by Edward Lee
“It’s just an electrical storm,” Charity cited. “It happens all the time out here in the summer. No rain or thunder, very few clouds. Just silent lightning. It’s kind of spooky.”
Spooky, hmmm. Well, after that story in the bar, Jerrica figured anything would seem spooky. But she held her gaze a moment more to the sky and watched a few more of the mute, distant flashes. I’ll have to remember to photograph that. It’d make a great time-exposure.
Only the parlor and stairwell lights were on when they entered the boarding house. Annie must be asleep, Jerrica surmised. The grandfather clock in the den tolled twelve times as she closed the front door behind her, and after that: silence.Jerrica nimbly mounted the steps while Charity more or less trudged behind.
“You look exhausted,” Jerrica said on the landing.
“I am. All those beers finally caught up to me.”
“Well, get some sleep—” Then Jerrica casually kissed Charity on the cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Charity smiled bleakly in her doorway. “Good night.” Then her door clicked closed.
Before Jerrica could move on to her own bedroom, she noticed a light on under the door across from hers. Who’s room is that? she wondered. Annie’s? No, I think she said she sleeps downstairs. Goop’s, maybe. At least I’m not the only night owl. When she went into her own room, she propped upon the windows, smiled with her eyes closed at the mild breeze. More lightning flashed mutely from far off. She didn’t understand how she could feel so enlivened, though. It had been a long day for her too, the seemingly endless drive, then six beers at the local tavern. But she didn’t feel the least bit tired. It was her assignment, she knew, that prompted this new elan, this vitalization. It was a rare thing when a writer could feel so charged over a project.
She reached into her travel bag, pulled out her Mouse Systems trackball; in doing so, though, he again noticed the small bag of years-old cocaine. This made her smile again, happy with herself. I don’t need it. I don’t even want it! Proof of her victory.
She input some quick notes into her laptop, the white screen aglow in her face; tomorrow, she’d tap out a working outline. It was a multi-part series, so she wouldn’t have to fret as much over word-count. I’ll divide it into sections, she decided. Locale, history, economy, then the sociological element as a summation.
Still, though, and late as it was, she felt too energized to go to bed; it would be useless to try. Instead, she took a cool shower, donned a sheer nightgown, and went downstairs. The hardwood floors felt warm under her bare feet as she traipsed through the quiet house. She moved through the parlor, through the dark country kitchen, eying the myriad relics and gimcracks. Old quaint portraits hung on the papered walls, faces peering through dark oil paint. The top of an antique high-boy boasted a display of genuine Depression glass, lovely translucent blues and greens. A sparkling corner caddie in the den—of perfectly rounded glass and gold-painted woods—shelved what must’ve been hundreds of crystal knickknacks. For a dirt-poor hill woman, Annie’s got herself a nice place, she thought. And the house itself, though old, had been refurbished impeccably. New appliances in the kitchen, a great butcher-block counter that must’ve cost a bundle. Yes, the boarding house was beautiful.
But the real beauty assailed her when she stepped outside, onto the back porch. Jerrica felt stunned; she peered out into the flowered demesne that was the backyard—she had to actually catch her breath at the vision.
Moonlight shimmered over the trees, tinseling the exploding beds of flowers. A nightbird frolicked at one of many concrete bird baths, and an owl hooted at her from the high trees. Sounds throbbed in an uneven anapest, crickets and peepers sending out their calls of love. That, and of course, the strange lightning and its silent pulses fracturing the twilit horizon. It was a wonderland of sound and moonlit spectacle, a silent tempest. I’ve never, Jerrica realized, seen anything so beautiful in my life…
But then—
crunch
Jerrica’s eyes darted toward the tiny sound. And then—
creak!
When she turned, her heart nearly ceased. A tall figure like a carven shadow stepped up on the porch and stopped, facing her. Big shadowed claws for hands hung at the figure’s sides. Jerrica’s sudden fear seemed to close around her head, like jaws, and just before she would scream, the figure said:
“Miss…Jerrica? That you?”
Jerrica’s sigh of relief heaved out of her. “Jesus Christ, Goop! Don’t sneak up on people like that!” Her hand opened on her chest, as if in doubt that her heart were still beating. “You scared the living shit out of me!”
