Succubi Part 8

What was it?

For a second, she felt as though she were leaving the firm for good.

Martin and Melanie were packing when she got home. Their excitement was clear-they were hustling about with big smiles on their faces, Melanie's stereo pounding away.

This is going to be great, she thought, and shed her coat. she thought, and shed her coat.

"I'm home," she said. She held up the tickets.

"Hi, Mom!" Melanie greeted.

Martin came and kissed her. He looked longingly at the tickets. "This is going to be great," he said.

"I was recently thinking along those same lines."

"Everything tied up at work?"

"Yep. For the next nine days, I'm not a lawyer."

"And I'm not a teacher."

"And I'm not a student!" Melanie added.

For once, we get to be a family, Ann thought. Ann thought.

"The itinerary's all planned," she said at dinner. Martin had cooked one of his favorite culinary inventions, which he called "Poet's Seafood and Pasta in a Bowl." It was simple but quite good: pasta twists in olive oil, a little garlic, and powdered red pepper, heaped with steamed shrimp and cherrystone clams.

"When do we go to the Louvre?" Melanie asked, and speared a shrimp.

"Days two through four. It's a big place, honey. It takes days to see it all."

"We can have lunch in the cafe where Sartre met deBeauvoir. What an inspiration," Martin said. "Maybe I should bring a typewriter."

"Bring a pad and a pencil, Martin," Ann suggested. "Sartre wrote No Exit No Exit with a pencil." with a pencil."

"Good point."

"Can we go to the Metal Urbain?" Melanie asked. "It's a famous New Wave club in Pigalle. All the great bands play there."

"Uh," Ann faltered.

Martin gave her a look.

"Of course, honey." Bring earplugs, Bring earplugs, she reminded herself. "And we'll eat at Taillevent; it's one of the best restaurants in the world-no offense to your cooking, dear." she reminded herself. "And we'll eat at Taillevent; it's one of the best restaurants in the world-no offense to your cooking, dear."

"None taken, so long as you pay," he joked. But it was no joke. The last time she'd been to Taillevent, with a client from Da.s.sault, the check for two had been about $700.

"We'll also be going to the Orsay Museum of Modern Art, where they have all the expressionistic stuff, and the Centre Pompidou."

"This is gonna be neat as s.h.i.t!" Melanie exclaimed.

Martin laughed. "It'll probably even be neater than that."

But Ann felt disheartened. She'd seen all those places when they'd had Da.s.sault as an auxiliary client, and she'd never really cared. Yet Melanie, her own daughter, longed to see these museums, and Ann had never even considered it.

She plucked her last clam out of the sh.e.l.l when the phone rang.

"I'll get it," Martin said.

"It's probably that guy with the creepy voice," Melanie ventured.

"No, let me get it," Ann insisted. This was one thing she wanted to get to the bottom of.

"h.e.l.lo?"

The line seemed to drift. She thought of wastelands. She heard a distant rushing like trucks on the freeway.

The ruined voice sounded wet, exerted. "Ann Slavik?"

"Who is this? Why have you been calling me?"

Martin got up.

"Listen," the voice creaked. It stalled again, as if each word demanded a pointed effort. "Don't come," it said.

"What? Who is this!" Ann demanded.

"You don't know me."

"Who the h.e.l.l is this!"

"Just...don't come."

"Give me that," Martin said.

She held him off. "Don't come where?" she asked of the caller.

The voice sounded shredded. "Take your daughter... Go far away."

"If you don't tell me who you are-"

The voice grated on, but Martin s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone away. "Listen, you son of a b.i.t.c.h," he said. "Don't call here anymore or I'll have the phone traced. I'll have the police on your sick a.s.s, you hear me?"

Martin looked at the phone, mouth pursed. "He hung up," he said.

"Who was it, Mom?" Melanie asked.

"No one, honey."

"Some nut, that's all," Martin contributed. "What did he say?"

Don't come, she thought. she thought. Take your daughter... Go far away. Take your daughter... Go far away.

What could he have meant?

What bothered her most, though, was what the voice had said as Martin had been taking the phone.

The moon, Ann. Do you remember? asked the abraded voice. asked the abraded voice. Look at the moon tonight. Look at the moon tonight.

