The Bighead

by Edward Lee

  If it’s got alcohol in it, I’ll like it. “Thank you,” he said. “My boss says I’m paid up for two weeks, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I’ll have another check cut soon; it looks like I’ll be needing to stay a bit longer than that.”

  “The longer, the better, Father. We’re delighted to have you.” They both sat at a leafed table covered by intricate doilies. “So you’ve already been to the abbey?”

  Alexander nodded, sipping the wine which was sweet and refreshing. “It’s a mess. Eventually I’ll be moving in there to oversee the repair work, and commuting to and from Richmond a few days a week for my regular duties.”

  “Did you have trouble finding it?”

  Alexander stifled a laugh. “Just a bit, but I know the way now.” Actually, he’d driven for hours, in search on Tick Neck Road, of all names, which, as it turned out, was not on the county map. “You probably know more about the abbey than I do,” he suggested. “The diocese didn’t have much to brief me with. Do you know how long it’s been closed?”

  An expression of brief contemplation crossed Annie’s face. “Oh, I’d say they closed it in ’75 or so, twenty years.”

  “It looks more like a hundred and twenty.” During his excursion, he’d found essentially a vast vacant hulk, festooned by cobwebs thick as rigging ropes. It hadn’t been anything like he would expect; the word abbey projected a certain cliche—he imagined a great stone edifice atop a hill, something medieval in appearance. What he’d found instead was a stark, cedar-shingled building with narrow windows and a canted roof, nestled in the midst of a dense forest. Most oddly, the building’s actual age was given away by its outer walls: unlikely logs gapped by yellowed mortar, but then Alexander remembered Halford’s expeditious briefing—the abbey was first built in the late 1600’s, and its original exterior remained. A small bell tower, though, was the only thing “churchlike” about it. Inside proved labyrinthine, a single story of dark halls and boarded up doorways, and Halford wasn’t kidding when he’d said there was no electricity. Alexander burned up three sets of flashlights batteries during his excursion, and he saw no evidence even of power lines ever being connected. A dump, he concluded. And it’s my job to fix it up. Yeah, that’s what I call God’s work. They send me to fix up their messes… Behind the building, in moonlight, a lake glimmered.

  “I’ll need some supplies rather quickly,” he said. He didn’t hesitate to light a Lucky when he noted that the old woman had lit a thin white pipe. Oddly, she’d placed a turtle shell on the table for an ashtray. “I’ll need alcohol lamps, flashlights, some minor cleaning supplies, things like that. I trust there’s a general store or something like that in the vicinity?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure Hull’s will have everything you need. Goop, my handyman, will take you tomorrow. It’s just in town, not far.”

  “And any list of construction contractors you could provide me with would be most appreciated.”

  “Father, Luntville’s chock fulla fine, strong men who need work, and they’ll work their hearts out, I kin guarantee.”

  Of course. Perhaps that explained the woman’s enthusiasm over his being here. This entire region had been racked by grievous unemployment for a decade, close to fifty percent, he’d heard. Alexander, on the purse of the Church, was bringing jobs to dole out like an ice cream truck full of fudgecicles. The woman intrigued him, though, and he sensed her enthusiasm had deeper roots. Perhaps she was one, like many, who’d retained her sense of faith in a faithless society; to her, Alexander was a symbol of obscure power and truth. And, yes, she was quite attractive for her age: high-bosomed, shapely, keen and lean with no trace of the physical dilapidation that poor rural life heaped typically on the elderly. She’d aged, instead, in fine grace. Alexander hoped the years would treat him as well.

  He finished his wine, stubbed out his butt. “Well, Annie, please know that the Church most appreciates your hospitality and lodgings. And thanks for the wine. I think I’ll be turning in now—it’s been a long day.”

  “Well, like I said, Father, it’s great ta have ya.” She rose spryly, led him to the foot of the stairs. “And ya won’t be disturbed none, either. Only other boarders are my niece Charity and her friend Jerrica, who’s a big city newspaper reporter.” Then she gave him his room number. “And if ya need anything, just come ta Annie.”

  Alexander smiled. “I will, thanks. And good night.”

