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 Qwik Stop. Since then, they had purchased a Norelco electric razor, some food, some different clothes, and hair dye.
She’ll come, Erik thought.
He hoped a cryptic warning might work, but somehow, now he knew it wouldn’t. Providence, 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?”
Home, he thought. She’s going to come, and she’s going to bring her daughter.
“We’ll find some out of the way 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. 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 orgasm 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 passion; 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? she thought, turned upside down over the edge of the bed. Thank God 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 penis felt cold in her. She didn’t even feel like herself. It’s more like watching Martin fuck 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.
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 sexual. Having real sex with Martin—the man she loved—reminded her of sex as it should be. The fear and guilt in her psyche prolapsed that reminder, filling her subconscious with ideas of sex 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 orgasm under normal circumstances. 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 God it’s dark.
She pushed her face in the pillows to dry her tears.
Eventually, Martin fell asleep. His semen trickled in her; it felt cold. 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 orgasms? 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? Dr. Harold seemed to think so. The dream was of Melanie’s birth, and it was sexual. What was her subconscious trying to suggest in that? Ann had always left sexual 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, he’d said. A few times Martin had talked to Melanie about sex, 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 sexual situation. The image distressed her, and the punky looking leather and Goth button clad 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, 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?
God, 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. 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.
Her gaze rose. The moon hung low on the horizon. An egg moon, her mother would say—it was lopsided, not quite full.
Look at the moon tonight.
All right, I’m looking. It did look funny, its inordinate size and the queer pinkish hue. She’d been hearing about it on the news the last few days, some rare astronomical occurrence. The first day of spring was just days away; apparently, the moon’s position in conjunction with this caused an atmospheric anomaly that pinkened its light at certain times.
Big deal, she thought.
But the more steadily she stared…
It’s pink, she thought. It’s bloated.
Like her belly in the dream. Pink. Bloated.
But that was stupid. She was letting too much get to her. Everything reminded her of the dream. Her own belly felt bloated as she backed away from the window and padded to the bathroom.
She closed the door and turned on the lights. The mirror’s brightness shocked her, and the sharp clarity of her nakedness. She still looked good—for thirty seven. Her skin was tight, bereft of stretch marks. Could use some sun, though, she realized. When was the last time she’d actually lain out in the sun? Years. Her skin was very white, creamy, which contrasted intensely with her very dark brown eyes and ashen brown hair. Her nipples, too, were more brownish than pink, and large. She’d had little to compare herself to. There’d been occasions in college—phys ed electives—when she’d showered with other girls. Her body had always seemed more robust, her nipples larger and darker, her skin tighter and white. It pleased her to see how little her body had changed. At the firm there was a junior partner named Louise who was the same age as Ann. Once they’d shared a hotel room in Detroit during prelim litigation for an air wreck, and they’d changed together. Louise’s thighs looked like bags of cottage cheese. Her breasts depended, and her belly sagged. “I’ll loan you my best dress if you loan me your body,” she’d said with a sullen laugh.