Goop Gooder seemed to shudder at the respite, his voice pitched like an upset child’s. “Aw, daggit, Miss Jerrica! I’se terrible sorry! I’se-I’se, aw! I’se didn’t mean ta—”
Jesus, she thought when she calmed down. Sounds like he’s gonna start crying, for God’s sake. “Don’t worry about it, Goop. It was an accident.”
“I’se mean,” his voice quivered on, gibbering, “I’se had no idea yous was out here, no I didn’t. I’se awful sorry fer scarin’ ya.”
Jerrica rolled her eyes. “Forget it, Goop. Calm down.” It was then, though, as the young handyman made another step, that Jerrica took closer note of him, his body in particular. He was dressed in nothing but jeans, his long dark hair disheveled as though he’d just gotten out of bed. Now his physique caught the moonlight at a delineating angle, and Jerrica could well see its masculine lines, the bundled pectorals and broad, tapered back—a hot lust-sculpture, a chiaroscuro of flesh…
She had to distract herself to say, “What are you doing out here so late, Goop? Surely you don’t have chores to do at this hour.”
“Aw, no, no, Miss Jerrica.” Finally, the boy had simmered down. Jerrica guessed that she’d scared him more than he had her. He drawled on, “I’se, see, I’se forgot ta set the tammers.”
Jerrica’s brow creased. Tammers? What the hell is a tammer?
“Fer the sprinkler system, see. Miss Annie’s got sprinklers now fer her flower garden.”
“Oh, you mean timers,” Jerrica figured out.
“That’s right, tammers. She asked me ta change ’em ta make ’em go off earlier now that it’s gettin’ hot, an’ I’se forgot, so’s I hadda git outa bed an’ do it. Didn’t figgure anyone’d be up this hour.”
“Charity and I got in late,” Jerrica told him. But already she was having trouble concentrating. It always happened this way, didn’t it? Her temptations rearing like a slowly rising beast. “We, uh, we went to The Crossroads.”
“Ya did!” Goop Gooder seemed amazed. “That’s a fine place, ain’t it? Fine place fulla fine folks. I’se go there alls the time.”
“Well, if we’d known that we would’ve invited you to join us.”
Goop gulped in the silver shadows. “Ya—ya would’ve? Me?”
“Well of course, Goop. I’m sure we’ll be going again soon. We’d love for you to come along.”
“Aw, shucks, Miss Jerrica.” Goop looked like he’d swallowed a flounder at the suggestion. “That’d shore be great, an’ I’d shore be proud ta go anywheres with you an’ Miss Charity…”
But already the words were fading out, as Jerrica’s awareness began to shift into the ever familiar fever. The warm night seemed to lick her skin beneath the gauzy nightgown. Her mind in a swarm, she could only look speechless at him, and could only imagine the most lustful and even indecorous images. She imagined Goop’s cock stuck in her mouth to the balls as her fingers handled his testicles like ripe fruit on a vine. She imagine the thick, salt taste of his sperm as he ejaculated, and the viscid texture of it as she swallowed. More imaginings, more images then, in a steady, hot stream. Then she’d sit on his face, let his tongue rove her anxious, open sex. She’d thumb his rectum and suck his cock hard again, and so hard it would be, hard as polished wood. Yes, that’s what she imagined. And then she’d impale herself on it, let herself be skewered. And that would o
nly be the beginning.
This was how it happened every time, for nearly as long as she could remember: her desires running mad in her mind until she could explode, and each dense image acuminating to an awl-sharp point. Back to earth, back to the here and now of this wild, hot night on the back porch of Annie’s boarding house, and the stark flesh reality of what was dopily standing before her. Jerrica could guess where Goop’s eyes were; where else would they be as she faced him in a nearly see-through nightgown whose hem ended higher than mid-thigh, and with nothing underneath? The night teemed. The moonlight limed his muscled flesh and its traceries of perspiration.
More dead-silent lightning flashed.
Jerrica struggled not to fall. “It’s, it’s fascinating, isn’t it?”
“Whuh—oh, yous mean the lightnin’. Heat lightnin’s what it is. Happens lot durin’ the summer. No rain never comes with it, no thunder neither.”
