The New Neighbor

by Ray Garton

  "Uh-huh."

  "Just set that down here," she said, putting down the lanterns and waving toward the hearth. "God, it's cold in here."

  He put the basket on the hearth beside the fat flashlight she'd left shining there and stepped back, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets. His leg bumped something warm and soft and he turned to find two stern golden eyes looking up at him. Thin black lips quivered back over long fangs for just an instant and Robby staggered back, blurting, "God!"

  Miss Dupree hunkered down and began stacking wood atop a bunch of crumpled newspapers she'd already put in the fireplace. "Oh, that's Gomorrah. Say hello, Gomorrah."

  The dog stepped forward and nudged Robby's hand with a cold nose.

  "Where's Sodom?" she asked her pet. "Go find Sodom."

  Gomorrah gave an abrupt, low bark and another dog emerged from the darkness, walking slowly, its slanted predatory eyes looking directly up at Robby. The dogs were enormous and almost identical – only the stark black and gray markings on their thick white fur differed.

  "Wolves?" Robby asked nervously.

  "Malamutes. Gorgeous, aren't they?"

  "Fed them lately?"

  "Oh, they look pretty vicious, but they're really pussycats." She stood and brushed her hands together, adding, "Unless I tell them not to be."

  The glow of the flashlight made her already pale skin look ivory white. She stood, took the flashlight, and disappeared into the dark for a moment, casting a dancing glow on the walls and ceiling. She returned with a cigarette lighter and lit the newspaper, then touched the lighter's flame to the lantern wicks. Sitting on the hearth, she faced Robby and smiled. The top three buttons of her shirt were unfastened and the growing firelight crept down her chest, causing a V-shaped shadow between her breasts, which jostled with each movement of her arms, shifting the shadow back and forth liquidly.

  "So, what kind of town have I moved into?" she asked.

  "Where are you from, Miss Dupree?"

  "The Bay Area. And please call me Lorelle."

  "This is kind of a… a hick town, I guess you'd call it."

  "Redding?"

  "Yeah, sort of. Lots of country music radio stations. Not much night life, unless you like hanging around in the Taco Bell parking lot after midnight on the weekends." Robby stood by the hearth, fidgeting as he spoke.

  She patted the hearth and said, "Sit. You're my first houseguest; I can at least make you comfortable." Robby sat on the hearth and Sodom and Gomorrah curled up on the floor in front of them. "Would you like something to drink? I've got some Pepsi in an ice chest. Not exactly a cold weather beverage, but – “

  "No, thank you."

  "What do you do for fun, Robby?"

  He shrugged, looking into the fire. Robby wanted to bite his lip, as if to punish himself for being unable to relax beside her… but he couldn’t do it.

  "Do you have a girlfriend?"

  His face grew so hot, he was afraid it would burst into flames. "N-no."

  "Really? I'm surprised. Don't you have – “

  "What do you do for a living, Miss Dupree?" he asked suddenly, finally looking at her.

  "Lorelle."

  "Okay. Lorelle. What do you do?"

  "I'm an artist. I make jewelry, mostly. But I haven't been doing much this year. I made a couple of big sales last year and they've carried me through." She stood and took the lantern to a corner of the room and carried a bundle from there, dropping it in front of the fireplace. After she unfastened a couple of snaps, the bundle unrolled over the floor with a whisper.

  A sleeping bag.

  "See?" She stepped in front of Robby, bent toward him, took his left hand and lifted it, palm up, then placed her other hand over it. She wore a ring on each finger and, when their hands touched, she curled her fingers under, lightly brushing her nails over Robby's palm.

  His back stiffened and he pressed his lips together hard, trying to brace himself against the tingling shudder of delight that passed through him, as if a swarm of moths were fluttering over his naked body.

  Although he couldn't make out the rings in detail, their stones shimmered in the firelight as she moved her fingers slightly against his hand, opening her fingers again, then pulling her nails back down over his wrist, his palm.