Down the hill, trucks roared past along Route 154.

Erik hung up the pay phone.

"You make your precious phone call?" Duke asked when he came back to the station wagon. He was eating Twinkies.

"Yeah," Erik grated, and closed the door.

Duke grinned, showing cream between his teeth. "You busted out of a psych ward just for that, huh? Just to make a call?"

"Not quite."

"Who was it?"

"The past," he said.

Duke chuckled.

Erik drove the station wagon out of the truck stop. Duke had bagged over a hundred dollars at the QwikStop. Since then, they had purchased a Norelco electric razor, some food, some different clothes, and hair dye.

She'll come, Erik thought. Erik thought.

He hoped a cryptic warning might work, but somehow, now he knew it wouldn't. Providence, Providence, they'd called it. they'd called it.

"Where to now, fairy?"

"Duke, please don't call me that."

Duke slapped Erik's back. "I'm just joshin', man. We're buddies, right?"

"Yeah. Buddies."

"Where to, buddy?" buddy?"

Home, he thought. he thought. She's going to come, and she's going to bring her daughter. She's going to come, and she's going to bring her daughter.

"We'll find some outoftheway motel for tonight. We gotta change how we look and get some rest."

"What then?"

"Tomorrow we'll go to Lockwood."

Duke guffawed. "Sounds good to me, fa-I mean, buddy. I got nothin' on my agender." He crammed another Twinkie in his mouth.

Home, Erik thought. Erik thought. Providence. Providence.

He drove the car down the route. He did not look at the moon.

Chapter 7.

That night, Martin made love to her. Lately, he hadn't been, sensing her skewed moods. Tonight, though, it had been Ann's advance. She'd felt her juices flowing all day; she was geared up for Paris-they all were-and Ann supposed that she wanted to see how this prospect of change would affect her responses. She hadn't had a normal o.r.g.a.s.m in two months. She thought sure that tonight, given her different feelings, she could...

But, of course, she didn't.

She knew just minutes after they started. Martin was very vigorous in his pa.s.sion; he wanted to do anything she liked, anything that made her feel good. When foreplay failed to moisten her, he went down on her, yet the harder she tried to get into it, the more remote she felt. After an hour they were engaged in positions they'd never attempted. Poor Martin, he was trying so hard, and so was she. But how can he know? But how can he know? she thought, turned upside down over the edge of the bed. Thank G.o.d for the dark. What would Martin think if he could see her face squeezed closed in anguish? It was like pushing a refrigerator up a steep incline, the effort she exerted to keep the images of the dream out of her mind's eye. she thought, turned upside down over the edge of the bed. Thank G.o.d for the dark. What would Martin think if he could see her face squeezed closed in anguish? It was like pushing a refrigerator up a steep incline, the effort she exerted to keep the images of the dream out of her mind's eye.

His p.e.n.i.s felt cold in her. She didn't even feel like herself. It's more like watching Martin f.u.c.k someone else, It's more like watching Martin f.u.c.k someone else, she thought, despairing. Each thrust into her flesh jerked the nightmare's face closer. She was starting to get sore. She put on her act, which she'd gotten quite good at recently, and then it was over. He spent himself in her and collapsed. she thought, despairing. Each thrust into her flesh jerked the nightmare's face closer. She was starting to get sore. She put on her act, which she'd gotten quite good at recently, and then it was over. He spent himself in her and collapsed.

Fear and guilt. But of what? Dr. Harold's implications were hard to put into decipherable terms. Everything was a matrix of symbols. The symbols were s.e.xual. Having real s.e.x with Martin-the man she loved-reminded her of s.e.x as it should be. The fear and guilt in her psyche prolapsed that reminder, filling her subconscious with ideas of s.e.x as it shouldn't be. She was afraid of the nightmare because the nightmare attracted her in some way, aroused her, and being aroused by an aberration caused a negative response. Hence, no o.r.g.a.s.m under normal circ.u.mstances. Her consciousness battled with her subconsciousness. A vicious cycle. But of what? Dr. Harold's implications were hard to put into decipherable terms. Everything was a matrix of symbols. The symbols were s.e.xual. Having real s.e.x with Martin-the man she loved-reminded her of s.e.x as it should be. The fear and guilt in her psyche prolapsed that reminder, filling her subconscious with ideas of s.e.x as it shouldn't be. She was afraid of the nightmare because the nightmare attracted her in some way, aroused her, and being aroused by an aberration caused a negative response. Hence, no o.r.g.a.s.m under normal circ.u.mstances. Her consciousness battled with her subconsciousness. A vicious cycle.