She tried to push her mind away from that awl-sharp point of her senses, averting her eyes to the sky. “It’s beautiful.”
Goop stuttered, “So’s-so’so’s are you, Miss Jerrica, I means, if ya don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
Her resolve collapsed, the keystone of an arch giving way. Jerrica’s nipples felt like hot pebbles against the scant top. Her sex felt soaked.
She took Goop Gooder’s hand then, and in a voice that barely even sounded like her own, she said, “It’s a beautiful night, Goop. Let’s go for a walk.”
— | — | —
SEVEN
(I)
That weird lightnin’ flashed an’ flashed as The Bighead tried ta sleep. He’d cooped hisself up in the crook of a hillock, his mind racin’ with wonderin’s. He’d seed the silent lightnin’ many times in the past, but never so clearly as this, ’cos livin’ in the Lower Woods with Grandpap, the tall trees mostly blocked it out. But now he could see it just fine, and how weird it looked! And— And—
And it reminded him’a somethin’, didn’t it?
It reminded him’a the dream.
It were a dream he’d been havin’ fer longer than he could ’member. Not ever-night but ever so often, and it were always the same.
The Bighead dreamed of a castle, and the castle had angels in it, purdy ones, three or four of ’em alls scurryin’ around like they’se was scairt, and they’se was screamin’. There’s was old men lyin’ around too, faces peerin’ up like big dry mushrooms like the kind he’d seed growin’ at the bottom’a trees in the dark woods.
The angels was just so purdy, and purdier still by the way they was runnin’ around screamin’ like that. Then the eye’a the dream showed him two more angels, but buck-nekit they was, an’ they’se was takin’ baths in one’a the rooms in the castle. Well, Bighead, in the dream mind you, he didn’t waste no time layin’ some serious peter on ’em. He fucked ’em both an’ drowned ’em right there in their purdy smellin’ baths. Then busted open their heads an’ et their brains, too. Afters that, though, he took ta walkin’ round the castle, and tracked down those first four in their angel clothes, and they’se was still screamin’ and tryin’ ta run away. The Bighead wouldn’t stand fer it, no sir, an’ he fucked ’em, cornholed ’em, juss like that, left ’em bleedin’ ta die, ’cos like Grandpap said, ya gotta fuck with folks ’fore they’se kin fuck with you. Bighead were quite randy in this here dream, an’ he had enough spunk fer all of ’em, he did, an’ he weren’t stingy dolin’ it out, neither! Bighead’s big hard pecker shore did bust all these angels wide open, it did, an’ some of ’em was gushin’ blood whiles he were comin’ in ’em, an’ the ones he cornholed, they bled even more, an’ when Bighead were done, they all laid dyin’ with their purdy angel faces kinda frozen in fear, their eyes wide open, their mouths wide open too, an’ their pussies an’ poopholes droolin’ blood an’ shit an’ piss.
So much fer the angels.
Then the dream took him further inta the castle, back ta where he’d seen all them old men layin’ ’round. The Bighead guessed that the old men must be angels too, ’cos why else would they be in the angels’ castle? It were a lot’a fun twistin’ off their ballbags an’ pullin’ their shriveled old peckers off. Coupla these old angels, he made ’em eat their own peckers, he did, made ’em scarf their own dickmeat right down, yes sir. Bighead popped their eyeballs outa their screamin’ faces, jerked their arms outs their sockets, busted their bellies open an’ hauled out their guts. When he were gettin’ close ta finishin’, he found his pecker gettin’ hard again, more good spunk buildin’ up in his lower parts, so’s he buttfucked the last few ta boot an’ had hisself a couple more dandy nuts. Shee-it, Bighead must’a come enough ta fill a milkbucket time he was done! But thens he looked arounds an’ discovered that alls’a these old men angels was dead now, an’ all the gal angels too it looked, an’ there weren’t no one left movin’ in the castle.
The castle were dark, it were, an’ it were a dark night, an’ Bighead, still in the dream, mind you, sometimes he could barely see ’cept fer the quiet lightnin’ flashin’ in the winders.
