Slave Wife (9 page)
Authors: Frances Gaines Bennett
Karen hadn’t had time to adequately consider the bite-shaped bruise on her inner thigh though she’d seen it when he’d finished with her. She’d fingered it surreptitiously, testing its size and tenderness, whenever Steve turned away during her clean up.
Really her whole body ached, even inside. Fear that something was wrong in her belly managed to penetrate the residue of shocked numbness. But she had no time to think even of that.
Steve laid her on the bed and replaced the metal suit. He slid a sterile field under her hips and set a metal tray filled with small implements beside her. She didn’t bother to look and, as if in substantiation of her indifference, he spoke flatly, as usual. “I’m going to insert a catheter now.”
She no longer flinched when he manipulated her genitals, was no longer even humiliated. Just more deadening indignity to add to the rest. She stared blankly at the ceiling and dully felt him spread her vaginal walls and slide the plastic tubing into her urethra. He turned away and did something on the metal tray.
When he turned back his voice held something different. A touch of remorse? The thought sent chills of terror racing through her. “This will be easier if you try to relax and breathe deeply. Okay?”
He waited until she whispered, “Okay.” His big fingers pressed her outer labia together. She screamed at the deep sharp pain and her body involuntarily contorted.
He pressed her against the bed, stopping her motion. Still his tone was flat. “I have to make ten stitches. I’ll try to be quick but,” he paused, “I have to do it,” another pause, “and I’m going to have to sew you up every day so you better get used to it. If you try to relax it won’t be so bad.”
Actually each stitch was not one but two distinct, painful, terrifying piercings as the needle was forced into and then passed through each labium. Each time, rather than ending there, the agony continued as the surgical thread slid like fire through her skin and was tugged tight. Silent tears poured from blank eyes but she no longer moved, lying limp and hopeless.
He was on the ninth stitch when she heard the lock clank and Michael enter the room. His gently smiling face leaned over her and her vacant gaze instantly snapped to attention.
His fingers softly caressed the stitches while Steve took the last. “Very neatly done.” He straightened and wiped a small trace of blood from his fingers with a white, monogrammed handkerchief. Oddly she found his next words more harrowing than the needle’s passage through her flesh. “Please dress her for lunch. I think something red.” He left the room.
She was again seated at the piecrust table, her hands folded in her lap and eyes downcast inside the metal headpiece, when he returned followed by his chef pushing a steam table. Steve had dressed her in a sleeveless vermillion Armani sheath of Jackie Kennedy classicism. It was only a little snug. The awareness flitted across her mind’s spiritless panorama but offered no real relief.
He pulled a fat key ring out of his perfectly cut trousers’ pocket, selected a small silver key and unlocked her metal mouthpiece. Once face to face, his warm smile soothed her. “You look very nice, my dear.”
The chef served some sort of broiled white fish with a simple lemon sauce and grilled vegetables. Karen waited for Michael to take a taste and nod approval to the chef before she lifted her fork. Its path to her mouth seemed interminable and as difficult as lifting heavy weight. She was simultaneously afraid to look and fascinated by his hand motions. But, to her great relief, the bite of fish made it uneventfully to her mouth. She chewed slowly, savouring the bite as if it would be alone – as it very well might.
Still he smiled congenially. “You are becoming so beautiful now that our program is having success …”
Timidly the corners of her mouth lifted, grateful for the compliment and his approval. “Thank you, Michael,” was her mandated response.
“… I might not be able to control myself.” The comment was made lightly, as if in jest, but it sent a fearful jolt through her empty stomach. She raised her eyes to him, trying to determine if he was explaining what had happened. Was the awful sex her fault too?
Revelation momentarily deafened her. That’s why he had her stitched closed! So he wouldn’t hurt her again. Once again she was profoundly grateful to him. She vowed to be strong – for him – and accept the stitching willingly.
With a start she grasped that Michael had said something. His expression was kind but stern. “Did you understand me, my dear?” He didn’t wait for her reply. “Now that you’re so close to achieving our objectives I’ve arranged for the remaining alterations to be made surgically.” He patted her hand. “There’ll be some rehabilitation but,” his smile became radiant, “just a few inches shorter and you’ll be perfect. Just think how wonderful that will be!”
