Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales (12 page)

Brother Godspeth schooled mama, too, and the Lord would reward her with a baby inside. My daddy died in the war before mama found the church, so I was lonely with no brothers and sisters. So each time the blessing of a baby would come from mama's schooling, I was excited and couldn't wait for its birth. I'd pray real hard, but my mama wasn't clean like me—that's what Brother Godspeth told me. That's why all her babies died. He personally delivered every one of them to try to cleanse them of their earthly sins, but the Brother said my mama's sins were too great and the Lord took all those babies to heaven.

The last baby died just a few days ago. My mama died, too. Brother Godspeth said not to cry since she was finally cleansed of her sins. He told me I should pray for her and the baby. I'd been doing a bit of reading in the special book of prayers, the secret one Brother Godspeth kept hidden in the base of altar. I pretended I was asleep after a healing treatment and I seen him sitting naked on the floor of the chapel inside a black circle. Holding the book in his lap, he traced the strange symbols on the black cover with his fat fingers, muttering to himself. I figured I'd surprise him and practice the prayers, too. I was lonely, but being left by myself in the house was a perfect chance to try them out. I figured since my old prayers didn't work, maybe the special prayers would.

Before he left me, we prayed together and the pastor gave me one of his private healings. The healings don't hurt my insides no more—the cleansing must be working. At least that's what Brother Godspeth said. When he left, I practiced the special prayers from the black book and I prayed for my mama and all her lost babies. I'd memorized as many verses as I could, but there was one that I thought was just right.

So I painted a black circle with shoe polish and I prayed for days, kneeling in front of my window. Some of the time, I did self-healings with my fingers. Brother Godspeth had taught me how.

After mama died, none of the neighborhood mothers stopped by to check on me. I didn't expect they would—they always said I was dirty and no good for their little darlings. But Brother Godspeth said I was special and I'm beginning to think he's right. Still, I kind of wished one of the moms had visited to see if I was all right. I was lonely praying by myself, but standing naked with my peanut butter, looking out the window at all those falling babies, I don't feel so lonely anymore.

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Dew shimmers in the sunlight; a perfect morning to make love. She beckons to me, taunting me with her long, slender legs. Her eyes sparkle with desire and the promise of her undying forever-love. The dance of seduction is long and languid and our bodies quake with the finality of our devotion, our act of creation. As I watch the diamonds of dew fall from the web, her fangs pierce my tender throat. Forever is short in the eternity of the widow's web.

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Gertie Kleinsmith was plain at best in her mediocre life, but after the surgery Dr. Beetleheim admired her long, dark, silken legs and her curvaceous abdomen. Many women like Gertie would benefit from his work—no longer invisible, unloved, sad little wasted bits of useless life. The doctor's eccentric clientele eagerly awaited his first success. Their bidding for the prize of the
new woman
was vigorous.

Gertie's eyes fluttered open for the first time, and she swooned at the kaleidoscopic images flooding her brain. She reached up to touch her swimming head and two hairy segmented legs filled her fragmented field of vision. Screaming, she began to thrash on the recovery table, her legs and abdomen strapped down securely.

Dr. Beetleheim rushed to her side.

"Oh, you poor dear. I hadn't expected you to wake for some time. I had intended to cover your eyes to lessen the disorientation when you regained consciousness."

Gertie continued to thrash in near-hysteria.

"Who are you? Where am I?” she screamed, her throat dry and raspy. “What have you done to me?"

"It will be alright, Ms. Kleinsmith. I know it's a difficult transition, but a glorious one. You are my first, my blessing, my gift to the world. Because of you, the wonders that will follow are unfathomable. And, my dear, your patron awaits in my office suite, just beyond those doors. He's very eager to make your acquaintance."

As he reached to stroke her head, a tender gesture of a parent to a child, she bit him. Her fangs sank deep into his flesh, and she felt the ecstatic release of hot liquid jet through her body. A strange serenity washed over her. She salivated as the doctor shrieked in agony, fighting to release his hand from the pressure of her fangs. Wrapping her hairy arms around his neck, Gertie relaxed back against the table, drawing his warm, wriggling body close to her. His screams were muted in her ears by what she, as a virgin, had only dreamed of before this day—the intense feeling of sexual rapture.