She felt guilty about the dream because the dream came from her. The dream disgusted her, yet it also fulfilled her. More guilt, more fear. The dream was destroying them all.

Yes. Thank G.o.d it's dark. Thank G.o.d it's dark.

She pushed her face in the pillows to dry her tears.

Eventually, Martin fell asleep. His s.e.m.e.n trickled in her; it felt cold. None of this is his fault, yet even he's becoming a victim. None of this is his fault, yet even he's becoming a victim.

Does he know? she dared to ask herself. It was a question she'd kept buried. Did he know that she faked her o.r.g.a.s.ms? Martin was very perceptive, often uncannily so. How long could their relationship last like that? she dared to ask herself. It was a question she'd kept buried. Did he know that she faked her o.r.g.a.s.ms? Martin was very perceptive, often uncannily so. How long could their relationship last like that?

Then another dread drifted up: Melanie. Do I really doubt that she's a virgin? Do I really doubt that she's a virgin? Dr. Harold seemed to think so. The dream was of Melanie's birth, and it was s.e.xual. What was her subconscious trying to suggest in that? Ann had always left s.e.xual issues to the board of education, which only highlighted her failures as a mother. Mothers were supposed to talk about such things with their daughters, weren't they? Ann's mother hadn't, though, and again Dr. Harold came to mind. Dr. Harold seemed to think so. The dream was of Melanie's birth, and it was s.e.xual. What was her subconscious trying to suggest in that? Ann had always left s.e.xual issues to the board of education, which only highlighted her failures as a mother. Mothers were supposed to talk about such things with their daughters, weren't they? Ann's mother hadn't, though, and again Dr. Harold came to mind. You're afraid of becoming your mother, You're afraid of becoming your mother, he'd said. A few times Martin had talked to Melanie about s.e.x, considering the AIDS crisis and the world's growing list of STDs. But never Ann. Ann was always "working." Ann was "too busy." It was fear, she knew, fear of acknowledging something that she didn't want to acknowledge. She absolutely could not imagine her daughter in a s.e.xual situation. The image distressed her, and the punkylooking leather and Gothb.u.t.tonclad creeps Melanie hung around with amplified the image to one of utter terror. It all made her mind feel jammed. he'd said. A few times Martin had talked to Melanie about s.e.x, considering the AIDS crisis and the world's growing list of STDs. But never Ann. Ann was always "working." Ann was "too busy." It was fear, she knew, fear of acknowledging something that she didn't want to acknowledge. She absolutely could not imagine her daughter in a s.e.xual situation. The image distressed her, and the punkylooking leather and Gothb.u.t.tonclad creeps Melanie hung around with amplified the image to one of utter terror. It all made her mind feel jammed. Too much to deal with, Too much to deal with, she thought, and whined. Just like Harold's other inferences. Lesbianism. Religious voids. Did Dr. Harold really think she had lesbian tendencies because the nightmare involved women touching her? she thought, and whined. Just like Harold's other inferences. Lesbianism. Religious voids. Did Dr. Harold really think she had lesbian tendencies because the nightmare involved women touching her?

G.o.d, she thought. she thought.

The bedroom's darkness seemed particulate, grainy. It distilled her discomfort. Martin's breathing sounded strangely loud, and her own heartbeat could've been someone kicking a wall. The room's only light oozed similarly through the window, from the moon.

The moon, Ann, clicked the riven voice in her mind. clicked the riven voice in her mind. Do you remember? Do you remember?

Remember what?

Look at the moon tonight.

Carefully, she got up. She walked naked to the blinds and peeked out. Boats rocked gently along endless docks. Moonlight rippled on the water. It seemed pink.