The Glimpsing (14 page)

It always begins like this, his body, cart-wheeling above the circle of the earth, completely bare beyond a golden towel draped loosely at his waist.
 
It is both welcomed and unwelcomed.
 
It is the dream.

It recurs every three or four days, a visitor that first knelt beside him when his obsession for Portia was just beginning to bloom.
 
She’s gone now, out of his life forever, but the obsession still remains, still smolders in his mind,
still
stirs the dream to life.

His gyroscopic cartwheeling slows, and then he feels a smooth shift in his equilibrium.
 
He begins to sink toward the earth, his body inexorably drawn to the dark room, where this time, he knows he will have her.

He falls, his back to the earth, his hands outstretched as if he were upside down on a cross.
 
His speed accelerates until he is plummeting through the air like a meteor.
 
Yet there is no sound, no rush of wind past his ears, nothing, just a muted silence, as still as a held breath.

He watches as the golden towel elongates above him, raging wildly, flapping like a flag in a furious gale.
 
It stretches up into the blackness, reaching for the stars, for what looks like miles.

He looks over his shoulder and sees the earth rushing toward him.
 
Soon the city lights of the city
appear,
then his neighborhood, finally his own estate.
 
And just before he hits, just before he smashes into the roof, his outrageous plunge abruptly halts.

He drifts downward, now with an eerie slowness.
 
His body passes through the roof, through the bedroom ceiling, as might a ghost through a wall.
 
He descends dreamily toward the bed.

He hits, and there is a tremendous bellow of sound.
 
Rose petals by the thousands erupt from the bed, rushing toward the ceiling in a great inverted waterfall.
 
His eyes widen in wonder, for this part of the dream is new.

The petals fall now, like strange red snow, covering the floor, sprinkling his body, so many that all is obscured.

And then darkness swarms everything.

He sees nothing, hears nothing,
senses
nothing, beyond the bed beneath his back.
 
Time passes.
 
More time.
 
And then there is a soft, almost indiscernible click.
 
The mirror opposite his bed first flickers, and then beams to life.
 
Within it, he sees the bedroom in which he lies, but not as it actually is, not shrouded in absolute darkness.
 
No, there it is fully illuminated, spectacularly.
 
Scores of small candles are everywhere.
 
They sit on the dressers, line the floors, dot the headboard; bathe the bedroom in a warm and inviting light.
 
He can see his reflection as he lies on a bed covered with an immaculate red spread.
 
His arms are at his sides, his legs fully extended.
 
The pillows on which his head rests are strawberry in color; the headboard is ebony, the end tables golden brass.

He marvels at the mirror, not understanding it, wondering how it can reflect a dark room so brightly.
 
He turns his head, first left and then right, confirming what he already knows: darkness to both sides.
 
Darkness everywhere.

He extends his hand, passing it in front of the mirror.
 
He sees nothing, no shadow, no silhouette, as if it is invisible.
 
And yet the mirror shows it all: his hand raised in the air, the way he passes it back and forth, even the shadow that falls onto his body.
 
Strange, he thinks.
 
Wonderful, he thinks,
then
lowers his hand away.

He peers up into the mirror, now searching the bedroom intently, knowing she is there.
 
He sees nothing.
 
He looks again, squinting, straining,
scanning
every inch of the frame.
 
Again nothing.
 
He laments.
 
His frustration rises.
 
 
But this is part of it too, he remembers.
 
Part of the dream.
 
Wait for it.
 
Just wait for
it,
and you’ll see.
 
Wait…

There, on the floor, at the base of the bed, hidden in the colors, hidden by the light: Portia.
 
She wears a feverish red dress.
 
A nervous thrill fills him.

She pushes herself up with her hands, rising with a slow, sensuous ease, as if from some accursed slumber.
 
She pauses,
then
stands to her feet, all in one smooth and haunting motion.

She stands before his reflected form, nearly eclipsing it.
 
The golden hair rushes over her shoulders, spills to the midpoint of her back.
 
