by Eden Royce
The girl shrugged, unsurprised by my outburst. “Why are you?” Her dead tone gave me a start, which quickly turned to itchy fear, but somewhere deep inside, I felt the need to defend myself.
“Because I’m his…” The word caught on my tongue and I bit it back. I didn’t want to speak it aloud. Didn’t want to claim him or his deeds. But I was tied to this monster, had held him in my arms for years, inside of me for months and still the need to deny him burned deep.
Before I could cough the word out, the girl turned away. Then she followed the guard through the sliding iron bars, leaving me on the outside.
I knew it with a certainty that hadn’t been there before. All of the support and faith ebbed from me as I walked to my car. False hope giving way to a resignation that was somehow freeing. There would be no celebration. My son wasn’t coming home, ever. And now, finally, I didn’t want him to.
Empty of spirit, I drove. For miles. Ended up at a hole in the wall fish shack on the outskirts of the city on the way out to Edisto Island. I hadn’t been down this way since I married Bill and we set up life in suburbia. The scent of frying peanut oil drew me inside and I dusted the seat near the door with a napkin before settling into it.
Not many people were there—Sundays were days to eat at home with family, if you had it—so the young woman behind the counter wasn’t delayed in sauntering over to my table. She looked me over with heavy-lidded eyes. The crack of her chewing gum was like gunfire. “Yes, ma’am?”
I had no idea why I was here. I didn’t want to go home to face an end to my devotion. What would life be like if I just let my son go? No more visits, no asking the congregation to pray for him. How do I give up on him? “What’s the special?” I let my Geechee show, ending consonants smeared to nothing and vowels stretched to their limits.
If she was surprised, the waitress didn’t show it. “Whiting platter. Fried or baked. Two sides. Dinner roll.”
My son’s favorite. I hadn’t fried fish for him since he was a child. Too messy. Too much grease. The smell clung to the curtains and the couch and the carpet and it wouldn’t come out. Only time faded the smell, not the aggressive effort of cleaners and air fresheners.
“Two fried platters to go.”
The meals were ready in minutes, packed up with plasticware and a surplus of napkins. When I got home, the bag was still searing hot and I removed it carefully from the floor of the car.
“I’m so sorry to be late.” My apology to Bill I’d worked out in the car—I was hours late and I hadn’t called. It was so unlike me. I’d tell him the truth about the baby and say I’d needed time to myself to get a handle on a new addition to the family. “But I picked up dinner. I hope you didn’t cook…”
Bill sat at the dining room table, head in his hands, cordless phone on top of the folded newspaper. No smells wafted from the kitchen. I placed the bag on the table and lowered myself into the chair across from him.
“What is it?” The strength in my voice surprised me.
“He’s gone.”
I didn’t need to ask who. “When? How? I was just there.”
“A few hours ago. Poison.” He shook his head. “From a cake some young woman brought to him. Where does a girl get cyanide?” Bill raised his eyes to me and I saw my emotion reflected. Pain, confusion and relief. “They said it was some kind of a wedding cake. Did he—”
“He said he did, but I didn’t know before today. And I don’t know when it happened.” I plucked at the plastic tie on the bag. “What about the girl?” God answers prayer.
“They shared a slice of the cake. He’s at the morgue. We’re supposed to go down there.”
“We will.” I opened the bag and pulled out the Styrofoam containers of fried fish, potato salad and spicy collard greens, their scents entwining to make a soup of fragrance that would, in time, fade. “After dinner.”
With the Turn of a Key
For the third time that day, James thought about drowning himself. He stood in front of his custom-built beachfront home on Daniel Island and didn’t want to go inside to its artificial coldness. Instead, he leaned against the hood of his car and closed his eyes. Salty breeze dampened his thinning hair and caressed his face. Ocean waves, with their rhythmic Zen-like lapping, called to him with promises he was finding harder and harder to resist.
He knew he would be able to rest beneath the endless sea. It would be the sanctuary he couldn’t find here on land. With his fortieth birthday now behind him, James felt he was beyond the spontaneous carefree acts of youth; adulthood came with a sense of commitment and duty. He’d made choices he would have to live with for the rest of his life. He shrugged off the thought of watery bliss and went inside.
A strange key waited on the dining room table with packing paper strewn all around the cherrywood surface. He picked it up. The length of his palm, it was light for its size. The shining surface suggested a metallic composition, but the key seemed to float in his outstretched palm.
When he examined it more closely, he saw a pattern of engraved vines on the key’s head formed a dense curtain. The surface felt damp, but his hand stayed dry. Why was it here? Surely such a thing belonged to another place, another time. He looked at the brown envelope where it rested and saw it was addressed to him: James L. Chamberlain.
“James! Is that you?” A shrill voice came from the other end of the house.
“I’m in the dining room.” His heart leapt in his chest, then finally settled into an erratic thundering as he waited for his wife to join him.
Stacy stood in the open doorway that connected the kitchen and dining room. “Who is that from?” Her tone was iced with a thick layer of suspicion.
“You opened my mail?”
“I’m your wife.”
