“Wha—oh, you mean Melanie.”
“No, Martin, it wasn’t Melanie—”
“Yes, it was, Mom,” Melanie said, coming into the kitchen. She was wearing a sundress Ann didn’t recognize. Casually, she opened the refrigerator and poured some orange juice. “I went into the store to get some sodas to take to Wendlyn’s. Martin saw me coming out so he picked me up and gave me a ride.”
Ann’s brow runneled. “A ride to where?”
“I told you, Mom. To Wendlyn’s. She wanted to show me her dresses. In fact, she gave this one to me. Wasn’t that nice of her?”
“Uh,” Ann stalled. “Yes, it was.” She felt an instant fool, looking at Martin. “I’m sorry, Martin. I thought—”
Martin laughed. He came around and rubbed her shoulders at the table. “What, you thought I was running off with Maedeen the ice cream lady?” He laughed again.
“I guess I’m overreacting to everything these days,” Ann said, as if that were an excuse. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Actually, I can’t blame you for jumping to conclusions,” Martin joked. “As good-looking as I am, what woman wouldn’t be constantly jealous? My expertise as a lover is world-renowned. Before I met you, women had to put themselves on a waiting list to go out with me.”
“Oh, God!” Melanie laughed and left the kitchen. But Ann still felt like a shitheel. She touched Martin’s hand as he continued to massage her shoulder. How long could he remain so forgiving of her quick temper and lack of forethought? She’d practically accused him of cheating on her, which was the laugh of all time, considering what she’d done last night with…
Milly, she remembered.
She felt horrible keeping the truth from him. If it were with another man, he’d be justified to end the relationship right now. But with another woman? What would he do if he knew? What would any man do?
She wanted to tell him, but what on earth could she say?
“I’m going out back for a while,” he said, and picked up his pad and pen. She didn’t have time to say anything. “I’m working on a great poem, my magnum opus,” he went on with his mysterious poet’s enthusiasm. “So far it’s a hundred stanzas.”
“Happy writing,” she offered.
Alone now she felt even more of a shitheel. She’d never expressed any active interest in his writing because she didn’t know how to. That, and what she’d almost wrongly accused him of, made her feel very low, and lower still considering her lewd foray with Milly.
Milly, she thought again. What would she say next time she saw her? She dreaded their next meeting. But she’d have to see her soon, to check on her father. This morning, Dr. Heyd had told her that her father seemed to have stabilized from last night’s blunder, but that could change any minute. Shivering, she remembered the nightmare, the vertigo, and the new words the dream had whispered in her mind. Dother fo Dother But what could that mean? The words made no sense. Then she remembered where they’d come from: they’d been some of the words her father had written last night when he’d come conscious. The dream had merely transplanted the words into its own scape.
That made her feel a little better. But there was still Milly. Total recollection evaded her. In pieces, she remembered what they’d done together, and she even remembered how much she’d liked it. But what had happened afterward? Ann had wakened on the couch, downstairs, not in Milly’s bed.
In dread, she went up the stairs, down the hall. She could hear the awful heart monitor. She stepped in and stopped. Milly was taking her father’s blood pressure. Innocuously, she looked up. “Oh, hi, Ann.”
Hi, Ann? Ann thought. Ruffled, she gazed at the nurse.
“What’s wrong?”
Ann cleared her throat. “Milly, I want to talk to you about last night.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Milly perkily replied. She looked fresh, rested, bereft of taint. “Your father’s fully stabilized.”
“That’s not what I’m referring to,” Ann proceeded. “I mean, you know…last night.”
“What about last night?” Milly casually removed the cuff from Ann’s father’s thin arm. She wore her typical nurse’s outfit, the white dress, white stockings, and white shoes. She acted as though nothing were amiss.
“Are you all right?” She came right up to Ann, put her hand on her forehead. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine, Milly, I just—shit! I’m really bothered about what we did last night.”
Milly laughed softly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I went right back to bed after we stabilized your dad. I slept till three a.m., then Dr. Heyd woke me up so he could go home.” Her concerned look deepened. “Oh, you must’ve had a fight with Martin last night.”
“What? What makes you say that?”
“I came downstairs a couple of times to get a Coke, and I saw you sleeping on the couch. You were tossing and turning. Bad dreams?”
Ann didn’t get it. “Milly, wait a minute. I slept on the couch last night? All night?”
“Of course, don’t you remember? I just assumed you had a fight with Martin, so that’s why you weren’t sleeping with him.”
Ann gauged her next question. “Milly, did I come into your room last night?”
Milly gave her a canted look. “My room? No. Why?”
Ann stared, fully confused. Then Milly said, “You poor thing. You mustn’t have slept well at all. Do you feel okay? You don’t seem to have a fever. Do you want me to get you something?”
But Ann felt better at once, much better. A dream, she realized. She shuddered at the imagery: Milly’s pubis in her face, her dirty talk, and the hideous black phallus. I dreamed the whole thing. “No, no,” she answered at last. “I’m fine, just a little mixed-up. I had the strangest dream last night.”
“It must have been a humdinger,” Milly responded. “The way you were tossing and turning on the couch. I was a little worried.”
“I’m fine,” Ann repeated. “I’ll talk to you later, I’ve got some errands to run.”
“Okay. Bye.”
Ann nearly skipped out of the room. The dream had been so intense she’d actually thought it was real. Knowing now that it wasn’t made her jubilant. What do you say about that, Dr Harold? I’m not a latent lesbian after all.
Back downstairs, she stopped on the landing. She looked down. More steps descended to the fruit cellar, which she’d seen her mother locking yesterday. Ann felt piqued. Her recurring nightmare of Melanie’s birth originated at the bottom of those stairs, where she’d given birth to Melanie for real seventeen years ago. Suddenly, she wanted to go down—she felt she needed to, if for no other reason but to confront the landscape of the nightmare. Perhaps if she saw it again, after all this time, she might realize what it was that distressed her subconscious to this extreme. What harm could there be?
She went down the stairs, feeling suddenly ill. Each step down showed her another detail of the nightmare. The hands straying over the pregnant belly. The hovering double-orbed emblem. The cloaked figure standing between her legs waiting for her to deliver the newborn Melanie. And the arcane words: “Dooer, dooer.” Ann quickly decided she didn’t want to go back into this room, yet she felt she must. She felt it contained some secret she needed to know. She could not explain the compulsion.
She turned the knob and swore. The door was still locked. It infuriated her. Why on earth did her mother insist on keeping this door locked? It was just a fruit cellar.