Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

by Ray Garton

  "—my childhood sweetheart. You don't just forget your childhood sweetheart, you know."

  Roger's back stiffened when he heard the old echo of her words and remembered how much they had hurt. He gently pulled away from her. Suddenly, he could not even bear to look at her and he felt a twinge of that old pain in the side of his abdomen.

  No, no, he thought, not now, please, not now.

  He put a hand over his stomach, preparing to double over, waiting for the claw inside him to emerge from its sleep and tear at his organs. It never came.

  The students began to file back into the room and Roger tried to continue his class without looking at Marjie.

  At the next break, she approached him again and put her denim bag on his desk, removing a hardcover and paperback copy of each of his books. With a grin, she asked, "How about signing them?"

  * * * *

  Roger told himself he would not see Marjie outside of class. He did not give her his phone number or address and asked her no personal questions, hoping she would do likewise. The very thought of renewing a friendship with Marjie made that claw stir ever so slightly in his gut.

  But he had to admit, it sure was good to see her again.

  15.

  Sondra called in sick the next day. Roger was considering calling her to see what was wrong when Marjie breezed into the deli and kissed him on the cheek.

  "It's my day off," she said. "I thought I'd come for lunch and see if you still hang out here."

  "I work here now."

  "I heard about Leo. I'm sorry. I know you were friends."

  Over lunch, Marjie told him she was now living in Napa, working at a property management firm where she was quickly climbing the ladder.

  As Roger listened, thinking, I'm doing exactly what I told myself I wouldn't do, he noticed tiny studs glistening in Marjie's earlobes.

  "What's this," he said, touching one of her ears.

  "Oh, yeah," she chuckled, covering her ears with her hair, "guess I'm gonna go for a swim in the lake of fire, huh?" She blushed like a child caught smoking. "I even have a sip of wine now and then. I'm a big girl. I'm thinking of getting some tattoos." She laughed.

  But Roger noticed that she was not such a big girl that she did not keep toying with her hair self-consciously to make sure her pierced ears were covered.

  She gave Roger her number on a napkin, saying she wanted to get together for dinner soon. Before she left, Marjie glanced around the Munch Room bashfully, then leaned forward and gave Roger a long kiss on the mouth. He neither responded nor resisted.

  "I really want to see you," she whispered, touching his neck.

  After she left, Roger realized she was going through the opposite of what he had experienced. Just as he tried for so long to fit into Adventist circles, she was now trying to fit in with her coworkers by wearing jewelry and having "a sip of wine now and then." Judging by her self-conscious behavior, she was not succeeding.

  Fine, Roger thought with a touch of gleeful venom. See how she likes it.

  He tossed her phone number into the trash.

  16.

  Shortly after four in the morning, Roger sat in the Munch Room squinting at the notebook before him. The radio was playing and the deli was dark except for the pool of light shed by the small lamp on the table and the single overhead light near the back door. His writing was getting sloppy and the scribbled words were doubling before his bleary eyes. He had been drinking more than his usual occasional sip and it had gotten the best of him.

  Roger decided to quit for the night but, before he could close his notebook, someone banged on the back door.

  He found Sondra shivering in the misty alley.

  "Sondra, what's wrong?" he asked, closing the door when she came in.

  She stumbled past him, crying and out of breath, and fell into a chair in the Munch Room. Her tall, shapely body was swallowed by a huge wool coat and she sat forward with her arms over her stomach as if in pain.

  "Are you all right?" Roger said, sitting across from her.

  "I'm scared."

  "Of what? What happened?"

  "Something's wrong with me. Something horrible." Sondra shook with sobs and rested her forehead on the table.

  Roger figured it was probably finally hitting her. She was beginning to realize all the things she could never do or be if she remained entombed in her faith. She had begun to question the logic and fairness of such a senselessly restricting lifestyle and now, because of her doubts, she probably thought there was something wrong with her.

  That's how it works, he thought. That's how they want it to work.

