The Haunter Of The Threshold

by Edward Lee

  A scolding half-smile. “Never mind! Just help me in.”

  Hazel knew that Sonia knew...

  Once they were belted in, Hazel got on the road, happy to be taking a break from the college and the hot summer session.

  “It’s sweet of you to drive,” Sonia said. “But when you get tired, just say so, and I’ll take over.”

  “Forget it.” The university’s main gate shrank in the rearview. “This’ll be a lot of fun. I need a long drive to clear my head.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Sure. I just graded forty term papers on the elements of Naturalism in Henrik Ibsen’s The Master-Builder. ”

  “You’re the one who wants to be an English professor. The Wild Duck’s better, anyway.” Sonia eyed her. “But that’s not really what you want to clear your head of. Hazel, I can always tell.”

  I’ll bet you can. “Guy Stuff, then. Ashton thinks I’m a perv. It’s starting to bother me.”

  “Like they say, ‘Can’t live with ‘em, can’t put ‘em out with the garbage.’ If he truly loves you, he’ll view your kinkiness not as perversity but as sexual diversity, as uniqueness.”

  But it IS perversity, Hazel thought, remembering the noxious yet ecstatic dream. “I don’t really want him to love me, anyway. He’ll wind up getting hurt, and I’d feel bad about that.”

  “Ah, someone else on the horizon, then...”

  Hazel remained silent for a long pause. “I just want to forget about men during this trip. Pretend they don’t exist.”

  “That might not be too easy. Frank’ll be joining us tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? I thought he was there now.”

  “Not at the cabin. He’s out camping and hiking.”

  Hazel tried not to let the sudden inner-exhilaration show. If he won’t be there till tomorrow...then Sonia and I’ll be alone together tonight. “I haven’t camped since Girl Scouts—hated it.”

  “Hazel!” Sonia squealed. “You were a Girl Scout?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “I just can’t picture that...”

  Yeah, but I can picture you. In bed. With me, Hazel teased herself with the thought. Just like last December...” And I was a terrible Girl Scout too.”

  Sonia grinned. “In what way?”

  “I...,” but then Hazel caught herself. I can’t possibly tell her that. “Smoking cigarettes and stuff,” she lied. “Smuggling dirty romance novels.” In truth, though, at twelve years old, Hazel had seduced several of the other girls. She’d shown them how to masturbate, she’d demonstrated cunnilingus. My God, if I’d been caught...If they’d told my father... She shivered.

  “I don’t know why,” Sonia remarked. Breeze from the window tossed her perfect black hair around, “but I was trying to think of that word the other day, after the three-fifteen class. You’d already left—”

  “What word?”

  “The word that you always mention, that the counselor applied to you. Not fetishism, but...”

  “Paraphilia,” Hazel informed. “The direction of sexual interest towards objects, non-coital sex acts, or sexual stimulation under unconventional circumstances. It’s a bit more complex than fetishism; it’s more compulsive, or so they say. But ‘non-obstructive paraphilia’ is what I have, so it’s not considered clinical and therefore not a syndrome that requires therapy.”

  “Non-obstructive?” Sonia questioned.

  “It’s like the difference between someone who drinks too much socially and a clinical alcoholic. An alcoholic is controlled by booze. It obstructs his ability to function at work and maintain an operable social and domestic life. Eventually the alcohol addiction costs him his job, family, friends, finances, and all that. But in non-obstructive paraphilia, people still function successfully. That’s me,” but even as Hazel rendered the explanation she knew she was being less than truthful. She functioned “normally,” and was successful in her assistant teaching post, but deep-down her obsessions periodically boiled over into something nearly aberrant. She knew this. It even got to the point that she was so uncomfortable and ashamed of some of her obsessions that she eventually downplayed them to the short-lived therapist last year. I was too afraid she’d give me a clinical diagnosis...

  “But, Sonia, why on earth would you be thinking of that?”

  Sonia’s smile constricted like someone admitting to something they weren’t too proud of. “But you said paraphilia is rare among women?”

  “Yeah, very rare–believe me, I’ve read as much about it as most shrinks. Paraphilia affects ninety-five percent men, and five percent women.” Hazel shot a reproving frown. “Now answer my question.”

