“It’s okay,” she whispered. “We all wear them. It’s tradition. It’s part of the festival.” Mrs. Davies smiled broadly and, for a moment, that grandmotherly essence seemed to emanate from her whole body.
Becca took another sip, relaxed, and allowed herself to be undressed. “Okay.” At some point, Ione refilled her glass a third time. Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket on the floor—a million miles away.
Becca wanted to hike up, shift under, and pull closed the “dress” that Mrs. Davies had given her, but there seemed to be no good way to do it. The rectangle of fabric was fastened at her shoulders by knotted buttons—that Becca feared would simply pop undone—leaving a plunging scoop in front, and was tied around her waist with a narrow woven belt. Except where the belt held it together, the dress was open on the entire right side. Ione and Mrs. Davies had both convinced her (with a little reason and a lot of wine) that keeping her underwear on would look silly. Ione walked beside her in a similarly cut purple dress. Carrying their regular clothes in paper-wrapped bundles carefully tied closed with twine, they bounced up the street not caring who stared when the breeze whipped the loose, lower end of the dresses open. Naked underneath, Becca felt a little sexy, a lot exposed, and oddly empowered.
They bounded up the steps to Ione’s house and burst inside, giggling drunkenly. Chari greeted them in the kitchen with more hors d’oeuvres and wine. “If you two don’t look like you’re ready to tear the night apart!” Becca blushed again. Ione handed her mother a paper bundle.
“Mrs. Davies asked me to bring you this.”
“Isn’t she sweet?” Chari stripped off her clothes before opening the package. Standing naked in the bright late afternoon sun, she leisurely untied the string, unwrapping her dress. Becca tried not to stare, but the woman’s olive-toned body was hypnotic. Ione is a senior, like me, which makes her twenty-two or twenty-three. That’s got to make her mom at least thirty-nine if she had her when she was a teenager or something. Jesus! I hope I look that good at thirty-nine. “I didn’t know we had to wear togas,” she said, trying to break the spell cast by Chari’s skin.
“It’s a peplos, dear. A toga doesn’t fasten like this. And we do like to stand on ceremony. We’ve worn these for . . . well, I don’t like to admit how long.” She whipped the garment over her shoulders and wrapped it around herself. She buttoned it with practiced efficiency without looking while Ione helped fasten her belt up underneath her bosom, creating an empire waist that left the dress slit from Chari’s ankle all the way up to her bust. Becca felt the urge to reach out and caress her naked hip. She controlled the urge by gripping the stem of her glass with both hands and taking another drink. Chari looked at her, tilting her head as if she’d felt the girl stroking her with her mind.
“That’s the spirit, Becca.” She pulled her thick black hair up into a loose bun on top of her head and tied it off.
“Shall we get started?”
“I feel like I’m almost finished,” Becca replied, staring into an empty glass and wondering whether she’d drunk an entire bottle by herself yet. The memory of a stranger at a frat party handing her a red Solo cup flashed in her mind. The recollection only punctuated the blackout that followed upon that event. She smoothed her peplos down, self-consciously trying to close the side slit a little. She’d sworn only two weeks ago that she’d never touch another drop of alcohol. But that was the nature of promises; whether others made them to her or she made them to herself, they were always broken.
Chari took her glass and Ione slipped her hand into Becca’s. They walked through the house, out the front door, and down the street away from the barn. As they made their way up the avenue, women and men from the village started filing out of their houses to follow. Eventually, they rounded a corner and started toward the barn. Becca looked over her shoulder and saw all the people she’d waved hello to on her first walking tour assembled in a crowd behind them. An excited hum of conversation bounced off buildings and floated up into the flowering white and yellow and green trees.
“Why am I the only one wearing a white whatever this is?” she asked. The warmth in her belly was slowly being replaced by a nervous tightness. She was finding it hard to swallow.
“What?” Ione asked, leaning in.
“White. I’m the only one in white. Everyone else is wearing red or purple.”
“You’re our virgin, honey,” Chari said. She pulled the girl closer and they walked in a clumsy embrace.
