Bethel's Meadow

by Shultz, Gregory

  “Smith, you’re just looking for a fight,” she said. “I’ve been trying to call you all morning. What’s with you and all your drama?”

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “I will concede the point. I have been way too clingy with you. Damn me all to hell for giving a flying shit.”

  “Are you yanking my chain, or do you really mean it? You’re confessing to being insecure and clingy?”

  “I think you have every right to do as you please,” I told her. “If you want to gallivant around with the starting lineup of the Minnesota Timberwolves, then who am I to stop you?”

  “We had a blast with those guys,” she said. “How dare you imply I did anything improper with them. Me and the girls were just letting off some steam with some really cool cats.”

  “Cool cats? Did those cool cats show you their jump shots?”

  “Fuck off, Smith. I don’t have to put up with this bullshit from you.”

  “And as of right fucking now, you no longer have to!” I declared. “This is where we part ways. You’re tired of my bullshit, and I’m tired of your sexual frigidity and total unwillingness to express any affection toward me.”

  “You’re breaking up with me?” she said, sounding genuinely surprised. “And you’re breaking up with me because of sex? That’s what this is really all about? Sex?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what this is all about.” I was really pissed off now. Even though she didn’t say it, I could hear it in my head: Quality over quantity.

  “This is unbelievable. You’re breaking up with me over the phone instead of in person, you chicken shit bastard. I can’t believe we’re breaking up over sex, of all things. Do you know how fucking idiotic that is? God, you’re such a selfish son of a bitch. You’re the biggest pervert I’ve ever known in my—”

  I terminated the line.

  And two minutes later, after cooling down a little bit, I called Dr. Samantha Fleming.

  “I’m in the mood to party tonight,” I said to her. “So when I get there at seven to pick you up, be wearing blue jeans or something comfortable. I’m in the mood to celebrate, because things have changed.”

  8

  MY HEART CAME TO a full stop when she opened the door. Dr. Samantha Fleming was outfitted in tight blue jeans, knee-high brown leather boots, and a sleeveless, eggshell-colored blouse with a plunging neckline that showcased her truly impressive God-given assets. She had a thin silver bracelet around one wrist and a diamond and ruby bracelet around the other. Her full and sensuous lips were glossed with a light shade of red. Her hair was in a ponytail, which added a playful dimension to her otherwise regal countenance.

  Sam stepped back from the door, placed her hands on her hips, and assumed the posture of a runway model. Her smile was mischievous and naughty. Her eyes were full of danger and daring. An X-rated movie starring the lovely doctor began playing in my head, more vivid than ever before when I had fantasized about her in this manner.

  Caitlin who?

  Sam stepped forward, kissed me on the lips, and said, “We’re going to fuck like wild rabbits tonight.”

  …

  Later, as we were eating fish and chips in an Irish pub on Disney property, I was waiting for my third Guinness Draught of the evening to arrive. The first two had failed to cool my internal temperature. I was hoping the third would do the job. The fish was quite tasty, much more so than I was accustomed to when it came to this type of fare. Sam suggested it was probably because I was used to eating cod instead of the haddock they were serving at this establishment. At twenty dollars a plate, it seemed the least they could do. Okay, I’ll admit I was being a little cheap, but Sam seemed to understand that I was financially strapped—maybe Sidebottom had told her so. At any rate, she exhibited a lot of class by not displaying even the subtlest hint that she was disappointed in my choice of venue.

  While I knew the rigors of being out with beautiful women, I had absolutely no experience with accompanying a lady who would always be the most beautiful lady anywhere we went, which I knew with complete certainty would be the case if Dr. Fleming and I continued dating. I tried not to let it get to my head, nor did I want to be too prideful of the circumstance. I wondered if it was something I’d get used to, having every man’s head turn—either voluntarily or involuntarily—every time I walked into a room with her. Hell, for that matter I wondered if I would ever manage to achieve some measure of self-control in her presence. Whatever the case, I told myself that it might not go beyond tonight with this woman, and that I should just make the most of it. I’d walk around as proud as a fucking peacock, carrying the look that said I knew for damn certain I was with the woman every man wanted to be with.