  He poured a couple of swallows of scotch into his glass and put it in front of her.

  "Drink this," he said.

  "No, I really shouldn't."

  "It'll calm you down. Come on, drink it."

  She took a sip and coughed a few times.

  "How did you get here?" Roger asked.

  "My bike."

  "Does anyone know?"

  "They were asleep when I left." With less reluctance than before, Sondra tipped the glass and finished the scotch. She was still sniffling but her sobs had calmed.

  "Now, will you tell me what you think is wrong with you?"

  Her face twisted as she whispered, "I don't know." Then she pounded a fist on the table, crying, "I don't know, I don't know."

  "Hey, whoa." He poured another shot of scotch and she drank it with a scowl that slowly relaxed. "Take off your coat."

  "I can't. I'm...I didn't change. I'm still in my nightgown."

  "Okay. If you'll tell me what's wrong, Sondra, maybe I can help."

  "I don't even know what it is, I don't understand it. But I know it's not gonna go away. It just keeps coming back again and again."

  "Have you talked to your cousin?"

  "She won't do anything."

  "What could she do?"

  "Take me to...a doctor."

  "You're sick?" He remembered the sound of her vomiting in the restroom the day Leo died and noticed she was still holding her stomach. He wondered if it was something more serious than just a strong period, as Betty had thought.

  She nodded, pouring a bit more scotch.

  "Hey, maybe you should go easy on that stuff," he said.

  "Just a little more, please." Her hand shook as she drank and a small tremor passed through body her afterward.

  "Sondra, if you're sick, you should go to a doctor as soon as possible. Right away. I can take you to—"

  "No."

  "But don't you want to—"

  "No, I can't. I shouldn't even be telling you any of this."

  "You haven't told me anything yet."

  She started crying again. "You'll...you have me...put away."

  That scared Roger. He suddenly realized this was more than just a physical illness or a self-image problem. This was serious.

  "Why would I do that?" he asked.

  "Because I'm dangerous."

  "Why do you think that?"

  "I know it. So does Annie. But she doesn't talk about it. Neither does Bill."

  "Her husband?"

  She nodded. "They're scared of me. They hate me."

  As she began to cry again, Roger wondered if he really wanted to hear any of this. He had planned to keep a low profile in the Valley this time and not get involved with Adventists in any way. But Sondra looked so lost and afraid, so hopeless. Her tear-filled eyes had heavy lids from the scotch and she rested her head in her palm. Roger did not think he could turn his back on her.

  "Why are they scared of you?" he asked.

  She scrubbed her face with her hands, then she reached for the bottle again.

  "That'll make you sick if you're not used to—"

  "I've drank before. A little," she said—but not without guilt—then took another swallow.

  "But you're underage and I don't want to—" He stopped talking and thought, At this
point, what difference does it make? "Okay. If you say so."

  She sucked in a deep breath, as if for courage, and began:

  "When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a dancer. I had this friend, see, a neighbor girl named Rosa who wasn't an Adventist. She was a little older than me and so pretty. I worshipped her. She took ballet classes and every week after her lesson, we'd go into her garage and she'd teach me what she'd learned. Her mom—she was such a nice lady—bought me a pair of ballet slippers and some leotards. I had to leave them at Rosa's house so my parents wouldn't find out. I was so scared they'd discover I was learning to dance.

  "Well, they did. Mom came to the house one day while I was in the garage with Rosa. The look on her face when she saw me dancing...I thought she was gonna hit me. 'You're lucky Jesus didn't come while you were prancing around in there!' she said when we got home. 'You looked like some kind of a...a pagan doing that! A little pagan prostitute!' The thing is—" She stopped to swallow some tears. "—I thought I was doing so well. I was getting good. Even Rosa's mother said so. And I loved it. So much.

  "Mom and Dad wouldn't let me leave the house for weeks after that, except for school. They stood in my room each night to make sure I studied my sabbath school lesson and bible, to make sure I said my prayers. They...they took my bedroom door off so they'd be able to see if I danced in my room at night.