Gone was her fear. Gone was her concern for anything but that feeling. She reached one long, hairy arm over the edge of the table and released the straps restraining her legs and abdomen. She wanted nothing more than to caress the doctor's body and immerse her whole self in the delight of the moment.

Instinctively, Gertie's legs began to work, weaving the fine moist threads spilling from her spinnerets. Back and forth, like a dance, she spun a loving shroud around the doctor. The screaming had ended, and all that remained of his movement was the occasional twitch of a leg or an arm within the cocoon, one made as an expression of Gertie's love.

She began to hum and sway with joy as the body in her grasp became a soft, liquidy bag. Somehow, in her swoon of pleasure, she knew the taste would be sweet even before she took her first swallow of the thick, warm juice that had been the good doctor. Nothing had ever filled her, satisfied her so completely.

As she drank deeply of the nectar that was Dr. Beetleheim, Gertie's mind began to clear. It was clearer than she could ever remember feeling, but at the same time, she could barely remember feeling anything before this moment. Only a dim impression of her life before remained, and with each swallow of warm, viscous human syrup, the memory faded further away.

Far too soon, the bag of Beetleheim juice was nearly empty and the cocoon deflated in Gertie's grip. Tossing the silken sack aside, a whimper of petulant disappointment escaped her. Skittering off the table, Gertie stopped to clean the bits of flesh still hanging from her fangs. She swallowed them whole, her stomach grumbling. Gertie smiled a greedy smile as she headed for the door. The scent of man was heavy in the air, and she had a lifetime of hunger to satisfy.

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1.

Donovan kneeled on the wet pavement in the center of the mayhem, sirens screaming in the background. Warm blood oozed through his fingers as he cradled his wife's head. He watched helplessly as her life slipped away, taking their unborn child with her. The accident had been so quick; in the time frame of a glance, his wife had been struck by the Oldsmobile.

Through the pouring rain, he heard the desperate weeping of the elderly driver at the curb.

"No, no ... it should have been me,” he said. “The dream ... they promised to take me..."

As he felt the life drain away from his wife's slender form, Donovan cried for help, drowning out the sound of the sobbing man and the murmurs of the gathering crowd.

"Someone help me! She's dying ... she can't die. Please!"

Cold rain plastered Donovan's blonde hair flat; his T-shirt clung, soaking, to his body. He didn't notice the chill seeping through his muscles; he was desperate, panicked. Clutching his wife's lifeless body to his chest, he looked to the crowd, pleading for someone to help him. His wife was the one thing whole and good in his life.

His eyes locked on those of a woman who appeared in the mass of onlookers and umbrellas. She held the hand of a frail child hugging a ragged blue-haired doll to her chest. The hood of the child's pink rain slicker had fallen back, exposing darkened eyes and sallow skin. The woman's eyes widened—she seemed to recognize Donovan. As she pulled the small girl close to her hip, she shook her head and waved her hand, frantically trying to push through the crowd to reach him.

From behind, a hand caressed Donovan's shoulder, its heat radiating so intensely that he looked away from the shouting woman.

"Hello, Donovan."

He heard the smooth voice and turned to see a man in dark sunglasses and a custom tailored suit, the kind Donovan had grown accustomed to in recent years. He had become successful in the business world and could easily spot a shark at first glance.

The noise around them stopped, the frantic woman forgotten. There was only the voice of the man.

"I heard you call, so I'm here to help,” he said, his glistening black hair slicked back tightly against his skull. As he crouched down beside Donovan, he opened his leather briefcase and drew out a fountain pen and a crisp white contract. “There's not much time, so you must act now. I can guarantee that the scene around you will never happen, and your wife and child will be completely safe. Please sign here."

"What is this?” asked Donovan, his eyes wild with grief, unaware that the pouring rain was no longer falling on him. “What are you talking about? My wife is dead ... she's dead.” Sobbing, he buried his tears in the ringlets of her red hair, pressing his face against her soft cheek.

With unshakable corporate cool the man continued his pitch, motioning for Donovan to take the pen. “As I said, Mister Hunter, there isn't much time. If you want your wife and child to live, sign here now."