“But that doesn’t—”
“Who is it from?” She crossed her arms over her surgically enhanced chest and her lips tightened in disapproval. Her severe ponytail made her eyes appear large and penetrating.
“I don’t know. There was no return address. What did the delivery man say?”
“It was in front of the door when I got back from the doctor.” She tried to frown in spite of the skin tightening treatments. “Don’t pretend you don’t know anything about this. Nobody would send you a key without a note unless you already knew what it opened.”
He shrugged his shoulders, rounded from countless hours hunched over paperwork and keyboards. “I have no idea, Stacy.”
“Right. You sure it isn’t the key to some tramp’s private estate? You could try to be more discreet.” Her smirk drew first blood.
“You know what?” Years of frustration made his temper flare. “I’m tired of working my ass off six days a week and not getting any appreciation for it. Not even a hug and kiss at the end of the day. Maybe a tramp on the side is exactly what I need. I could keep her on retainer.”
The smirk softened into a placating half smile. “Goodness, honey. I was just teasing. You know I appreciate you.” She gave his shoulder an awkward pat before she trotted upstairs.
He trudged up after her, to his own room, too tired to ask about dinner or what else she’d done with herself all day.
They hadn’t shared a bedroom in almost a year, not since he’d pressed the issue of having a child. Neither her tears nor her halfhearted attempts to seduce him into forgetfulness would distract him. This time, he’d persisted. His persistence had brought to life a monster.
Her face had twisted into a grim parody of itself and her voice had leapt an octave. It was her body, she’d screamed. She’d just started to lose weight, she’d argued, now he wanted her to be fat and miserable for nine months. In the background, he could hear frightened seagulls take flight, their wings flapping like miniature sails in the wind.
When his mother was alive, he might have sought her counsel. It had been just the two of them growing up and she had always listened to his problems when he’d exhausted his own solutions. He could see her in her cane-backed rocking ch
air, nodding as he spilled his guts, keeping the motion of the rocker going with one bare foot. But she would have shrugged her well-padded shoulders and continued to crochet. That’s what them white girls is like, darlin’. Then she’d pat his hand and give him a gentle, gap-toothed smile. You’ll do the right thing, baby.
At Stacy’s insistence, he’d moved into one of the house’s other bedrooms. She’d said she needed time and would invite him back when she was ready. The invitation never came. All attempts to coax Stacy into talking about a resolution to their situation fell flat. James wished he was one of those men who would break down a door and take her—ravish her, they called it in those so called romance books she read endlessly—make it so good she couldn’t help but give it up. Instead, he threw himself further into his work, desperate to be successful at something concrete.
His libido, so long suppressed, became little more than a pleasant memory. He clutched the key in his fist. This wasn’t what he wanted out of life. He had a lot to offer the right woman. Maybe it would be worth losing half of everything he’d worked for to get a new start.
His eyes burned with fatigue and an insistent pounding started above his right temple. He lay the key on his nightstand, shed his clothes, and fell into bed.
***
James woke, rested and content, nestled next to a shape, curved and warm. He stirred and the shape twisted to fit the contours of his body for the span of a breath before it retreated. He groaned at the loss of contact and opened his eyes.
A woman stood at the foot of the king-sized bed, her lushness swathed in a luminous material that seemed to move of its own accord. Around the span of her hips, the fabric gleamed foamy white. His gaze was drawn to her weighty breasts supported by a black-green drape, the color of the ocean at midnight. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was looking at him.
Waiting.
He stood and took the delicate hand she offered and her touch was tender and cool. In one step, they were transported to a winding stone path that led to a city in the distance. They spoke on the way, his mouth moving, hers not. He already loved her smiling lips with their perfect Cupid’s bow the color of a ripe pear: pale green blushed with rose.
The stone city, when they reached it, glittered in welcome with its haunting, aqueous glow. Algae covered columns and statues shone as if crusted with diamonds. He followed her to a coral gate, where she pulled a key from her bosom.The key. His heart thudded, pushed against his chest, strained toward her. She fit it to the ornate lock and it swung open. He’d walked her home. A wave of adolescent heat filled his body.
The woman came to him, reached up to pull his face down to hers. Crisp, the taste of her. Damp and fresh. His hands trembled as they stole around her waist. James closed his eyes as her fingertips fluttered over him, twined in his hair, stroked his face. When they traced the shell of his ear, he shuddered.
She slid from his arms, took his hand, and led him to the gate. He hesitated for a heartbeat, afraid to step through, and found himself standing at the gate, alone.
***
James woke again, this time in his own bed. Sunlight streamed into the window and he knew he’d overslept. Deep relaxation oozed from every cell in his body and made the curiosity he felt over the faint red circles on his face and chest little more than a passing thought. In his rush to shower and dress, he neglected to notice the key on his nightstand, where it lay in a puddle of brackish water.
He came home late that night to an empty house. Stacy’s voicemail said she’d had too much wine and was spending the night at a girlfriend’s house. The ambient chuckling whispers floating through the line gave him doubts. He heated tomato soup in the microwave and drank it from the bowl. He felt as though weights were tied to his limbs when he ascended the stairs.