  Sonia sighed. “Well I’ve got one too, then, that’s all I meant.”

  The comment strangely sped Hazel’s heart. “What?”

  “I don’t want to say!”

  “Bullshit!” Hazel raised her voice. “I’ve told you all my groaty stuff! That’s not fair!”

  “It’s just a...visual thing, well...sort of.”

  “Sonia, if you don’t tell me, I’m gonna pull over and leave you on the road, pregnant or not!”

  “All right...” the older woman conceded. “You know that new transfer student from Marquette—our five-fifteen, Tuesday, Thursday? George something.”

  “George Cucker,” Hazel said. “I guess he’s okay looking. What, you have fantasies about him? ”

  “There’s something about his build and face, I guess,” Sonia admitted, “but the other day before he left class, he asked me something about Gatsby—God, I hate that book, Fitzgerald was so overrated—but after he left, I had the weirdest idea: I fantasized that I was in bed with him, and while he was asleep, I was feeling him up and, well, jerking him off. All while he was asleep.”

  Hazel laughed.

  “But that doesn’t qualify as a paraphilia, does it?”

  “Oh, yes it does,” Hazel assured. “It’s called somnophilia.”

  “You’re kidding me. There’s a term for it?”

  “Sure. You wouldn’t believe some of the paraphilic labels. Klismaphilia: sexual arousal from receiving an enema.”

  “No way! There are people like that?”

  “Yep. Oh, and here’s a keeper: Agalmatophilia, sexual attraction to statues or mannequins.”

  Sonia squealed.

  “But I don’t get the George Cucker thing,” Hazel went on. “He’s kind of a dolt, isn’t he?”

  “I guess, but he had how do I say this without sounding crude?”

  “Just say it!” Hazel cracked.

  “He must be endowed because he had a really big crotch-bulge.”

  “I love it! Not only are you a somnophiliac, you’re also a macrogenitagliac! Arousal to large male sex organs.”

  “Well, come on, every woman has that,” Sonia supposed.

  “Not really. Some women— micro genitagliacs are turned on by guys with small penises. And then there’s endovulvism: men who’re attracted to girls with overly large vaginal folds.”

  Sonia’s mouth hung open in disbelief.

  “And I hate to tell you this,” Hazel kept pedantizing, “There’s also lactaphily—”

  “Attraction to lactating women?”

  Hazel nodded. “And—are you ready? Cyesolagnia: men turned on by pregnant women.”

  “Oh, that’s good to know!”

  Hazel leaned over, lowering her voice. “Can I ask a personal question?”

  Sonia’s face scrinched. “I don’t know!” she laughed. “This conversation is getting pretty gritty!”

  “Since you’re now a confirmed somnophiliac...do you ever jerk Frank off in his sleep?”

  “I’m not telling!”

  “Of course, you have,” Hazel felt sure. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. Everybody’s got some little sexual quirk. At least you’re not an idrophrodiac. ”

  “Hazel, I don’t want to know–”

  “Someone who’s aroused by the smell of unwashed genitals.”

  “Shut
up! No more!” Sonia’s laughter pealed. “We’re changing the subject!”

  It was too funny. “Since you are my boss, I guess I can go along with that.” She’d already turned off onto the Providence outer loop and was suddenly navigating the small car amid rows of weaving traffic. “Wait a minute! Which way to New Hampshire? I’ve never been there.”

  “This exit here, get on I-95 north. It’s a shame you’ve never been to New Hampshire. The place is absolutely beautiful. ”

  Hazel caught the ramp. “It’s the Granite state, isn’t it? Granite doesn’t appeal to me.”

  “Eighty-percent of the state is under forest cover, and wait’ll you see the lakes region, where we’re going. I’ve never been to the cabin, but I’ve driven through many times. You’ve never seen the Great Outdoors like this.”

  “But...Laconia,” Hazel wondered. “Isn’t that a ritzy lakefront area full of rich snobs with multi-million-dollar yachts?”

  “Yes, but we’re going west of there, to a place called”—Sonia pulled her Mapquest sheets out of her purse. “Bosset’s Way. Frank says it’s like Hooterville New England-style.”