Donovan looked up, his face ashen and wet with tears. “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?"

"You asked for help, I answered. I'm in the business of checks and balances. It happens to be your lucky day, Mister Hunter, because it's time for a check to be paid and the balance returned. See that sickly child over there?” he said, pointing to the small girl with the blue-haired doll. Like everything else around them, the woman holding the child's hand was frozen in place, her other hand still reaching toward Donovan. Only the girl remained mobile, grabbing at her mother's rigid body, crying to be picked up. Donovan's panic deepened, eyes sweeping back and forth, trying to make sense of the bizarre scene.

"What's going on here?” His voice was low, laced with fear.

"It's a simple trade. That girl's life for your wife and child. The girl's about to die anyway, so it's actually quite a loss on our part. Sign here, please,” he said with a benign smile, tilting the pen and document toward Donovan.

Shocked and confused, he looked from his wife to the crying child and back to the man in the sunglasses. “How could such a thing be true? How could you expect me to..."

"You have 30 seconds to decide, Mister Hunter. If you're willing to let your wife and child die for the life of a kid that's practically dead anyway, I have plenty of eager customers waiting to take your place."

A smattering of raindrops began to fall around Donovan. The man, still perfectly dry, capped the pen and tucked it back in the leather brief. As he started to put away the document, Donovan grabbed his wrist.

"Wait, please,” he said, jerking his hand away from the sudden searing burn. Barely noticing the white singe on his palm, he pleaded with the man. “Please, what do I have to do?"

"Just sign the contract and go on living your life. We'll let you know if there's anything further you can do for us. You have ten seconds."

Donovan looked down at his wife and the gentle swell of her belly beneath the rain-soaked cotton dress. They had waited so long for a baby; so many trials they had overcome, so many dreams and plans for their future together.

"Give me the paper!"

Ignoring the pain from the raw burn on his palm, he laid his wife's body gently on the pavement and took the document and pen in his trembling hands. For the first time in his life he signed his name to a contract without reading a word, his bloody fingerprints smearing the paper like crimson paint on white porcelain.

The man in the sunglasses verified the signature, signed his own, and tucked the contract in his briefcase. He retrieved his pen, and with a satisfied grin he stood up and extended his hand. Donovan did not return the gesture.

Straightening his tie, the man said, “It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mister Hunter. We'll be in touch."

Donovan watched as the man walked toward the crying child with the blue-haired doll. Swooping her up in his arms, he disappeared into the suddenly reanimated crowd. When the woman looked down and saw the child was missing, she looked back at Donovan through the pounding rain and screamed.

"
No
!"

Hot tears soaked Donovan's pillow. He woke with a start at the touch of a warm hand on his shoulder.

"Are you all right, hon?” asked his wife.

Still shaking from the memory of the accident, he reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, breathing in the scent of her warm skin. With his back to her, she couldn't see his wet eyes. Clearing his throat, he kissed each of her fingertips then wrapped her arm around him.

"I'm okay, babe. Just a very bad dream. Go on back to sleep—everything's all right now."

He felt her round belly as she snuggled against his back. This woman had given him his life back; she'd helped him climb out of his alcoholic stupor during law school. And now she carried his child. With the loss of his parents at a young age, building a family of his own was finally filling the void that had swallowed him for most of his life.

Donovan listened to his wife's breathing return to the gentle rhythm of sleep, and he closed his eyes with tears of relief falling on his pillow to mingle with those from his nightmare. It had only been a dream. He drifted off to sleep, ignoring the sting of the burn on his palm.

The following day, Donovan and Ally had their usual Saturday movie matinee date. They held hands and huddled together against the rain as they crossed the street to visit the quaint old theater in the center of town. With Ally, he could be different; he could leave the corporate deals and stress of his profession behind. Together they were like two kids chattering away. Lost in each other's company, they didn't notice the ancient Oldsmobile barreling through the stoplight toward them. At the last second, it swerved away. Crashing up onto the sidewalk, it crushed the body of a small child as she pulled away from a woman's hand to see the kittens in the pet store window. The head of the elderly driver smashed through the windshield of the car, killing him instantly.