  He trudged up the banistered stairs, passing framed portraits and still lifes. The house seemed to tick in its quietude. He proceeded down the carpeted hall as directed, and paused momentarily at one of the closed doors. He heard—something…

  Murmuring, a woman’s. Ever faint but undeniable. Modest utterings of what could only be described as…torment.

  Someone, he thought without a doubt, is having a nightmare.

  (III)

  Charity’s dreams flashed along with the silent lightning in her window. And terror flashed too, like vivid slices of glass-sharp imagery. She tossed in her sleep, routing the sheets, her sweat so profuse that it stuck her nightgown to her skin like damp tissues.

  In the dream, men were making love to her, or so she thought. All the men she’d ever been to bed with were in bed with her now, one after another, different bodies, different faces, but each act of love was gruelingly the same, not real love at all but something short-circuited, perfunctory, and always so pale compared to what she expected. Steve, Johnny, Tim, Rick, and all the others, and lastly Nate. In the warm darkness, their faces appeared above her like a flitting deck of cards, and so did their bodies. It always began so nicely at first, always. She could see their penises, wet from her preludial offer of fellatio, each one as different as their faces. Some long, some short, some thick, some thin. And one, Nate’s, beautifully large. Each time, Charity knew she was in love, until…

  One after another, they entered her. She could barely feel the penetration but she didn’t care. She cared about them, not the responses of her sexuality. She felt so charged up anyway, and the sensation of a desirous, naked man atop her was all the feeling she needed. They slid their erections into her, began to make love. Then—

  It all fell apart.

  Each time, they stopped after only moments. It was the look on their faces which startled her most: expressions of sudden perplexion melding to disappointment. What was wrong? One by one, they pulled out of her and left, claiming “Must’ve drunk too much,” or “I guess I’ve just been too stressed out at work,” or “Just not into it tonight,” or any other excuse they could concoct. It didn’t make sense. Everything up until now had gone wonderfully, and it all turned to rot once in bed. And one after another, they left her there, wan-faced and with tears in her eyes.

  Every time.

  Then the dream turned to hideous nightmare. The quiet lightning flashed and flashed. More men came, men she’d never met. Men from the future? Was this nightmare some mode of her psyche predicting similar failures to come? Grunting, faceless, they roughly fornicated with her, slapping her, pulling her hair and mauling her breasts, only to similarly abandon the wet confines of her vagina, electing instead to straddle her chest and masturbate. Their hands shucked vigorously up and down over their penises until their sperm jolted out and sopped her face, stung her eyes, fell saltily into her agape mouth. Then, like the others, they left her in the dark.

  Charity tossed and turned. The sheets wound about her body like pythons. The lightning continued to flash soundlessly.

  And in the nightmare’s soundlessness, she began to hear a voice, like someone talking on the other side of a wall, or perhaps on the other side of her soul.

  Yes, yes.

  A voice…

  (IV)

  Another dream, in another room. Just images, just words.

  Her own words.

  The broth…

  And her own hands, extruding her breasts.

  Thumb and forefinger pinched the nipple, squeezed it…r />
  Geraldine, Geraldine…

  The match flared in the grainy dream-darkness…

  I’m so sorry…

  Then the flame touched the pinched, pink nipple till it began to burn, to sizzle…

  (V)

  They’d heard voices when they snuck back in. “Shhh,” Jerrica whispered to Goop just as he would open his big hick mouth. “We have to be quiet.”

  The voices were coming from the parlor, she discerned. It’s Annie, and—someone. But who? And what would Annie be doing up this late anyway? She’d been asleep earlier. But there was another voice, which Jerrica couldn’t make out at all.

  “Come on,” she whispered to Goop, still holding his big redneck hand. That’s all I need, she thought, Annie catching me sneaking around her boarding house at one in the morning, after having just fucked her handyman in the bushes. She grit her teeth, took a breath, then scooted through the den. Goop followed her like an obedient puppy. When they passed the parlor, she noted two shadows of people sitting at the table. She smelled Annie’s pipe and cigarette smoke, and also glimpsed half-full wine glasses on he table. Who could Charity’s aunt be entertaining at this hour?

