The Bighead (14 page)

Alexander nodded, sipping the wine
which was sweet and refreshing. “It’s a mess. Eventually I’ll be
moving in there to oversee the repair work, and commuting to and
from Richmond a few days a week for my regular duties.”

“
Did you have trouble
finding it?”

Alexander stifled a laugh. “Just a
bit, but I know the way now.” Actually, he’d driven for hours, in
search on Tick Neck Road, of all names, which, as it turned out,
was not on the county map. “You probably know more about the abbey
than I do,” he suggested. “The diocese didn’t have much to brief me
with. Do you know how long it’s been closed?”

An expression of brief contemplation
crossed Annie’s face. “Oh, I’d say they closed it in ’75 or so,
twenty years.”

“
It looks more like a
hundred and twenty.” During his excursion, he’d found essentially a
vast vacant hulk, festooned by cobwebs thick as rigging ropes. It
hadn’t been anything like he would expect; the word abbey projected
a certain cliche—he imagined a great stone edifice atop a hill,
something medieval in appearance. What he’d found instead was a
stark, cedar-shingled building with narrow windows and a canted
roof, nestled in the midst of a dense forest. Most oddly, the
building’s actual age was given away by its outer walls: unlikely
logs gapped by yellowed mortar, but then Alexander remembered
Halford’s expeditious briefing—the abbey was first built in the
late 1600’s, and its original exterior remained. A small bell
tower, though, was the only thing “churchlike” about it. Inside
proved labyrinthine, a single story of dark halls and boarded up
doorways, and Halford wasn’t kidding when he’d said there was no
electricity. Alexander burned up three sets of flashlights
batteries during his excursion, and he saw no evidence even of
power lines ever being connected.
A
dump,
he concluded.
And it’s my job to fix it up. Yeah, that’s what I call God’s
work. They send
me
to fix up their messes…
Behind the
building, in moonlight, a lake glimmered.

“
I’ll need some supplies
rather quickly,” he said. He didn’t hesitate to light a Lucky when
he noted that the old woman had lit a thin white pipe. Oddly, she’d
placed a turtle shell on the table for an ashtray. “I’ll need
alcohol lamps, flashlights, some minor cleaning supplies, things
like that. I trust there’s a general store or something like that
in the vicinity?”

“
Oh, yes. I’m sure Hull’s
will have everything you need. Goop, my handyman, will take you
tomorrow. It’s just in town, not far.”

“
And any list of
construction contractors you could provide me with would be most
appreciated.”

“
Father, Luntville’s chock
fulla fine, strong men who need work, and they’ll work their hearts
out, I kin guarantee.”

Of course. Perhaps that explained the
woman’s enthusiasm over his being here. This entire region had been
racked by grievous unemployment for a decade, close to fifty
percent, he’d heard. Alexander, on the purse of the Church, was
bringing jobs to dole out like an ice cream truck full of
fudgecicles. The woman intrigued him, though, and he sensed her
enthusiasm had deeper roots. Perhaps she was one, like many, who’d
retained her sense of faith in a faithless society; to her,
Alexander was a symbol of obscure power and truth. And, yes, she
was quite attractive for her age: high-bosomed, shapely, keen and
lean with no trace of the physical dilapidation that poor rural
life heaped typically on the elderly. She’d aged, instead, in fine
grace. Alexander hoped the years would treat him as
well.

He finished his wine, stubbed out his
butt. “Well, Annie, please know that the Church most appreciates
your hospitality and lodgings. And thanks for the wine. I think
I’ll be turning in now—it’s been a long day.”

“
Well, like I said, Father,
it’s great ta have ya.” She rose spryly, led him to the foot of the
stairs. “And ya won’t be disturbed none, either. Only other
boarders are my niece Charity and her friend Jerrica, who’s a big
city newspaper reporter.” Then she gave him his room number. “And
if ya need anything, just come ta Annie.”

Alexander smiled. “I will, thanks. And
good night.”

He trudged up the banistered stairs,
passing framed portraits and still lifes. The house seemed to tick
in its quietude. He proceeded down the carpeted hall as directed,
and paused momentarily at one of the closed doors. He
heard—something…

Murmuring, a woman’s. Ever faint but
undeniable. Modest utterings of what could only be described
as…torment.