In her mind’s eye Karen goggled at him, dumb and senseless. In reality she’d been too well trained to goggle. She sat demurely but still mute and without one iota’s comprehension of his words except the knowledge that she would be subject to some other horrible abasement. Her head dropped inconspicuously lower. It didn’t really matter. Her life belonged to him.
The understanding had lodged so deep it seemed like race knowledge. And perhaps it was – the idea of his own racial superiority was wonderfully beguiling – but which race? In one horrible and ecstatic inflow, the blackness had given him centuries of arcane knowledge. Since, his aunt, Marie, had demonstrated its use with gloriously aphrodisiacal and blood-soaked precision.
In old
LaVeau glanced out the expanse of curved windows toward the glowing lights of the
He had a clear image of what was needed and an idea where to find it. Though it was approaching
“Good evening Elaine.” Carter didn’t bother to apologize. “I want to buy a farm … tomorrow. Can you arrange it?”
The 150 year old four poster bed he’d brought from
New Orleans
was thigh high with a mattress three feet thick. He’d occasionally wondered why old beds were so high – not that it was inconvenient to his lanky frame. His mother said it was to gain the little additional warmth provided in unheated houses by being far above cold, damp floors. Perhaps he should ask his aunt. He smiled at the concept. The “lady” was far too concerned with other things. He nestled into the down pillows and fell instantly asleep. His aunt whispered approbations and omens into his dreams.
In accord with his new political calling –
He rang the doorman. “George, please bring my car up as soon as possible.”
LaVeau loved his old car – a silver grey 1973 Jaguar XKE 2 + 2 model. One of his father’s friends, a crusty old Cajun patriarch, had bought it on a whim and driven it only once. “Too little and,” his lip had curled with a disdain Carter well remembered though he’d seen it almost fifteen years earlier, “Anglais.”
The car’s speedometer still read only 32,000 miles, the black leather seats were supple and unmarked, and the engine hummed silent and frictionless as a spectre. Indeed the low, moulded car slid through
Potomac River
fog with ghostly kinship.
The fog was lifting and golden rays shot through the cracks in the grey sky illuminating the adjacent wilderness of bare winter trees when the Jaguar at last made its way up the long drive to the empty parking lot. Elaine’s champagne coloured Landcruiser, an almost perfect match to her very au courant hair, was waiting for him by the stables – a choice he approved since, with jockeys and track personnel going in and out, it was the one spot at the closed racecourse he knew his car would be protected.
Back they went, out the drive onto
“You’ve heard about
th
District’s colourful, controversial Congressman and his crazy businesswoman opponent?” Carter waited for Elaine’s nod. Of course she’d heard. Everyone in DC,
Elaine expertly manoeuvred the tall boat of a car to the right onto a dusty gravel drive running between thick trees and fallow farmland. A few minutes and they emerged in front of a sprawling farmhouse with an upper story and wings from diverse eras ranging, LaVeau judged, across two hundred years.
A slim weathered man wearing work boots, jeans and a heavy jacket, stepped out onto the porch, a suspicious, unfriendly grimace on his hard, dry countenance. “Come in.” He turned and strode determinedly ahead of them through the old front hall and into a homey dining room with a beautiful polished oval mahogany table surrounded by eight different size but obviously matched Victorian chairs. Even from a distance, LaVeau could see that the delicate lace curtains on the leaded windows were fine handwork. The air was thick with cooking smells, eggs, bacon, biscuits. Carter inhaled deeply and thought of his mother’s kitchen.
The man sat in the tallest chair and motioned LaVeau to the second tallest at his right. Elaine ignored his disregard and sat next to Carter. “Mr. Evers, this is Mr. LaVeau.” She smiled politely.
When Mr. Evers silently took his measure, Carter waited, returning the appraisal and feeling right at home. The old guy reminded him of his father’s taciturn friends. “Why do you want to buy my farm?” Carter repressed a smile. Evers was familiarly direct.
Carter spread his fingers on the tabletop, letting Evers see his appreciation. “My family have been farmers for a hundred and fifty years,” he looked around the room, “just like yours.”
Evers eyes narrowed in surprise. “You want to farm?”
“No, I want the land.”
Anger bloomed in Evers’ wizened face. “You want to develop my land?”
“Maybe,” he paused, letting Evers’ anger grow in the face of his honesty, “I won’t promise otherwise. But not for quite a few years, at least. Right now I just want to own the land.” Carter saw Elaine’s dismay at his answers.