  In a total matter-of-fact tone of voice, Sam said, “I pleasured myself before going to sleep last night, imagining your cock being deep inside of me.” After taking a sip of her ale, she added: “I knew you were hard last night, Mr. Plain Old Smith. I only grazed over it nonchalantly with my hand, but I knew it. And I’ll tell you another thing: I was already very, very wet.”

  I was stunned, completely speechless. I had been out with women in the past that I’d thought were bold, but usually dirty talk like this didn’t occur until just before the actual sex was to begin. Here, Sam was dangerously close to engaging in foreplay, far away from a private spot where we could bump uglies, and she didn’t care if anyone at the adjacent tables could hear. Thankfully the joint was packed, with showgirls dancing and making a racket out in the middle of the huge floor that was the centerpiece of the pub.

  “And baby, when I get you home tonight, I am going to kiss, lick, and suck your cock until you explode all over my tits.” Now she had both hands flat on the table, as if bracing herself, but for what?

  I felt like I was in a twilight zone of some sort. I was looking for Allen Funt to come out, gleefully shouting: “Smile! You’re on Candid Camera!”

  “Sam, how many beers have—”

  I couldn’t complete the question because one of her feet had just begun exploring and massaging my groin area, and quite vigorously so. I was so surprised I nearly knocked over my beer. She had somehow managed to slip out of one of those sexy knee-high boots.

  “I want you to ask for the check,” she said coolly. Her cat eyes were staring right into the darkest part of my soul. I could really feel it, man. “And then we’re going home, and then we’re going to fuck in every room in my house, including on the staircase and on top of the washer and dryer. I’m going to suck your cock completely dry, until it’s completely purple.”

  What was I to do? I turned around and searched frantically for the waiter. Yeah, okay, so I was a bit anxious.

  “Check, please.”

  …

  Four hours later we lay next to one another on an outrageously priced rug in one of her three living rooms. I was completely exhausted. For the first time since ceasing my meds I finally felt like sleeping.

  “Can I get a rain check on the staircase?” I asked. We had already taken care of the top of the washer and dryer. “I think you have completely exhausted my supply of precious bodily fluids.”

  “The night is still young,” Sam said. From her back she rolled over and placed her chin on my chest and smiled. I have to say, never in my life had I seen any woman that looked so beautiful completely nude. “Mr. Smith, you are something else, you know that? I’ve never been with a man who could keep up with me like you do.” Her smile vanished and she regarded me with an analytical air. “You’re clearly manic right now, albeit in the early phase. I’ve seen the signs of it, more so tonight than last night. You’re having mild tremors in your hands and limbs, your pace of speech is accelerated, and you’re hypersexual.”

  “And you’re not?” I said. I was dog-ass tired, despite what Sam thought she was observing. I really didn’t feel like having a discussion of my symptoms.

  “Coming off the meds typically induces insomnia and can trigger a remarkable manic episode.” The doctor was in again. “T
ell me how you feel about the breakup with your girlfriend.”

  “Ex-girlfriend.”

  “I stand corrected,” she said, giggling. “Still, would you like to talk about it?”

  “I don’t need a second opinion, Doc.”

  “I didn’t care one way or the other,” she said. “I had already decided five minutes after meeting you that I was going to fuck you, whether you were married, committed, or whatever.”

  “No sense in weighing your soul down with moral dilemmas,” I remarked.

  “Our attraction to one another is undeniable, Smith. You have to learn to go with the flow, to act on instinct instead of acting in accordance with ethical considerations that prevent you from receiving all that life has to offer.” She rolled over and commanded: “Give me a neck massage.”

  As I massaged her she started laughing. “Dammit, that so feels good. You have really long fingers, and you’re as strong as a motherfucker. Baby, you make me feel good all over. Oh yeah, stay right there. . . . That’s it. God, that feels great.”

