Steve: by the time Tallulah and I are in the kitchen I’m no longer flinching from and cursing her desire for discipline, considering the administration of it to be a highly stressful chore, wishing for it to be gone. When she comes to an abrupt stop, stands still with her back to me and an aura of expectation hovering about her, what I suddenly want more than anything else is to be worthy of her expectation and do it proud. There’s an unknown world of promise and possibility, as well as threat and danger, in the mixture of subservience and assertiveness in her stance—in her at once quivering and rigid muscles, the as-if-hesitant but nevertheless steadfast alignment of her shoulders and hips—and I want to experience it to the utmost. Still half as if being willed by a force outside myself, but also while being inundated by wholly unforeseen and thrilling energy, I seize Tallulah by the nape of her neck, compel her to kneel before the cabinet below the sink, nudge her back with my knee, and command, “The rug shampoo, sponges, scrubbing brushes, towels, and buckets are in there: extract them and place them on the counter.”; then, once she completes this task and turns to face me, “Now fill the buckets with hot water and haul the lot to the living room and get busy. Don’t forget you only have an hour, I don't plan on waiting until the end of time for a heedless girl to earn my respect.”

  “With all my heart,” she responds, bringing prayer hands to her breast and bowing her head before turning to the sink. There’s a marked tone of single-mindedness in Tallulah’s bearing as she fills the pair of buckets with water and then gathers the shampoo, brushes, sponges, and towels under her arms—traps them against her torso—and seizes the handles of the buckets and steps towards the living room: her movements are executed with the utmost directness and simplicity. Taking my cue from her bearing I say, “You’re to carry out your assignment as if it’s the only thing worthy of attention in all of existence, without a trace of vainglorious fanfare—no ostentatious gestures, frivolous physical embellishment, of any sort. You’re to perform your duty in all humility, absent of affectation, as if you’re walking a tightrope and too much showiness will undermine your balance and tumble you off. Because, make no mistake, if I deem you’re so much as twitching your pinkie in a way that doesn’t directly pertain to cleaning up your mess as expeditiously as possible then you’ll tumble out of my protection straight into the sting of my belt. I wish to protect you with all my heart but can only do so if you unwaveringly adhere to this requirement. And don’t even think of attempting to take a break: the slightest pause, or indication of slowness, will likewise be deemed an infraction and result in reprisal—you keep your hands busy, or else. If your hands become idle I’ll assume you’re using the time to plot mischief and, believe me, will rap your knuckles until they bleed.”

  “I understand,” Tallulah says as she places the buckets beside the bulk of the carpet-stains. “I agree that my assignment is of paramount importance and that I must complete it before presuming to be conscious of anything else, so help me God.”

  “No talking,” I command, gesturing for her to begin cleaning. “No anything except eliminating this mess, heeding my instructions to the letter.”

  Instantly dropping to hands and knees, Tallulah applies water and shampoo to the largest stain and begins scrubbing with one of the brushes. And it’s when I see her executing this task as assiduously as I’ve instructed that the full weight of the responsibility I’ve assumed becomes apparent to me: I must will myself to keep Tallulah engrossed in her assignment, spare no effort to demonstrate I’m as involved as she is, or I’m the one who’ll tumble off the emotional tightrope and feel the sting of her disappointment. I must uphold my end of our arrangement as faithfully as she’s upholding her end or I’ll be dealing with her maniacal aspect again. What’s suddenly crystal clear to me is that, like it or not, the larger part of the outcome rests on my shoulders because I’m the one who’s being entrusted to administer discipline. Tallulah’s counting on me to be ruthless and will be ruthless in expressing annoyance if I fail to deliver. Again, I’m becoming increasingly aware that this discipline ritual is very far from being a manifestation of capriciousness on her part—that there’s far more at stake for her than I ever allowed myself to suspect, as in the balancing of her emotions in the interest of acquiring serenity of mind, being at peace with herself. And the journey’s in its infancy, there’s still much of expectation hovering about Tallulah. She’s projecting an invitation similar to that of a proud spirited girl who’s on the other side of a room, waiting for me to approach her and introduce myself, and who’ll stomp away in a huff if I fail to do so immediately, not failing to dart me a glance of outrage: I need to introduce Tallulah to more of what lurks in my depths, lest she subject me to a fit. So I find myself, as it were, working myself into a state of heightened concentration—tightening my muscles, focusing my nerves, fixating my glance, intensifying my intonation—while peppering her with critical comments, admonishments pertaining to her misbeh
avior, expressions of displeasure at what I inform her is unacceptably slow progress; giving her shoulders and hips a light shove now and then, impatiently tapping at her ankles with my feet, seizing ahold of her hair and pivoting her head in the direction of a spot she hasn’t attended to yet; insisting she be equally graceful and diligent, maintain picture-perfect poise without compromising efficiency—be direct and minimalist in her movements without giving way to stiltedness or angularity; and that she keep her back straight, perfectly parallel to the floor, and her knees evenly placed, in line with her hips, and her hair on the right side of her face, nestled between her shoulder and ear. I keep adding on to my original instructions, requiring her to adhere to more stringent guidelines. And Tallulah keeps adjusting her behavior accordingly, without hesitation or deviation: flushes of pleasure in her face and body, brief and effervescent though they tend to be, indicate she wants me to continue to be increasingly difficult to please.