In the shower, thoughts of the dream from the night before returned. The hot pelting water eased his strained muscles and the swirling steam brought the remembrance of the mysterious green woman’s silken hands on his skin. He braced his own hands on the wall of the shower and lowered his head to allow the pounding water to beat on his neck and back.
What if he had walked through that coral gate? He didn’t know the woman at all. How could he have followed her into what might have been nothingness?
He soaped his exhausted body and rubbed some of the foam into his hair. What did time matter? He had known Stacy for three years before he proposed. Twelve years later, they spoke only when necessary and money passed between them more often than laughter. On the occasions she did embrace him, the contact was brief and left his heart emptier than before.
James dropped into bed. Why was he questioning what he did in a dream? That showed level of stress his life had taken on. He was unable to make a decision even when the outcome didn’t matter. He rarely had dreams. Sheer exhaustion usually kept his sleep deep and undisturbed. But he knew dreams were supposed to be manifestations of the subconscious mind as it brought to the fore issues it wasn’t able to resolve during waking hours. He needed to resolve this thing with Stacy. He needed to cut back on his working hours. He needed to eat better. So much needed to change.
You worry too much, baby. His mother’s words echoed in his mind as clearly as if she’d said them a moment ago. He took the key from the table and turned it over in his hands. When presented with the choice the next time, he would go for it. Grasp at the chance to be happy even if it was only for a few blissful hours in the dead of night. His eyes were heavy and for a moment, his lids lowered. The lamplight slid across the key’s surface like oil. It was then he noticed the picture again. The network of vines on the key’s head had parted to reveal an image of the gate to the stone city. It meant… something. His lids lowered again and he fell asleep, the key clutched in his hand.
***
James stood in front of the coral gate, but his mystery woman was nowhere in sight. This time, he knew he would have to come to her. He used the key and the gate swung silently open.
The streets of the city were empty, but the entire place vibrated with unseen life. James walked slowly, listened for her voice inside his mind, but there was only an otherworldly silence, like he was sitting alone at the bottom of a pool. He called to her, using endearments and love words, since she had never told him her name. He felt a touch of shame for not having asked anything about her.
His gaze darted from side to side, in hopes of catching any sign of movement, a signal to where she might be. A glint caught his eye. An obelisk stood in the middle of the city, unknown symbols carved into one side of the rock. He approached the stone tower with confusion. How was he to know this language?
James studied them carefully, but the signs meant nothing. He resolved to search every cavern, every doorway in this city until doomsday—until he found her and his life became complete. Thoughts of her burned away all else. Resigned, he trailed his hand over the face of the stone as he began to leave.
The rock warmed under his palm and its intermittent glinting grew into a full viridescent glow, which turned toward the south like the beam from a lighthouse and illuminated a silhouette in the distance.
He ran down the lit path toward the figure.
She stood at the end of the path, dressed this time in rolling waves of blue. Still he could only see her form up to her full lips.
“Show yourself to me,” he said.
I am here.
“All of you.”
The blushing pear lips smiled and the dreamlike haze lifted from her face.
He came to her with gentle kisses. Tender and searing. He stroked the fine, poreless skin of her neck, trailed his fingers along her collarbone. His mind tumbled over the edge of sanity, lost to him. The ache inside him was heavy, throbbing and pulsing with its own life, its own need. But he suppressed it for her.
But she would have none of his restraint. She took his hand and in one breath, they stood in front of her bed. His fingers found, then loosened the braided tentacles of her hair and they came to fervent life,
stroking and caressing his face and neck with a maddening suction. He lowered her to the bed, as he tasted her briny lips again and again.
“You love me don’t you?”
Always, she said.
It was only later that she asked James if he wanted to stay with her.
“Where? Inside this dream?” His smile was broad, born of bone deep satisfaction. “It’s perfect here.”
If you wish to call it that.
“You’re my dream,” he said and reached for her, but she evaded his grasp and repeated her question.
His limbs heavy with sleep, he nodded. She placed her delicate pale green hand on his chest, over his heart, then gave a brief, sharp nod, seemingly pleased with what she found. Your heart belongs to me.
James could not deny it.
The woman smiled, and slid her leg over his, situating her body upright on top of his prone one. James groaned as she lowered herself onto him, sheathing him in a pulsing grip. She rode him firmly, head thrown back. He watched her rhythmic gyrations, holding his groans back as best he could until he saw the ceiling above them change.
Solid white faded into cloudy, swirling whorls of water. The woman panted in her exertions as the churning water thickened into a maelstrom, her tentacled hair waving wildly. For a moment, the storm cleared and James saw his house, his bedroom, saw Stacy as if he lay on the floor of a clear lake and looked skyward. He gaped at the sight of his lover’s tentacled hair growing longer and thicker before the stalks shot upward, out of the dream and into his life. He struggled to right himself, to sit up and do something—anything—but her grip was too strong.
Hush, my love. I’ve almost…got it. There…
James screamed.
***
Stacy returned home the next morning, sated and more than a little sore. She was careful to remove the satisfied smile from her face. That radiant afterglow? She planned to tell James she’d been to the gym and had doubled her workout. The words to her story prepared, she walked into the house.