  "They're very pretty," he said, but it came out as a hoarse whisper. Lifting his eyes to look at her, he stopped halfway.

  The unbuttoned V at the top of her shirt hung open and the fire's glow turned her chest a deep bronze. Tiny shards of light reflected from the rings danced over her smooth throat. And over her breasts.

  Robby's tongue turned to sandpaper and seemed to scrape loudly as he passed it slowly over his lower lip.

  "Was that you I saw in the window this evening, Robby?" Lorelle whispered.

  He swallowed cotton as he looked up at her.

  "It was, wasn't it?" She cocked her head, lifted a brow. "What were you doing?"

  "I-I-I -" He dropped her hand, turned away from her and stood clumsily. " – should go. I should go now." The dogs stood, too, so suddenly that Robby thought, for a crazy second, that they were going to attack.

  Lorelle made a quiet sound as he brushed past her. A laugh? Was that it?

  "My furniture arrives tomorrow afternoon," she said, following him through the darkness with a lantern. "I could use a hand moving in. You know, arranging things, moving them around. Would you mind?"

  "I-I don't know. I've got homework."

  "I'd pay you for it, of course. With dinner. How's that sound? I'll make something special. What do you like?"

  At the door, she stepped in front of him.

  "Or better yet," she said softly, "I'll make something for you, a piece of jewelry. Or you can pick something out of the stuff I've got. Something to go around your neck, maybe?" She stroked a finger across his throat, then along the edge of his collar and -

  – Robby almost sighed, almost whimpered, but clamped his throat shut as -

  – she pressed her warm palm to his chest for a moment, a long, silent moment, and -

  – Robby leaned his back against the doorjamb as the crotch of his jeans began to tighten against his growing erection, as -

  – her hand fell away and she smiled a simple, friendly smile and said, "I think everyone should own at least one piece of fine jewelry, don't you?"

  Robby coughed, nodded, and reached for the doorknob.

  "Will you come? After school?" she asked.

  "Maybe," he said, going outside. The biting chill was a relief.

  "Tell your parents I said thanks again."

  "Yeah, sure." He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he crossed the street. At his front door, he turned back, just for an instant.

  She stood in her doorway, glowing lantern in hand, and smiled.

  The shadows from the wavering flame cut deep into her pale face, opening black, bloodless lacerations that immediately closed again, then opened somewhere else. From the darkness behind her, four slanted eyes shimmered a dull yellow.

  As Lorelle waved at him, Robby hurried into the house, then ducked down the hall to his room before anyone could see him, before anyone could notice the moistening bulge in his pants.

  Chapter 2

  Dark Thoughts

  Karen Pritchard lay on her side in bed, her back to George, but she couldn’t sleep. She frowned at the digital clock on her night stand and watched the time click by in square red numbers as she wondered what it had been about Lorelle Dupree that had made her so uncomfortable.

  No, uncomfortable was not the right word; unsettled was more accurate. After the woman left, Karen had gone back into the kitchen to unload the dishwasher and had dropped three glasses and a saucer, then tried to put a frying pan in the cupboard above the counter with the plates and bowls. Just as she caught herself in the silly mistake, George had walked in for another beer and she was afraid he'd wonder what was wrong, but he didn't even notice, just got his beer and left.

  Did she look fami
liar? Was that it? Or was it because Karen had caught George eyeing her?

  That was doubtful. Infidelity was something that had never concerned her, not with George. He was so… devoted. Sometimes that seemed unlikely to her. They had a good home and were a reasonably happy – at least content – family, but when it came to sex, she knew George could do better. He had every reason to look for a lover outside of their marriage. There were even times when Karen realized she wouldn't blame him if he did. A couple of times, she’d even wished he would, thinking that perhaps it would take some pressure off her, as long as it was just sex he was looking for and nothing else. Early on in their marriage she'd expected him to do that, but, as far as she knew, he never had; so, she figured if he hadn't by now, he probably wouldn't.