  "I hated them for that. And I hated the church for making them that way, for saying that dancing was wrong. And I hated Mrs. White for writing all those awful books and...and most of all, I hated myself for feeling so much hate. I prayed to God to take away my love for dancing, but the more I bottled it up inside, the more I wanted to do it.

  "Then I got sick. My stomach started hurting once in a while. Not my stomach, really. It was more in my side, the side of my abdomen. I'd get such terrible pains, sometimes I couldn't even walk. A few times, I even threw up and...and there was blood in it."

  Roger chilled, feeling the fear he could see so clearly in her eyes as she spoke.

  It's something else, he thought. She has to be talking about something else. It can't be the same thing.

  "The doctors couldn't find anything," she went on. "They said it was all in my head. Mom and Dad said it was a punishment from God because I was so preoccupied with worldly things. Like dancing.

  "The worse it got, the more they ignored it. Sometimes I'd be sitting at the dinner table saying grace and it would hit me so hard I'd fall right out of my chair and run to the bathroom and throw up. After a while, I figured they must be right—that I was being punished. I still wanted to be a dancer. I read books about it, I dreamed about it. No matter how hard I tried to change, I couldn't.

  "The pain—" She held her stomach, eyes tensing as she talked about it. "—was like – it still is – like something's inside me. Moving. Cutting me."

  Something with a claw, trying to get out, he thought, vividly remembering the claw he had imagined, so many times, to be ripping through his insides.

  "It kept getting worse and worse until...about three years ago..." She poured another drink and took a couple of swallows.

  Instead of protesting, Roger poured more for himself. When she did not continue, he said, "Three years ago what?"

  "It got out."

  He frowned. "Got...out?"

  "I had a pony," she went on. "Three years ago, almost four now, it was killed. I had this nightmare, see, this horrible, bloody nightmare. It didn't make any sense at all, but when I woke up—" Her face lost its color and her voice cracked. She seemed about to be sick as she gulped air a few times. "I was covered with blood," she said, her voice a faint breath. "In my hair, in my mouth. My nightgown was torn up on the floor. And I could...smell...my pony.

  "I cleaned up and threw everything in the wash before Mom and Dad woke up. That morning, Dad found my pony in pieces, partially eaten. They said a wild animal had done it." She stared into her drink with distant eyes. The flecks of gold among the brown seemed larger now, and on fire. "A wild animal."

  When Roger found his voice, he said, "What—"

  What...is she?

  "—are you telling me, Sondra?"

  She shrugged. "I said I don't understand it."

  "Well, I'm sure you had nothing to do with the pony," he said, certain of nothing.

  "Or the neighborhood dogs?" she asked, looking at him now. "Or the little boy down the street who was always offering me his allowance if I'd show him my coochie?"

  Roger could not reply.

  "After every one, I woke up the same way, from an awful dream. Covered with blood. When my mother found one of the pillowcases, I think they started to suspect. They became afraid of me. I think they thought I was possessed. You know, by...the devil. When they died, I knew." She squirmed in her chair, clutching her stomach hard with one hand, in pain. "I'd hear them whispering when they thought I wasn't around, talking about how maybe I should be exorcised, or anointed by the pastor, or something. Then they found my dancing books. They went crazy. Mom started screaming at me for bringing the devil into their house, Dad started praying, and all of a sudden the pain hit me like a train and I passed out. Sort of. I...I remember hearing screams. Seeing lots of blood. Then...then when I came to...they were all over the walls...on the floor in pieces...and there were police at the door."

  Roger felt light-headed. He tipped the bottle to his lips and took a couple of gulps.

  Some kind of accident, I think, Betty had said of the death of Sondra's parents.

  "There have been other times," Sondra said. "Each one's worse than the last. And now they're not just worse, they're...different."