  “Hooter ville? Sounds like a guy-place: lots of women with big breasts.”

  “No! Didn’t you ever watch Petticoat Junction when you were little?” Sonia rolled her eyes through a pause. “Oh, of course not. You’re too young.”

  “I guess so.” Hazel put the car on cruise-control. Deep down she brimmed with an obscure expiation. See, I’m not the only one with sexual kinks. Even Sonia’s got one...

  Or was this simply more rationalization?

  It summoned every effort not to take side-glances at Sonia, who sat contentedly in the passenger seat, reading over school notes. Her sturdy legs crossed at the ankles, the heavy but firm bosom jiggling minutely atop the life-filled belly. Hazel’s lip trembled in the hijacking fantasy: they stood together, nude, caressing each other, their hands exploring every inch of the other’s body. Hazel dribbled baby oil into her hands, then adoringly glazed Sonia’s skin with it, gently kneading the swollen breasts, smoothing the oil over the even more swollen abdomen, then the arms, legs, and back, until Sonia shined like a beautiful human gem...

  “Are you day-dreaming?” Sonia asked with some alarm. Hazel’s muse had distracted her to the extent that the tires crossed the shoulder’s outer line. She righted it at once, thinking, Pay attention! “Sorry. I’m just happy to—” she wanted to say how happy she was to be with Sonia, but that wouldn’t do. “I’m happy to be getting out of town. I still have papers to grade from our classics class, but it’ll just be so nice to do it in a log cabin in the middle of the woods instead of my dreary little apartment.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Sonia said. “It’s not a log cabin, though. It’s called a slant cabin. Frank showed me pictures; it looks pretty cool–very Henry David Thoreau, so English junkies like us will appreciate it more. And the water supply comes from a real underground spring.”

  “Sounds pretty rustic.” Hazel’s ponderings lengthened. “There is electricity, isn’t there?”

  “Oh, sure. It’s not total boondocks.”

  “What compelled Frank to rent this particular cabin just for a mid-summer break?”

  “Nothing,” Sonia said. “The cabin is owned by Professor Henry Wilmarth. I told you he and Frank were colleagues, right?”

  Professor Henry... Hazel’s eyes held on the road.

  “Or I should say, the cabin was owned by him,” Sonia corrected.

  “I remember talking to him a few times. The man who committed suicide a few days ago,” Hazel droned.

  “Last Saturday night to be exact. I’m sure you’ve seen stuff about him on the news since last May.”

  The man who walked out of ground-zero of the Mother’s Day Storm. “This is too much of a coincidence, Sonia. Just last night, when they said on the news his official cause of death was suicide, Ashton couldn’t believe it when I told him where we were going. We thought it was just a fluke that his place of death was in the same vicinity to where you and I were going.”

  Sonia tossed her head. “I didn’t think it necessary to tell you all the details.” She errantly touched Hazel’s bare shoulder. “Then you might not have come along.”

  The comment ambushed Hazel. She was thinking of ME. She really wanted ME to go with her...

  “Wilmarth and Frank were working together on some side project for years,” Sonia said. “Originally Frank’s father was working on it too.”

  “Frank’s father?”

  “Yeah, he’d known Wilmarth long before Frank met him. But several years ago, Frank’s father got some disease and lost his sight.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  “But, anyway, that’s why Frank invited us up. Wilmarth had a lot of papers stored at the cabin, so Frank’s collecting it all. The gross part is Wilmarth was pretty deliberate in his intentions. See, early last week he asked Frank to come up to work on some stuff, he told Frank to arrive on Sunday.”

  “But you said Wilmarth killed himself Saturday,” Hazel remembered.

  “Yeah. So it’s pretty clear Wilmarth orchestrated the invitation only to make sure that his body was discovered promptly. It was Frank who found it.”

  Hazel ground her teeth. “Oh, that is gross.”

  “Must’ve been quite a shock. Frank walked in there thinking he was going to see his old friend, but his old friend was dead.”

  “Wait a minute,” the idea flashed in Hazel’s head. “So you’re telling me that Henry Wilmarth killed himself in the same cabin we’re going to be staying in?”

  Sonia nodded with some reluctance. “I...guess I should’ve told you that too—”

  Hazel was astonished. “Yeah, well, maybe that might’ve been nice!”