  Angie, Ella, Steve, at this point I’ll declare the discipline ritual experience is flat-out enlightening, and add I realize you might feel such a declaration’s unduly extravagant and be inclined to laugh. But please indulge me: as I continue to administer discipline—never once removing my eyes from Tallulah’s svelte, radiant, and graceful body, so expressive of her fearless spirit—a surprisingly appealing and addictive variety of energy, such as I’ve never tasted of before, commences to engulf and enthrall and dizzy me, make me feel as if the boundaries of what I’m capable of feeling and enduring are expanding: what wonderfully precarious—knife-edged, potentially explosive—give-and-take the discipline ritual is. After all these years of considering suchlike rituals an inconvenience and annoyance, never allowing myself to take them seriously—cursing my hellcats for doing their utmost to involve me in them—it’s suddenly obvious I’ve been depriving myself of an immensely enriching realm of sensation, forgoing the opportunity to explore new and tantalizing avenues of self-realization. Tallulah’s dead accurate when she accuses me of being lazy last year: I was inexcusably lazy, in that I had no inclination to comprehend the emotional dynamics of her ritual, much less participate in it. No doubt about it: I took the easy and unproductive way out. What was to be gained by abandoning her in the kitchen, retreating to the living room, fearfully waiting for her to grow weary? Did I undergo any amount of worthwhile inner alteration, become stronger in any way? Did I do anything besides persuade myself I was acting sensibly when, in actuality, I was being ignominiously pusillanimous? Did I accomplish anything besides blind myself to, and thereby reinforce, my weaknesses? How cowardly it was to inform the doormen not to let Tallulah in my building again, without speaking another word to her! What’s wrong with being compelled to reach down inside myself for some ruthlessness, summon the amount of resoluteness and energy required to quiet Tallulah, return the sweet regard to her eyes? It’s attentiveness that borders on meditation, being in touch with every nuance of her marvelously untamed disposition to the point of entrancement—it’s harnessed volatility, restiveness channeled into hyper-vigilance, opposing impulses achieving equilibrium. And it’s the delicious feeling that a single false word or gesture on my part—one false note of feeling—will tumble everything into discord and we’ll be warring again. Who wants unearned security in relationships? I don’t! It all circles back to waking up to the fact I adore storm-driven girls, and Tallulah far above the others. Not only is Tallulah the one who’s awakened me to what I need to be happy, she’s the very embodiment of my happiness.

  Concerning the magic of the discipline ritual’s give-and-take, I’ll elaborate: when I issue a command Tallulah’s body tightens, added urgency leaps into the activity of her hands, greater intentness comes into her face; she gazes at me, apology in her eyes, and gratitude in her eyes, and spirit in her eyes; then she nods, soundlessly mouths the words, “Yes, sir!” and there’s such admiration and contentment in every inch of her body language, and such a wave of soothing energy rushes up my spine and radiates throughout me, inundates every sinew of my body with tingling warmth; and I suddenly understand that, as long as I give of myself in this manner, bring all the inner intensity I’m able to muster to bear upon her, she’ll give in return with all her heart and that I can do anything with a girl such as Tallulah emotionally supporting me; and, further, I understand that, far from experiencing humiliation, she’s experiencing the same sense of security, being inundated with the same comforting electric warmth, as I am because, as long as we’re both immersed in the ritual, mutually sustaining our subsurface communion, we know we’re not alone in our depths—that there’s another to wholly embrace us, without neglecting any part of us, from the inside out. There are moments when it’s as if shimmering veils are dancing under my skin; when it’s as if the amount of energy engorging my veins is as expansive as the sky at night; when it’s as if I’m on the point of acquiring a new set of senses that will enable me to perceive, and be at home in, entire new worlds: basking in bedazzlement in the company of a beautiful wildcat, becoming dizzyingly close to her via administration of the discipline she requires, is truly one of the optimum experiences afforded by life. I now understand what Tallulah means by caring enough to administer discipline, and what I also understand is that she cares enough to allow me to discipline her—make it possible for me to extend my capacity for feeling, discover an amount of inner strength and fortitude I never knew I had. We’re in this together, every nerve-pulse of the way.

  All the same, though, there are some anxious intervals, when it seems my attention’s about to wander and focus falter despite myself. I become, as it were, noisy and cluttered and divided in my thoughts—prone to noticing, being distracted and worried by, details extraneous to the ritual, such as the swirl-patterns of the threads of the carpet or the splintered streaks of light at the bases of the walls or the sparkling bubbles of the soap suds in the buckets: it’s as if I’m perversely allowing these details to loom large in my awareness. And Tallulah, detecting my lack of full presence before too long, becomes fidgety—her brow furrows, and body twitches, in a manner that suggests budding discontent. And then it’s as if something as insignificant as an involuntary flutter of my finger or quaver in my voice will undercut the disciplinary tone, leave her feeling abandoned and stranded and angry. I can feel that sometimes she’s a split second away from halting the proceedings, staring at me derisively, and following through with another storm. Or is this all in my imagination? Am I still speaking in an authoritative voice, projecting single-mindedness and insistence of purpose? Is it still crystal clear I won’t hesitate to employ my belt should she become disobedient, or listless and lazy? Does she still know my world begins and ends with her and that I’m thankful beyond measure it’s so, am prepared to do whatever is necessary to keep her by my side? It makes no difference if I’m imagining Tallulah’s on the point of erupting with fury on account of perceived inattention on my part or not: I must shake myself loose from the thought-noise, overcome the straying of my attention, blind my senses to all but her presence—must redouble my determination to bear down upon her from as far inside myself as I’m able to reach, see to it she feels the energy of my intentness inundating the space of air between us and exciting her nerves, stirring her emotions—see to it our subsurface communion remains unmuddled, vivid, and strong.