Mr. Evers, on the other hand, seemed to find the answer perfectly reasonable. Some of his anger subsided.
Carter took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it on the table. He pushed it toward Evers. “I plan to pay you a lot of money for your farm. You can retire to somewhere warm. But if you want to continue farming the land, we can work something out.”
Evers lifted the paper. His eyes widened then he dropped his chin and stared contemplatively at the small white rectangle. Carter waited and discreetly signalled Elaine to do the same.
It must have been half an hour. Beside him, Elaine was surreptitiously fidgeting and looking at her watch. Finally Evers stirred. He pushed the paper back across the burnished surface. His gaze was sly when he raised it to Carter. “If I’m going to sell to a developer why should I sell to you? If I wait I’ll get much more.”
“What if I raise my offer?”
Leaving not a trace of doubt, Evers shook his head. “Nope.”
Carter knew the old man wouldn’t change his mind but he made another fifteen minutes effort to demonstrate respect and good faith. He paused at last, showing a touch of distress. Then his expression cleared. “Well … how about selling me a piece – something on the edge, something hard to farm? How about some of your woods?”
He turned to Elaine. “Do you have the map?” She pulled a paper roll from her briefcase. Carter laid it flat and examined it closely. On the property’s edge, northwest of Evers’ farmhouse, were fifteen acres of woods enclosing about an acre of secluded fields. He grabbed a pen from Elaine’s briefcase and made a big circle. On the corner he wrote a new number. “How about this? And I won’t develop unless you say it’s okay.”
Evers looked up, clearly trying to hide his sly satisfaction. Silently, he held out his hand and silently Carter took it. Evers turned his head toward the kitchen, “Mother, bring us some coffee and cake.”
A plump woman pushed backward through the kitchen door carrying a big tray. She turned a lined but still remarkably pretty face toward them and set down the tray. Mr. Evers said, “This is our new neighbour, Mr. LaVeau.” He ended the name with an “O” almost Cajun in its length and roundness.
Carter’s mouth opened but before he could speak the door opened again and a girl came through, a big china coffee pot held carefully by handle and spout, and he was stopped cold. Fortunately, after a few stilled heartbeats his lawyering experience kicked in. He whipped his face into nonchalance and nudged Elaine, whose mouth gaped inelegantly, under the table.
The girl was remarkable. She was perhaps 13 years old, her body in the first blush of womanhood. In her flawless face Carter saw how beautiful the girl’s mother must once have been. Her magnificent hair hung to her waist in a soft drape of carrot red. But most shocking and simultaneously pleasing to the sensibilities was her skin, as pale and translucent as blue veined marble.
In old Louisiana, even at his advanced age of 29, Carter could – if he’d desired – asked Evers for his daughter’s hand in marriage with faultless propriety. But this was
Teresa slipped silently from the room, leaving behind the memory of a quick glance of purest blue. Evers’ head twitched in her direction with casual pride. “My youngest.”
Carter let Elaine respond, “She’s lovely – just like your wife.” Much safer.
“Mr. Evers.” The man turned his attention back to Carter and business. “Do you have an attorney?” The man nodded.
“And one more thing.” Carter appeared reflective. “I was thinking. Do any of your friends or neighbours have an old cottage on their land they might like to sell? I’ll buy it and move it here. I’d rather find something old than build something new.” He met Evers’ gaze with perfect sympathy. “I don’t like new.”
The old man thought a moment then answered with rural economy, “Maybe.”
When they were back in the Landcruiser Carter said, “Let’s go look at my land.” They headed up the rutted dirt track behind the farmhouse through the dense trees and out into the open patch of farmland.
Though occupied navigating the deep furrows, Elaine rakishly dared lay one hand on his arm. “Congratulations. You did a great job.”
“I told you I’d manage him.”
“But you got exactly what you wanted.” Elaine shook her stiff blond coif in wonder. “I’m impressed.” Her surprised voice broke into his euphoria. “What’s that?”
In the distance across the clearing not quite hidden in the trees was a small, square, light wood building, once probably white, with a steepled roof. “It’s an abandoned church. The locals think it’s cursed.” A burst of euphoria returned. “It’s quite a story.” He smiled happily. “I’m sure the old man thinks he’s well rid of it.”
They passed through a narrow copse and turned north onto a wide band of bare earth bordered on both sides by forest that marked his property line and also, he guessed, formed a firebreak. Half a mile and they were on