  Roger's fingers toyed with the bottle and scotch burned in his gut as his mouth worked to ask her how it was different. His throat felt tight and the question came out with effort.

  "It used to happen just when I was angry," she replied. "But now...well...remember the day Leo died?" Her voice caught and she paused for a moment. "I...I was talking to you in here and...you told me I was pretty and you took my hand and...I wanted so much to touch you," she whispered. "I wanted you. But then it started and I ran to the bathroom. I was so sick I forgot to lock the door and...I was on the floor and it was happening to me, the change, and I was fighting it...when Leo walked in. And saw me. And...and he..."

  Sondra started to cry again and Roger wanted to comfort her but could not. He could only stare at her, wondering if he should help her because she was crazy or fear her because she was telling the truth.

  "Sondra, have you talked to anyone about this?"

  "Only you. I thought...well, after all you've said...about thinking there was something wrong with you...I thought you'd understand."

  Roger pressed a hand to his stomach, thinking of the horrible pain, the claw, the blood he used to spit into his toilet, the awful nightmares...the gory, sickening nightmares.

  "You need help," he said. "You know that."

  "Who's going to help me? I'm...I don't know what I am. What could anyone do?"

  "What do you think you are?"

  "A...a monster. Like Mom and Dad said. Maybe I am evil. Possessed. Maybe when I kept wanting to dance so much, maybe God just...turned his back on me. Maybe..." She couldn't continue.

  Roger took her hand as she cried, quickly checking his watch. Sidney would be delivering the bread in about twenty minutes or so. It would not look good for him to find Roger alone with Sondra at that hour, and with a three-quarters-empty bottle of scotch on the table, particularly if Sondra's problem, whether real or imagined, later came to light. He felt he should call someone but knew of no one but Betty. As much as he hated to wake her at such an hour, he decided he had no choice.

  "You sit right here, Sondra, okay? I'll be back in a minute."

  He went to the phone behind the register and called Betty. It rang a dozen times before she answered.

  "Betty? This is Roger. Sorry to wake you, but I've got a—"

  She made a d
eep, gargled noise into the phone.

  "Betty?"

  "Whum?"

  "Betty, this is Roger. Please wake up."

  "Rah? Whum."

  "Listen, Betty, I'm at the deli and Sondra's here with me. Betty?"

  She had hung up.

  Roger dialed again, certain she had been drinking all day and had no idea what she was doing.

  "Betty, don't hang up!" he shouted. "Listen to me. Sondra is here with me and—"

  "Hoozis?"

  "It's Roger. Look, can you get up and—"

  She hung up again.

  "Goddamn."

  As he made the call again, he felt two arms slide around his waist and firm breasts press to his back.

  "Don't call anybody," Sondra whispered huskily.

  Her breath smelled heavily of scotch and her words were slurred. When he turned around, he looked into her big, heavy brown eyes and knew she had finished the bottle

  "Sondra..."

  "C'mon back to the Munch Room."

  She took his hand and led him back through the deli. He followed without protest partly because he knew he would never get through to Betty and partly for reasons he did not want to think about.

  Her coat lay over the back of the chair and she wore only a small dark purple nightshirt that didn't quite reach her knees and was slit up to her waist on each side.

  Before he could take a seat, her arms were around him and she was trying to kiss him.

  "Hey-hey, Sondra, wait—"

  "It's okay," she said, her voice thick as honey. "I've seen the way you look at me. I know."

  "Uh, uh, no, just—"

  Her mouth was on his and his eyes, wide with surprise, slowly closed as her tongue moved over his closed lips and—

  It feels sooo good ...

  —it was only seconds before his tongue met hers—

  It's been sooo long ...

  —and his arms slid around her, his hands moving over her back. Sondra's mouth opened and closed over his, drew his tongue in and sucked on it hungrily. One hand clutched his neck and the other squeezed his ass, pressing his hardening crotch to her. Their breathing grew frantic as they bumped the table.