Someone,
he thought without a doubt,
is having a nightmare.

(III)

Charity’s dreams flashed along with
the silent lightning in her window. And terror flashed too, like
vivid slices of glass-sharp imagery. She tossed in her sleep,
routing the sheets, her sweat so profuse that it stuck her
nightgown to her skin like damp tissues.

In the dream, men were making love to
her, or so she thought. All the men she’d ever been to bed with
were in bed with her now, one after another, different bodies,
different faces, but each act of love was gruelingly the same, not
real love at all but something short-circuited, perfunctory, and
always so pale compared to what she expected. Steve, Johnny, Tim,
Rick, and all the others, and lastly Nate. In the warm darkness,
their faces appeared above her like a flitting deck of cards, and
so did their bodies. It always began so nicely at first, always.
She could see their penises, wet from her preludial offer of
fellatio, each one as different as their faces. Some long, some
short, some thick, some thin. And one, Nate’s, beautifully large.
Each time, Charity knew she was in love, until…

One after another, they
entered her. She could barely feel the penetration but she didn’t
care. She cared about
them,
not the responses of her sexuality. She felt so
charged up anyway, and the sensation of a desirous, naked man atop
her was all the feeling she needed. They slid their erections into
her, began to make love. Then—

It all fell apart.

Each time, they stopped after only
moments. It was the look on their faces which startled her most:
expressions of sudden perplexion melding to disappointment. What
was wrong? One by one, they pulled out of her and left, claiming
“Must’ve drunk too much,” or “I guess I’ve just been too stressed
out at work,” or “Just not into it tonight,” or any other excuse
they could concoct. It didn’t make sense. Everything up until now
had gone wonderfully, and it all turned to rot once in bed. And one
after another, they left her there, wan-faced and with tears in her
eyes.

Every time.

Then the dream turned to hideous
nightmare. The quiet lightning flashed and flashed. More men came,
men she’d never met. Men from the future? Was this nightmare some
mode of her psyche predicting similar failures to come? Grunting,
faceless, they roughly fornicated with her, slapping her, pulling
her hair and mauling her breasts, only to similarly abandon the wet
confines of her vagina, electing instead to straddle her chest and
masturbate. Their hands shucked vigorously up and down over their
penises until their sperm jolted out and sopped her face, stung her
eyes, fell saltily into her agape mouth. Then, like the others,
they left her in the dark.

Charity tossed and turned. The sheets
wound about her body like pythons. The lightning continued to flash
soundlessly.

And in the nightmare’s soundlessness,
she began to hear a voice, like someone talking on the other side
of a wall, or perhaps on the other side of her soul.

Yes, yes.

A voice…

(IV)

Another dream, in another room. Just
images, just words.

Her own words.

The broth…

And her own hands, extruding her
breasts.

Thumb and forefinger pinched the
nipple, squeezed it…

Geraldine,
Geraldine…

The match flared in the grainy
dream-darkness…

I’m so sorry…

Then the flame touched the pinched,
pink nipple till it began to burn, to sizzle…

(V)

They’d heard voices when they snuck
back in. “Shhh,” Jerrica whispered to Goop just as he would open
his big hick mouth. “We have to be quiet.”

The voices were coming from
the parlor, she discerned.
It’s Annie,
and—someone.
But who? And what would Annie
be doing up this late anyway? She’d been asleep earlier. But there
was another voice, which Jerrica couldn’t make out at
all.

“
Come on,” she whispered to
Goop, still holding his big redneck hand.
That’s all I need,
she
thought,
Annie catching me sneaking around
her boarding house at one in the morning, after having just fucked
her handyman in the bushes.
She grit her
teeth, took a breath, then scooted through the den. Goop followed
her like an obedient puppy. When they passed the parlor, she noted
two shadows of people sitting at the table. She smelled Annie’s
pipe and cigarette smoke, and also glimpsed half-full wine glasses
on he table. Who could Charity’s aunt be entertaining at this
hour?