“But I’m not a—” Ione held a finger to Becca’s lips and shook her head slightly.
Becca thought of asking what to call the knee-length garments the men wore and whether they were naked underneath as well, but forgot when the transformed Barn loomed up in front of them. In the dying evening sun, the building flickered and danced in the light of burning torches surrounding the perimeter. The spilled wine mural seemed to extrude from the side and hover, shimmering in the air. They circled around to the front of the meeting hall. A pair of men rushed ahead to pull open the massive doors draped in the same grapevine hung all over town. They passed through the portal, the odor of fresh flowers from the trees outside drifting in after them.
Inside, the place was like no barn Becca had ever seen or heard of. It looked like the Museum of Fine Arts or an ancient church. Long tables along the far walls bowed under the weight of the feast set out. Fresh fruit and vegetables piled in colorful pyramids next to shiny meats almost glowing with dripping juices—beef and lamb and pork and everything Becca could imagine filling her suddenly achingly empty stomach with. How can I be hungry? I’ve been drinking and snacking all day.
The crowd surged past the trio of women and formed a circle around a dais in the center of the great hall. They all locked arms and the din of conversation died to a low silence that seemed to throb and hum as though all the beating hearts of the town had settled into a single rhythm. The massed citizens parted for Chari and the girls to step through. Although Becca shyly tried to take a position far from the center of attention on the outside of the circle, Ione pulled her through the opening and onto the low steps, whispering, “It’s all for you.”
Chari stood at the top of the dais, raising her hands over her head. She spoke with booming authority and her voice echoed through the great hall. “The god has blessed us again with good fortune and plenty.”
“All hail the slain and the risen god,” murmured the chorus en masse.
“The god has blessed us with a community of love and happiness.”
“All hail the slain and the risen god.”
“The god has blessed us with everlasting life.”
“All hail the slain and the risen god.” The steps of the dais seemed to pitch and roll as the voices of the town washed over Becca. Ione’s grip on her hand tightened. She hadn’t expected a spiritual revival meeting. She leaned into her best friend as drunkenness and religious fervor threatened to overwhelm her.
“And now we bring new life into our community. My new daughter, Becca, now stands as an offering to you. Will you accept her sacrifice?”
“Wait. What?”
“All hail the slain and the risen god,” the chorus crowed.
“And for this gift of life, I present these gifts of plenty.” Several men broke away from the circle, gathered up instruments haphazardly piled in a far corner of the hall, and started playing. The beating drums drew the breath from Becca’s lungs and her heartbeat kept pace, hammering in her ears. The crowd swayed back and forth and began to circle the dais, rushing faster ’round as the beat became more frenetic. Becca’s head swam and the room spun. The singing grew louder and the dancing wilder until the revels seemed ready to tear the hall to the ground. Their furious motion threatened to sweep Becca down the steps and away like a leaf fallen in the ocean. Ione grabbed her around the waist, hugging her tight. “Stay with me. Dance with me,” she breathed into Becca’s neck. Before she could say anything, Becca realized that she had no choice. Ione dragged her into the swirling villag
e and they ran and danced and if they passed close to a table of plenty, they lashed out with shiny hands, tearing at meat and fruit and mashing it into their mouths.
Chari stood atop the dais and whispered, “The goat,” her voice somehow carrying above it all.
The doors to the great hall creaked open to reveal a confused-looking man in jeans and an athletic jacket peering through. From the portal he watched as the crowd slowed and stopped, panting and pulsing in time to the music. He saw Becca and a look of relief washed over his face. “There you are. Jesus! This is wild. Ione didn’t say it was going to be an orgy.”
Rage flowed through Becca’s body. “What are you doing here, Chris?” she growled. She wanted to scream. She wanted to accuse him of being the beast he was. She wanted to tear him apart. Ione held her back.
He pointed to Becca’s side. “Ione said you were sorry for that shit with the cops. She said that you wanted to make it up to me.”
“Make it up to you? To you?”
The crowd took a step forward—a single collective footstep that echoed through the hall like a thunderclap. Chris took an involuntary step away.