An’ when he were shore there weren’t no angels left ta fuck an’ put a killin’ on, he left, an’ he stood outside in the middle’a that grand an’ fine night an’ he looked up inta the sky.
The lightnin’ continered ta flash, weirdlike, with no sound, ands then, still in the dream, he heard a voice…
It weren’t Grandpap’s voice, no sir. It weren’t no one’s really.
Instead, the voice seemed ta sizzle in his head as he stared out at the lightnin’, an’ what the voice said was this:
It said, COME.
That were the dream that Bighead had ever so often, and that were what he was thinkin’ ’bout right now as he tried to git some sleep by the hillock. What bothert him most weren’t all them angels he kilt in the dream, it were the voice he heard sizzlin’ like coon meat on the fire.
COME, the voice had said.
But—
Come where?
COME.
The Bighead just couldn’t figgure it. Why in tarnations would he have a dream like that? One time Grandpap tolt him that dreams had meanin’s, that dreams were like the soul callin’ out. But what could this dream mean?
He knowed there weren’t much point in tryin’ ta sleep, so’s he got up an’ stretched, an’ he pulled a long piss in the bushes, then shat up them possum and coon brains he’d et earlier, an’ them dandy snake guts. It were late’n dark, it were, an’ the moonlight shined bright in his lopsided eyes. He looked up in the sky a’ just stared.
An’ that’s when he heard it. An’ he knowed he weren’t dreamin’, he knowed he was full awake now…
Yet he heard it nonetheless.
An’ what he heard were this:
He heard the same voice from the dream, an’ it said:
COME.
The Bighead, well, he didn’t quite understant how he could hear for real somethin’ he’d heard inna dream. But he figgured there was only one thing ta do.
Foller the voice…
(II)
The lightning flashed in silent whips across the windshield. Heat lightning, Father Tom Alexander recognized. Static electrical charges built up in a high-pressure zone. Common in mountain regions during the summer.
The Mercedes veered down the black road, Route 154. The lime-green dash clock read 12:58 a.m. How could time have gotten away from him so thoroughly? He should’ve at least called, to let them know he’d be late. Ah, well. I’ve slept in tank turrets and rice paddies, in field barracks and pup tents and bivouac perimeters. If the landlady is asleep, it won’t kill me to sleep in a fucking Mercedes tonight.
He lit a cigarette, let the warm night air stream across his face. So far, at least, the place was well marked; there were signs every few miles: ANNIE’S BOARDING HOUSE, and Halford said his room had been paid for in advance.
His gaze strayed as he drove on. Beats the shit out of Richmond, he concluded. The countryside was gorgeous, he had to admit, even more so at night. The mo
on followed him like a gibbous chaperon, racing over treetops. The roads wound and wound; eventually he was there.
Decent looking old place, he’d give it that. A winding lane led to a gravel lot. Two vehicles parked out front, a snappy red Miata convertible and a beaten pickup truck that looked thirty years old. Alexander parked, doused the lights and cut the engine. All day now he’d been sweating in his black slacks, black shirt, and Roman collar. The latter felt like an iron cuff digging into his neck. He grabbed his suitcase and embarked up the steps.
A brass door knocker faced him, strange in that it was a face: just two eyes, yet no mouth, no other features.Everyone’s probably turned in, he felt sure. Just sleep in the car. Don’t wake up the whole house just because you lost track of time. But when he tinnily knocked, the door opened nearly at once, and Alexander was let in by a comely, white-haired woman in her sixties, in slippers and an indigo robe. “Father Alexander?”
“Yes, and you must be Miss—.”
“Annie, please.” Blue eyes beamed at him. “We’ve been expecting you.”
“I’m very sorry for arriving so late,” Alexander apologized. “I was detained, the time got away from me.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right.” She showed him to a faintly lit parlor which was nicely cooled down by crosscurrents from open windows. “Set down your bag. May I offer you some wine?”
“Uh, well sure, thanks.” Alexander smiled. Actually I could use something harder, but wine’ll do. He glanced around in her brief absence. A quaint house, homey and genuine. From somewhere nearby, a clock gently chimed the first quarter hour. Annie returned momentarily with a glass of something dark. “It’s raspberry wine, made locally,” she said. “I hope you like it.”