  “But then you wouldn’t have come...”

  Yes, I would’ve, Hazel knew.

  “You’re a teaching assistant at an Ivy League college, Hazel,” Sonia justified her neglect with information. She cast Hazel another beaming grin. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

  “No! But at least tell me he didn’t off himself in the bed I’ll be sleeping in!”

  Sonia laughed light-heartedly. “No. He hanged himself. In his den. If anyone needs to be concerned about ghosts, it’s Frank ‘cos the den’s where all Wilmarth’s papers are.”

  Great. I’m staying in a cabin out in the boondocks where a guy croaked! Hazel liked surprises of a sexual nature but not surprises such as this. However, her irritation melted away when Sonia, next, patted Hazel’s knee, and assured, “We’re going to have a lot of fun, just you wait.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” Hazel said.

  “And Frank says there are some neat, out-of-the-way places to eat. Authentic regional cuisine.”

  “Oh, granite burgers, right?”

  “Don’t be a smart ass.”

  “Actually, I pretty much eat anything,” Hazel said. “When I eat rock crabs or lobster, I even eat the guts.”

  “Thanks for sharing that with me,” Sonia said and made a face.

  “When I was in junior high, my father took me to Phoenix—he had some kind of minister’s convention—and I ate roasted iguana, and—yes—it tasted like chicken.”

  “Yuck. Cold-blooded animals should be in a terrarium, not on the dinner table.”

  Yeah, I eat anything, all right, Hazel’s dirty thoughts kicked in. And I’d sell my soul to eat YOU, but then the cross about her neck seemed to heat up as if in outrage. My soul? She could’ve laughed. Who am I kidding? With the shit in my head, and all the sins I’ve committed, my soul’s worth about a buck. In Monopoly money.

  Exits for Framingham, Waltham, and Boston swooshed by on the overhead green road signs; even in this little time, they’d already penetrated Massachusetts. Suddenly Hazel felt a pang of despair. Time tended to fly when she was enjoying herself, and she feared this trip would be over before she knew it. It would be the most time she’d spent with Sonia in the two years she’d kno
wn her. She MUST know I have feelings for her. I KNOW she does. Hazel could only hope that circumstance—and perhaps a little attraction on Sonia’s part–might leave the older woman with her guard down. Just one night, just one hour...Please...

  Her mind was running circles again; it always did when her obsessions encroached. Find something to talk about! She fished for small-talk ideas, then settled for, “You said Frank and Wilmarth were working on a side project?”

  “Yes, for years, along with Frank’s dad.”

  “What kind of project?”

  “Just boring math shit. They’re all eggheads. In fact, a long time ago, Frank’s father was the dean of Princeton’s school for applied mathematics.”

  “Wow. I guess Frank inherited dear ole dad’s smarts.”

  Sonia giggled. “And his looks, too. One time I saw an old picture of his father and he was the spitting image of Errol Flynn.”

  “Errol.... Oh, is he the guy with the mullet on American Idol? ”

  Sonia stared. “You really are a kid, Hazel. But I guess that’s my point: smarts and looks run in the family. It’s funny, the thing I’m most attracted to in Frank is his personality, but it also helps that he’s handsome as hell.”

  Hazel kept her hands steady on the wheel. She knew she had to say something in response but she also knew how careful she must be. She’d hate me if she ever found out...“Personality? I don’t really know him that well but, yeah, sure, he’s got a good personality.”

  Several moments of silence followed, which seemed strange, but when Hazel glanced over she noticed Sonia grinning at her some more, only the grin was widening to the point she feared her friend was about to burst out laughing.

  “Sonia, why are you grinning at me?”

  “Oh, nothing. I shouldn’t play with you like that.”

  “What? ”

  “Oh for goodness sake, Hazel. Whenever you and I are talking and Frank’s name comes up, you act like you’re on pins and needles. It’s okay. ”

  Dread began to slide into Hazel’s spirit.

  “I know about your little get-it-on session with Frank last summer,” Sonia added.

  Now it felt like ice-water had flooded Hazel’s gut. She gulped, then suddenly had tears in her eyes. “You—you do? ”