  She left the thought, and quickly mounted the steps, Goop in tow. Thank God! she thought once they got to the top without being seen. Then Goop blurted, “Aw jeeze, Miss Jerrica, that were really—”

  “Shhh!” She tugged him quickly down the hall, stopped at his door. “Go to bed now” she continued to whisper, like a mother scolding a child caught up too late. In too many ways, in fact, Goop was a child: no depth, infantile sensibilities, no introspection at all. But of course, those weren’t exactly the traits she’d been looking for out in the dark back yard…

  “Got to bed now, Goop. Goodnight—”

  “Aw, Miss Jerrica,” he faltered, his big face stamped with a dopey, gushing smile. He affectionately clasped her hands in his own. “Ya knows, you’s really do mean a lot ta me, an—”

  She pecked him quickly on the lips, pulling away. “It’s late! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She left him with his lovelorn grin at the door, slipped quickly through her own and closed it.

  Shit, she realized, that big stupid kid has fallen in love with you! What a headache!

  And what a headache it would no doubt continue to be for the rest of her stay. Dealing with it would be no picnic, to be sure. I’ll just have to avoid him, politely put him off—

  At least the sex hadn’t been bad, though, but then, to Jerrica, there wasn’t really any such thing as bad sex. The moment, and its acuity, had overwhelmed her as it always did. All else on her mind had been wiped clean by his sudden shirtless presence on the back porch. She’d seduced him in place, about hauled him into the deeper regions of the moonlit back yard, where they’d fucked in the dirt for an hour, like intent animals. Goop didn’t know much, but that scarcely mattered to Jerrica. Her sexual fuse was very short; her legs and sex were quivering before she even got her nightgown off, and her hand, roving up in the darkness, felt that he was already fully erect. She pulled him onto her, into her, her breaths desperate and hot in this brazen immediacy. His corded, muscular weight squashed her into the ground, a precursory sensation she always craved. He whined childlike and came in a matter of a minute or two, but by then Jerrica had already come twice, her drenched sex pulsing off as she groaned and her toes curled in the dirt. “Aw, shucks, Miss Jerrica,” he stupidly tried to apologize. “I’se didn’t mean ta git off so’s fast, I’se just couldn’t help—” Her hands pushed up on his massive chest silenced him; she pushed him onto his back, unhesitantly tasting the slick meld of his semen and herself when she admitted his penis into her mouth. She sucked him voraciously, playing with his testicles and perineum as she did so. Leaning over his groin, her ass jutting in the air, she felt the hot wallop of his sperm run out of her vagina and drool down the inside of her leg. She wanted more, more of everything she needed. Her breasts felt like hot rocks, tipped by the burning points of her nipples. His erection bloomed back in her mouth, in only minutes, after which she straddled his groin like a horse saddle, her sex wet and so aching with need she felt tears in her eyes. Goop sported a fair-sized member, which stabbed her at once. She rode him roughly, with wild vigor. They were manic shadows in the night, gulping the humid heat open-mouthed, their nostrils flared at their sexual scents along with the lush aromas of the flowers all about them. Each descent of her spread hips skewered her deeper; his sandpaper hands pawed her back as her breasts swayed, and she came twice more, heaving, her own fluids running like an open tap.

  Jerrica was maniacal now; she climbed off to hastily arrange herself in the next position of invitation: hands and knees. Goop’s erection pulsed upward with each hard beat of his heart. He was just about to enter her again, when she breathily demanded, “No, in my ass. I want it in my ass.” “Buh-buh-b—” Goop stuttered. “Use spit,” she ordered. Goop stuttered again, “But, Miss Jerrica, I ain’t never done that before. I don’ts really know what ta do.” Jerrica frowned annoyed. She spat on her fingers, reached back and lubricated her rectum, then guided his glans to the spot. “Push,” she said. “Push it all the way in. Don’t be gentle.” Her relief came like a snug bottle being corked. Now his more-than-average size felt huge; it made her feel absolutely stuffed, and that’s how she wanted to feel, that’s what she needed. The slow thrusts heightened. One side of Jerrica’s face nudged back and forth in the dirt. She reached between her legs and alternately squeezed his testicles and plied her clitoris until the fever of her need rose to a boiling point. The succor of her own fingers combined with his girth crammed to the hilt had her squirming, every muscle flexing. She drooled in the dirt as she came, then sighed at the feel of his own orgasm flooding her bowel…

  Goddamn, Jerrica, she thought now, back in her bedroom. I practically raped him. She knew it was wrong to seduce a man like that, poising him solely for her own bent needs—especially someone as simple and impressionable as Goop. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t do it again. She couldn’t trust herself not to.