  "Sex," her mother had told her when Karen was in high school, "is something you do to have babies and keep your man. If you like it, that's great. If you don't – and believe me, honey, most women don’t – you learn to live with it. That's all the sex education anybody needs." She'd said it as they watched the news on television one night, during a report on the controversy surrounding the importance – or danger, depending on how you looked at it – of teaching sex education in schools.

  A few years later, when she shared that bit of motherly advice with Denise Hubert, her college roommate, Denise had thought she was joking. When she realized Karen was not, Denise was appalled.

  "You didn't believe her, did you?" Denise asked.

  "Why? Isn't it true?"

  "Of course not! Everybody enjoys it!"

  Although she did not voice her response at the time, Karen had thought, Not everybody.

  Against the advice of her mother, Karen had one boyfriend in high school. (If she'd followed her mother's advice, she would have stayed away from men entirely.) Karen was not unattractive in high school, nor was she unpopular. She was studious and got impeccable grades and was active in school politics. But she was not a very good dancer and attended very few parties and only went out with groups, never on dates with boys. At least, not until Michael came along.

  Karen did not particularly like Michael, but he liked her. He asked her out often and sat next to her in classes whenever possible. He was a popular boy, a jock, the kind of boy who made girls sigh and roll their eyes dreamily. Every girl Karen knew expressed shock at her indifference and, after enough of them told her to "go for it," she decided it was probably the thing to do and followed their advice, rejecting her mothers.

  After a movie, then burgers and fries at the Pack-Out – all of which Karen enjoyed so much she wished she'd done it sooner – he drove her up Hilltop Drive to the water tower. It was a favorite parking spot among the local teenagers. He parked at the edge of the bluffs that overlooked Redding.

  Karen had never been to the bluffs, although she'd been invited. She knew there was only one reason for going there and had never been invited by someone she wanted to make out with. She wasn't sure she wanted to make out at all. She wasn't terribly enthused about going there with Michael, either, but she knew it was expected so she did not protest.

  He had a joint and a bottle of Jack Daniels. She turned down both at first, but finally gave in when he started to get angry. Other cars came and went around them and the lights of Redding flickered below. Michael did not take long to make a move and she went along with it, rather enjoying the kissing and the way his hands felt on her. But that lasted only for a few minutes. Then he started handling her roughly, feeling her all over, panting as he clumsily pressed himself against her and pried her mouth open with his tongue. She tried to push him away at first, but remembered how quickly he'd gotten angry when she refused to smoke the joint or drink any of his booze. She decided not to risk angering him any more. After a while, he took his hands off of her and seemed to struggle with something for a moment, then grabbed her hand roughly and pressed it to his lap where he'd opened his pants. He closed her hand around something fat and hard and sticky and Karen gasped, pulling away from him.

  "Stroke it," he said, putting his hands on her again and holding her close.

  She took her hand away and pulled back a second time, gawking at his erection.

  "C'mon," he panted "stroke it."

  "Nuh-no."

  "What?"

  She just shook her head, still watching his cock as it twitched now and then, almost as if it were trying to break free of him, pull itself loose and just fall off so it could move about on its own.

  "Well then – “ Michael put his hand behind her head and pulled her face down into his lap. “ – suck it."

  With her face less than an inch from his rigid penis, Karen gasped and inhaled his damp musk odor, then clamped her mouth shut and just stared at it for a moment.

  She'd never seen one before, except for the drawn illustrations in the medical book on her mother's shelf. In fact, she'd been exposed to very few men while growing up. Her father had left them when she was very small (later, she learned he'd run off with the woman who ran the soda fountain in Woolworth's, which explained the bitter way Karen's mother spoke of him all those years later and right up until her death) and she had no brothers. In grammar school, none of the girls seemed interested in boys, until high school, when all of that changed. But it hadn't changed for Karen. Not much, anyway. She was not uncomfortable with them, even enjoyed the company of a couple of unusually intelligent and interesting boys on campus. But this…

  It was ugly. Fat and stubby and lumpy with veins and topped with a puffy mushroom cap that had a glistening slit at the top, like an opening made with a single stroke of a razor blade, bleeding a clear thick fluid. And it kept twitching, impatient and restless.