  I wanted to beg her to allow me to sleep, but when I reached down to feel between her legs I noticed she was wet again. What the hell, I thought, give the lady another round. Who needs sleep?

  …

  An hour later:

  “You know what?” she said. “You are the best I ever had.”

  I only chuckled in response. I was unable to gauge Sam’s sincerity. I was hoping she’d expand on the thought.

  “No, really, listen to me,” she said as she rolled over on top of me again. “Your girlfriend didn’t realize what she had. In fact, it wasn’t you who was incompetent in the sack. It was her. She has sexual hang-ups, the poor girl. No doubt it was her Catholic upbringing. You know, with the guilt and all.”

  “Maybe you could talk to her,” I said. My eyes were closed and I couldn’t have opened them if I had tried. I was just barely maintaining consciousness.

  “Why make yourself miserable the way you did, with the rapid withdrawal, going completely cold turkey?” she asked. “Why didn’t you take the pills I gave you? I want to know.”

  “Well,” I said, trying to hold on for a while longer, “in all the years I’ve been taking these meds, I have felt some really negative and guilty feelings about taking them.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “It was different in the years when I was taking lithium,” I said. “I didn’t have much trouble with sleep, because I never really needed all that much until after I had turned thirty. That’s when my doctor—Dr. Beady Eyes—switched me from lithium to whatever the drug du jour was. And as you probably have heard, these drugs are just pure hell. Whenever I’d come off of lithium, I never got sick at all. But this shit? It may not qualify as an addiction, but you certainly can form a dependence on these medications.

  “And Doctor, the one thing I did get addicted to was unconsciousness. And that’s what these drugs bring you. They act as sedatives and sleep enablers. I finally got to the point that I realized I was losing precious hours in the day, when I could have been doing something productive, like working or . . . or making music. Hell, jigsaw puzzles or peeling potatoes, for all I care. Anything. I was tired of being in bed twelve hours or more a day. When I would get home from work, I’d take naps between six and nine o’clock in the evening. And the drugs were so powerful that I never had any trouble going back to sleep at midnight.

  “Finally, I had to break free from it. I got to the point that even before I popped the pills into my mouth, I felt guilty as hell. I felt like I was giving in to a wicked power. It felt like the ultimate act of submission, of surrender, of turning my life over to the pills and to the will of my asshole psychiatrist, who only cares that I limit my gripes about my mental health to three minutes or less every three months. Well, you know what? I am now saying ‘Fuck that.’ I want my life back.”

  “Are you ever suicidal?” she asked. She looked concerned now. Her total demeanor had changed. It was like . . . being in a doctor’s office.

  “I’m going to sleep, Samantha.” I said. “And I’m not going to call you Sam anymore. Samantha is way too pretty of a name. So . . . goodnight, Samantha.”

  And then I heard her say, “I think I could love you one day, Mr. Smith.”

  To tell you the truth, I don’t know if I heard that in a dream or if she actually did say it. I just know that when I regained consciousness, I felt the comforting warmth of daylight on my skin, and the pleasing aroma of fried sausages filled the air.

  9

  “GOOD MORNING, MR. SMITH.”

  Before my feet, as I lay supine on the exquisite living room rug, stood a teenage boy with short blond hair and a smooth, pale complexion. He was a tall, handsome kid, with a confident and arrogant mien.

  Just like his mother’s.

  My naked body was covered by a black silk bed sheet. Samantha must have placed it over me at some point during my slumber. Though I was embarrassed by this unexpected encounter, I was thankful for Samantha’s thoughtfulness. The blanket made the situation a tad less awkward.

  As I sat upright the kid smiled, leaned toward me, and extended his hand. I shook it.

  “My name is Devin,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.” The kid said it like he meant it. There was nothing at all perfunctory about his introduction.

  “You can just call me Smith,” I said. “Your mother is cooking something that smells wonderful.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “She’s making biscuits and sausage gravy. She only serves Cuban coffee. Don’t ask where she gets it. And sir, if I may say so, I’m glad she’s found someone. You’re the first man in this house since my father died a few years ago.”