  What a mess, she concluded. She looked at herself in the mirror, her white nightgown badged with dirt. But when she skimmed it off she found her body even more sullied. Soiled hands, feet, and knees, handprints of flowerdirt branding her breasts and belly. More dirt blackened half her face. Christ, if Annie saw me like this, she’d probably throw me out of the house…

  For the third time since arriving, she showered, let all the detritus of her lust sluice away in the water. Then she finally doused the lights and lay nude in bed, thinking, cooling off. The fever had broken, leaving its familiar afterglow of paling anxiousness. She needed to come again, to buff off the final edge, but this late she didn’t dare. Her vibrator could easily be heard with the house this quiet, and even if she used her fingers, she might sigh too loudly or even cry out.

  Good God, Jerrica. What is wrong with you?

  She tried to objectify, to excuse herself as she always did. I had an itch and I scratched it, she reasoned, then, more crudely, My pussy itched and I scratched it with Goop’s cock. Oh, yeah, and I guess my ass itched too. No, she couldn’t excuse herself, not really. Sex addict notwithstanding, she was still a civil human being, and she knew what she’d done was wrong. I seduced some hick kid who has a crush on me. I used him.

  She tried to just forget it, get some sleep. By now, the heat lightning had subsided, leaving her alone in darkness only vaguely patina’d by moonlight. The moisture from the shower turned warm on her skin; her fingers idled through damp pubic hair. Through the wall, she could hear Charity moaning in her sleep. Nightmare, Jerrica deduced. Poor Charity…

  But then she heard something else, not from the other side of the wall but beyond her bedroom door.

  Footsteps.

  Who’s up here now?

  She got up, crept nude to the door. The footsteps, unbroken in their pace, passed the door and proceeded. She couldn’t resist.

  She opened her door just
an inch and peered one-eyed down the hall. A figure stood at the end door, a figure in black. It turned momentarily, as if on guard. The exposed white square of the Roman collar glinted.

  The priest. He’s here.

  He glanced vaguely down the hall, shrugged, then entered his room.

  Jerrica reclosed her own door, squinting puzzlement in the dark. The priest was here—so what? For some reason, though, the figure’s late-night arrival seemed foreboding, bidding a strange undertow of dread. Perhaps God was sending him as an image to remind her of her guilt. Jerrica shrugged herself then. She didn’t believe in God anyway.

  But she must believe in the devil, if only subconsciously, for what else could explain the dream she had minutes later when she fell asleep?

  She dreamed of rising from a tarn of steaming excrement; she’d been close to drowning in it, and when her face finally broke surface, she gagged, hacking up collops of shit. Squab hands were hauling her forth, to a narrow brink of hot, slimy sand. But they were not men who were hauling her out, they were things, they were ushers of this demonian realm. With faces of clay and chisel slits for eyes, they looked down at her, grinning, chuckling in suboctave delight. And endless ridge of fire-blackened rock surrounded the tarn. The sky was blood-red, with a black moon beaming down. Jerrica struggled to no avail. The ushers molested her with fervency, their fat three-fingered hands probed her naked, enslimed body, such that in only moments she wished she could be back in the tarn, to drown in feces. The chuckles rose, as did luciferic erections. One usher’s hands spread her buttocks, while another’s monster-cock bulled unabated into her rectum. Jerrica vomited, screaming. The scream echoed round the chasm like a gunshot. The stout cock in her colon seemed to grow with the tenor of her horror. It grew and grew, yes, extending up threw her guts, until its peach-sized glans was running up her throat, whereupon it eventually exited her mouth.