  "Come on!" Michael hissed. "Stroke it! Suck it or lick it, just do something!"

  But she only stared at it, not even wanting to touch it.

  His breath was hot against her ear as he whispered, "We'll go steady. Would you like that? Going steady? Huh?" He reached under her top and kneaded one breast with his hand. "We'll go steady… if you'll just suck my cock."

  We'll go steady…

  Karen thought about that as she stared at Michael's cock, so close that her nose was almost touching its moist head, which looked obscenely large, like a fleshy doorknob. Going steady with Michael would undeniably have its benefits, not the least of which would be the delight of being the envy of every girl on campus.

  But was it worth this?

  She touched it, cautiously at first, then wrapped her fingers around the hard shaft. He squirmed at her touch and his breathing became more frantic as she began moving her hand up and down. Carefully, just to see what it would be like, she opened her mouth, stuck her tongue out and touched the tip of it to his cock and -

  – Michael squeezed the back of her neck and shoved her head down hard, at the same time thrusting his erection into her mouth. She gagged, clenched her eyes shut and struggled helplessly under his hold.

  After a few moments, her struggles stopped and she allowed Michael to lift her head up and down, up and down, as if she were a puppet, until he exploded in her mouth and clogged her throat with semen. She quickly spun around, threw the car door opened and emptied her half-digested burger and fries onto the ground outside.

  "Jesus Christ," he grumbled, starting the car after he fastened his pants, "did you have to throw up?"

  She took a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her mouth, stomach still lurching, then whispered, "I'm sorry. I… won't… do it… again."

  Michael and Karen went steady for nearly four months and, during that time, Karen was the envy of every girl on campus. And, although they made many trips back to the bluffs, she never vomited again. She came close several times, but would not let herself. Neither did she enjoy the things they did up there. There were a few moments of pleasure when Michael touched her in just the right place and in just the right way, but they were always accidental and all too brief. She kept returning to the bluffs with Michael only because she rather enjoyed going steady wit
h him.

  That was when she began to believe her mother was right.

  There had been other men since Michael, but not many, and none of them had lasted long. They soon grew tired of her indifference in bed, tired of her unwillingness to go along with their every sexual whim.

  George was different. He was far gentler than any of the others, more giving, as concerned about her pleasure as his own. After their third time together, he'd become serious and said, "Tell me honestly, Karen – am I doing anything wrong? Are you… do you enjoy being with me?"

  "Yes," she whispered, cuddling next to him. "Why?"

  "Well, you just don't… seem to, sometimes."

  "I'm sorry. It's not that I don't enjoy it. I just don't… show it much I guess."

  He didn't seem entirely convinced.

  Karen said, "I've never enjoyed making love this much. Never."

  It wasn't a lie. Making love with George was better than it had ever been with any other man. But then… that wasn't saying much. She felt no great need to make love, and when they did, she did not feel the bursts of ecstasy she'd always read and heard she was supposed to feel; there were no explosions of light in her head, no screaming orgasms

  It had nothing to do with George, of course. She wasn't sure what the problem was exactly. But part of it was the penis. Veined and lumpy, with that smell – like the smell of an old root cellar that hadn't been aired out for a long time – and they all had that sneering, slobbering slit at the tip, all trembled impatiently, selfish, stiff with anger, far more capable of taking pleasure than giving it. And at the end of it all, at the completion of their frantic drive for release, they all did what Karen had done that first time with Michael, something for which she'd always hated herself just a little – they vomited.

  Forty-five minutes had clicked by on the digital clock by the time Karen realized her mind was wandering and she should get to sleep.

  She wanted to roll over, snuggle up to George, but something kept her from it. Something that would not go away. Something that made her think:

  What was it about -