Chari upended her glass and announced, “Though himself a god, it is his blood we pour out to offer thanks to the gods. And through him we are blessed.”
“ALL HAIL THE SLAIN AND THE RISEN GOD!” the crowd cried, saturating the floor of the Barn with bloody red wine.
“What is going on?” Chris said. “What is this? Ione?”
“Prepare for the roaring voice of the God of Joy,” Chari shouted, pointing to the woods beyond the clearing behind the boy.
The chorus took another thunderous step forward, “All hail, Dionysus!” they cried.
Chris turned and bolted for his car as the men and women of the town surged after him. Becca stood quivering with fury as they flowed around and away from her. Chris fumbled his keys. He glanced down quickly as the assembled madness closed in upon him, then abandoned the keys to the growing darkness of twilight. He ran.
Howling, Ione dragged Becca after the congregation.
Becca felt the pull of the woods ahead of her in her guts and in her loins. She ran. Her heart pounding with adrenaline and anger and life. She felt exhilarated as she caught up to the townspeople at the tree line. Branches caught at their clothes, tearing them. Her own peplos ripped away in the dark. She advanced, pushing past people and trees and brush, not caring about the welts and scratches the branches left on her pale skin.
She ran Chris down.
He stumbled and she fell on top of him, naked and screaming. She ripped at his clothes, rending them like tissue. She tore at his flesh, ripping him open.
The crowd descended upon them. Chris screamed as they grabbed and pulled his limbs in compass directions. His joints popped and tendons and ligaments snapped.
Ione and Chari finally arrived in the grove where the bacchants had felled their prey. They stood and watched as Becca rode his lurching body like Artemis in a stag-drawn chariot. She whipped her arms and hair and grabbed Chris’s exposed ribs and tore, bellowing and tossing chunks of him high above her. Pieces of the boy dangled from the trees—dripping garlands raining wet red life down upon her. He wailed and fell silent. A great cheer went up from the crowd as they feasted and danced and ruined a man, pulling him apart.
From where she knelt in the young grass, Becca looked over at Ione and Chari. Her gore-streaked face beamed like a little child’s on her birthday. She had never felt so filled with life. There wasn’t a single part of her that was numb anymore; she felt every inch of her body.
Ione beamed at her best friend. It hadn’t been hard to convince her of Chris’ fictitious treachery. Becca needed to fill the blackout with any detail, no matter how wretched, and Ione kicked the naïve boy into the abyss. A goat, bleating in the darkness, to bear the sins of the modern world and birth a new innocence.
Swelling with pride, Chari hugged her daughter tightly.
Behind them loomed a man draped in plum robes tied with vine. He smiled through a wild beard wet with dripping wine, his eyes almost glowing in the moonlight. “Welcome home, my daughter,” he said. “Welcome home, Bacchae.”
LOOKING FOR THE DEATH TRICK
The cutoff denim skirt rode up over Honey’s hips, exposing her ass as she bent over to get the attention of a driver slowly passing by. Although the men she signaled couldn’t see from where they sat, Comfort and his top-earning girl—his bottom bitch—Chai, insisted she show ass every time she leaned into a car window. “For the customers still rollin’ up,” Comfort said. She did what she was told and didn’t try to pull the fabric down, flashing her ass and pussy at the girls waiting behind her. It didn’t bother Honey too much to show pink, but the other girls were always looking for a way to get ahead, get closer to top of the food chain. It wasn’t like the movies; they weren’t a sisterhood or a tribe. If she unconsciously displayed some modesty, word would move up the food chain and she’d pay for not marching in perfect step.