She left the thought, and
quickly mounted the steps, Goop in tow.
Thank God!
she thought once they got
to the top without being seen. Then Goop blurted, “Aw jeeze, Miss
Jerrica, that were really—”

“
Shhh!” She tugged him
quickly down the hall, stopped at his door. “Go to bed now” she
continued to whisper, like a mother scolding a child caught up too
late. In too many ways, in fact, Goop
was
a child: no depth, infantile
sensibilities, no introspection at all. But of course, those
weren’t exactly the traits she’d been looking for out in the dark
back yard…

“
Got to bed now, Goop.
Goodnight—”

“
Aw, Miss Jerrica,” he
faltered, his big face stamped with a dopey, gushing smile. He
affectionately clasped her hands in his own. “Ya knows, you’s
really do mean a lot ta me, an—”

She pecked him quickly on the lips,
pulling away. “It’s late! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She left him with his lovelorn grin at
the door, slipped quickly through her own and closed it.

Shit,
she realized,
that big stupid kid has
fallen in love with you! What a headache!

And what a headache it
would no doubt continue to be for the rest of her stay. Dealing
with it would be no picnic, to be sure.
I’ll just have to avoid him, politely put him off—

At least the sex hadn’t
been bad, though, but then, to Jerrica, there wasn’t really any
such thing as
bad
sex. The moment, and its acuity, had overwhelmed her as it
always did. All else on her mind had been wiped clean by his sudden
shirtless presence on the back porch. She’d seduced him in place,
about hauled him into the deeper regions of the moonlit back yard,
where they’d fucked in the dirt for an hour, like intent animals.
Goop didn’t know much, but that scarcely mattered to Jerrica. Her
sexual fuse was very short; her legs and sex were quivering before
she even got her nightgown off, and her hand, roving up in the
darkness, felt that he was already fully erect. She pulled him onto
her, into her, her breaths desperate and hot in this brazen
immediacy. His corded, muscular weight squashed her into the
ground, a precursory sensation she always craved. He whined
childlike and came in a matter of a minute or two, but by then
Jerrica had already come twice, her drenched sex pulsing off as she
groaned and her toes curled in the dirt. “Aw, shucks, Miss
Jerrica,” he stupidly tried to apologize. “I’se didn’t mean ta git
off so’s fast, I’se just couldn’t help—” Her hands pushed up on his
massive chest silenced him; she pushed him onto his back,
unhesitantly tasting the slick meld of his semen and herself when
she admitted his penis into her mouth. She sucked him voraciously,
playing with his testicles and perineum as she did so. Leaning over
his groin, her ass jutting in the air, she felt the hot wallop of
his sperm run out of her vagina and drool down the inside of her
leg. She wanted more, more of everything she needed. Her breasts
felt like hot rocks, tipped by the burning points of her nipples.
His erection bloomed back in her mouth, in only minutes, after
which she straddled his groin like a horse saddle, her sex wet and
so aching with need she felt tears in her eyes. Goop sported a
fair-sized member, which stabbed her at once. She rode him roughly,
with wild vigor. They were manic shadows in the night, gulping the
humid heat open-mouthed, their nostrils flared at their sexual
scents along with the lush aromas of the flowers all about them.
Each descent of her spread hips skewered her deeper; his sandpaper
hands pawed her back as her breasts swayed, and she came twice
more, heaving, her own fluids running like an open tap.

Jerrica was maniacal now;
she climbed off to hastily arrange herself in the next position of
invitation: hands and knees. Goop’s erection pulsed upward with
each hard beat of his heart. He was just about to enter her again,
when she breathily demanded, “No, in my ass. I want it in my ass.”
“Buh-buh-b—” Goop stuttered. “Use spit,” she ordered. Goop
stuttered again, “But, Miss Jerrica, I ain’t never done that
before. I don’ts really know what ta do.” Jerrica frowned annoyed.
She spat on her fingers, reached back and lubricated her rectum,
then guided his glans to the spot. “Push,” she said. “Push it all
the way in. Don’t be gentle.” Her relief came like a snug bottle
being corked. Now his more-than-average size felt huge; it made her
feel absolutely
stuffed,
and that’s how she wanted to feel, that’s what she
needed. The slow thrusts heightened. One side of Jerrica’s face
nudged back and forth in the dirt. She reached between her legs and
alternately squeezed his testicles and plied her clitoris until the
fever of her need rose to a boiling point. The succor of her own
fingers combined with his girth crammed to the hilt had her
squirming, every muscle flexing. She drooled in the dirt as she
came, then sighed at the feel of his own orgasm flooding her
bowel…