  “I’m very sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know about that. I figured your parents had divorced. Your mom refers to your father as her ex-husband.” I immediately regretted saying that, but it didn’t seem to faze the boy any.

  He nodded and smiled sadly. “Dad committed suicide. Mom still hasn’t forgiven him. He left behind a lot of gambling debts that she had to make good on. The goons that collected the money didn’t have a heart. They threatened to kill me if she didn’t pay up. It pretty much ate up all the life insurance money. I loved my father, but he was kind of a douchebag for doing what he did. But I guess he figured dying was the only way he could pay off those mouth-breathers.”

  I slowly took to my feet, careful to keep the sheet wrapped about my midsection. Then Samantha walked in. In tight blue shorts and a revealing tank top (sans brassiere), she looked so tempting I nearly dropped that bed sheet.

  “Good morning there, Plain Old Smith.” She gave me a quick kiss. “I see you’ve met my son. He got the first feeding. Are you up for some grub?”

  The boy said, “Again, it was nice to meet you,” and then he left the room without saying anything to his mother. I didn’t sense a good vibe between them or any semblance of warmth.

  Samantha pointed to the couch. “There are your clothes.” My jeans, Polo shirt, and boxers were neatly folded. “You slept through three complete wash cycles,” she said. “You’ll find that from now on, without benefit of the meds, you will only fall to sleep once you have reached the point of complete physical exhaustion.” She sounded like Dr. Fleming instead of my newfound lover. “Now get dressed and get your ass in the kitchen before your breakfast gets cold.” There, that was better.

  It was another fine meal from a very fine cook. The coffee was the best ever. I normally didn’t drink coffee, but if I could somehow obtain this blend of Cuban bean through Samantha’s source, I decided I would take up a new habit. The biscuits and sausage gravy hit the spot. All I needed now to feel human again was a shower and a shave.

  During breakfast I couldn’t keep my eyes off Samantha, who sat opposite me while reading the Sunday paper. I also couldn’t help but maintain a constant smile. She truly was a beautiful woman. Her somewhat harsh demeanor and brutal honesty didn’t detract from her looks. As Caitlin would have said, the woman
“gave good bitch.”

  After my last swig of coffee I tapped on the table.

  “More coffee, Mr. Smith?” she asked as she stood to render service. I motioned her to sit back down. She did.

  “First,” I said, “thank you for breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Second, I’d like to answer your question from last night. You were asking if I was suicidal.”

  She gave me that serious look of hers again. But it was more than just the doctor being in. Samantha really wanted to hear what I had to say. Because I now knew her husband had committed suicide himself, I hoped my answer would bring her some measure of comfort.

  And so I offered her this: “I have a fear of God. There are just some things I would never contemplate. I’m not a hundred percent certain that God exists, mind you, but if He does exist, I want to have my ass covered when Judgment Day arrives. Specifically, I have this fear that God would send me back to the planet and make me live another life as a lower life form. I would have to prove myself as an amoeba and work my way back up through the ranks: through being a worm, a squirrel, a magpie, a sloth, a dog, a gorilla, back again to being a human, where we all ultimately have to prove ourselves. I believe we have to convince the Big Man that we can gut it out, all the way from amoeba to human. Only then do we gain passage to His Kingdom. So I’ve come this far. Ain’t no way I’m starting all this shit over again.”

  “So you have a fear of reincarnation,” she said. “That’s not uncommon, but I’ve never heard anyone put it quite the way you just did. So you don’t believe there is a hell?”

  “We’re in hell already,” I said. Samantha laughed, but I wasn’t joking. “No, really, it is in hell where we have to make the grade. We have to defeat the evil forces on this planet before we can collectively ascend into Heaven. It is in how we treat each other that we are judged, both in our personal relationships and between communities and nations. It kind of goes without saying that right now we aren’t doing too well by any measure.”