She didn’t have much of a figure, but a lot of guys liked the girl-next-door look. That skinny, hasn’t-quite-grown-out-of-being-a-tomboy-but-is-trying look worked for her surprisingly well. She had long, dishwater-blonde hair and wore “natural” make-up. Her tight camisole tops left her shoulders bare so the johns could see her freckles—if they could tear their eyes away from her nipples. Many of the men who trawled the block were looking for something familiar they couldn’t have at home. The neighbor’s daughter. The babysitter. The day care teacher. All forbidden fruit, juicy and ripe and hanging low on the tree waiting to be plucked and fucked—if only it wouldn’t wreck their lives. She looked the part. All except for her hands. They were bony with big blue veins and she chewed her cuticles, leaving most of her fingernails with blood crusted around them. She kept her hands out of sight as much as possible.
She filled a niche in her pimp’s business model. The suburban tourist. Comfort tried to convince her she was doing a public service. Saving other girls from what had driven her out of the ’burbs into his embrace. She was a protector, Comfort said. “Keepin’ those innocent at-home bitches from gettin’ preyed upon. You a one-girl rape pre-vention program, Honey.”
He called her Honey because she was his “golden girl.” “My ray of sunshine at night,” he’d say, his words fat with hollow praise that filled the empty spaces in her heart.
Other girls on the stroll didn’t have the luxury of looking like a type. Or rather, they looked like the type they were: drive-through convenience. A quick suck or fuck in the alley for someone with a hard-on in a hurry. Those girls wore tight lace outfits not much more concealing than lingerie. A few kept it even simpler, opting for a bra and thong under a big coat. Drive by and they opened their petals like moon flowers, blooming in the light of the streetlamps.
The car slowed and Honey got a glimpse of a face in shadow. White. Middle-aged. Athletic, going to seed. What she looked for was whether a john made eye contact. And how. If he looked her in the eyes, she could get him to stop. If he looked too hard, she might not be able to get him to stop when it mattered. It was the john angry with his wife or girlfriend who wanted to pin a working girl to prove something to “those bitches” who was trouble. The men needing to express power and virility were the ones who liked to hear Honey gag, hear her gasp when they shoved it in dry. Those were the ones who all wanted to ride bareback. They paid extra for that privilege.
So did she. Usually with abrasions and tears.
The man beckoned her with a thick finger. She stood up, not pulling the skirt down, making sure he got a good look at her bald pussy as she walked toward his car. Honey leaned over again, resting her forearms on his windowsill. “Wanna date, Daddy?” she asked.
His face contorted briefly before his neutral expression returned. The change had been so subtle, so brief, that Honey couldn’t tell whether she’d imagined it or not. Either way, it made her regret approaching the vehicle. She was preparing to shove off the car and let him ro
ll on down the road when he said, “How much?”
“It depends, lover. What do you want?” she asked, delivering her line, locked into the role that the Director expected her to perform. He had to tell her he wanted to fuck for money if they were going to continue the play.
“I want the blue discount,” he said pulling back his sport coat to reveal the gold badge clipped to his belt.
“I seen fake badges before.”
“This one’s the real deal.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “I can take you off the stroll for the night, book you and let you go in the morning, or you can come with me for a few minutes and get paid the rest of the night. Either way you’re getting in the car.” His expression didn’t change again—he kept his mask in place—but the last sentence held all the threat the fleeting shadow that had passed over his face promised a second earlier. Another man saying one thing and meaning something else. Get in the car or I’ll give your pimp a reason to tune you up for lightening his roll. It was like they had their own silent language always running under what you could hear them saying.
She opened the door and slipped in.
“Good girl.”
“Whatever,” she said. “Pull around to that alley so Chai don’t think I’m a rat.”
“Chai?”
“You know Comfort, but not his bottom bitch? You ain’t vice.”
“Nope. Homicide.” He put the car in gear and asked where she wanted him to park. She silently pointed toward the alley a half block away. He pulled into the gap between buildings and drove until she told him it was good enough. He backed the car into a berth next to a dumpster and killed the lights, but left the engine running. The smell of trash fermenting in the humid heat of the night floated into the car through the vent. She thought about pushing the recirculation button on the air conditioning, but had learned long ago about messing with a john’s controls. Instead, she hoped his cock smelled clean. Sometimes the odor of the garbage dumpster was preferable to that of the man in the driver’s seat.
13 Views of the Suicide Woods Page 20