Then, of
their own
accord, the straps of her dress slowly peel away.
 
They slide down her arms, going limp at her elbows.
 
Then the dress itself begins a slow path downward, exposing her back, the graceful bow of her hips, the pretty lace of her red panties.
 
It huddles in a circular pile at her feet.
 
She steps out of it.

He gazes excitedly as she steps forward, easing a knee to the bed.
 
A hand joins it, and then another knee, until she is crawling toward his reflection on all fours.
 
He cannot see her in the dark room, but he can feel her, the knee as it lands on the bed, the press of her hand falling near his ankle, the heat of her body as she crawls above him.

She
lays
atop him, her arms extending over his thighs, her chest covering his loins, her legs splayed out wondrously.
 
Her head falls to his belly.
 
In the dark room he feels its warmth, is aroused by its softness.

She first kisses his belly, then begins to nuzzle.
 
Finally she mashes her mouth into his flesh.
 
Passion tears through him.

Gradually she ascends, pleasuring the stack of his ribs, then the thick meat of his chest.
 
Her tongue slips in and out, moistening his skin, making it glisten as she glides along.

Her body now smothers his.
 
Her hair tickles his shoulders.
 
Her head bobs as she works at his neck, sucking, biting,
savoring
.
 
Her breasts mash against his chest.
 
Delicious sensations make him shudder.

She pulls away, pushing herself up, going to all fours again.
 
She then settles down, straddling him, like a dove resting on her eggs.

Now his hands move forward, roaming along her thighs.
 
He feels their firmness in the dark room, the weight of her body atop him, the ache of pleasure beneath the golden towel.

She stares down at him, measures him.
 
Then, with a deliberate slowness, she leans forward, seeking his lips.

Never before has the dream progressed this far.
 
 
Never before has he seen it so clearly.
 
This time he will have her, without resistance, without denial.
 
Finally, mercifully, Portia will be his.

Her lips pause
just beyond his own
.
 
His eyes fall shut, sealing off all sight of the mirror.
 
His mouth parts, waiting to taste her lips, to feel the contentions of her tongue.
 
He strains upward, trying to meet her, smelling the sweetness of her breath, sensing the heat of her mouth.
 
And then…

Something changed.

Jack could still feel the cushy warmth of Portia’s body as she straddled him, but the dream’s blazing sensuality had suddenly dimmed.
 
Its uncanny illogic now seemed to have been replaced with a chilling rationale, its pleasing vagaries with the cold hard lines of reality.
 
Yes, something had definitely changed.

He opened his eyes, expecting the mirror to hold the answer to this riddle.
 
To his surprise, however, he could not see the mirror at all.
 
What he did see was Portia’s dark and silhouetted form perched atop him.
 
Beyond that—and no less surprising—was what appeared to be the murky outline of his
bedroom.

“Portia?” he asked looking up, suddenly uncertain whether he was dreaming or actually awake.

"Not exactly," he heard her reply.

She sat unmoving for a moment, and then began to slowly lean forward.
 
As she did, her face gradually came into view, gently illumined by a hazy swath of moonlight coming in through the window.
 
Jack balked when he saw it, for it was not Portia’s face hovering before him, it was Rose’s.

He gasped sharply.
 
Realizing who—or what—was sitting atop him, he bucked his body wildly, launching her to his left.
 
He then rolled in the opposite direction, stumbling out of the bed and staggering all the way to the wall.
 
He leaned against it with his hands outstretched.
 
 
A gush of adrenaline made his heart pound.
 
His breath came in exhausted heaves.

“No!
 
No!
 
No!” he exclaimed, burying his face in his elbow and beating the wall with his fist.
 
He tried to assure himself that what he’d just seen had been nothing more than a delusion, just a byproduct of the erotic dream he’d been having.
 
“It’s not real,” he decried, trying to calm
himself
.
 
“It’s… not real.”

He took a few more deep breaths, these intentional, and when he thought that he’d finally relaxed enough, he slowly began to turn around.

What he’d hoped to find was a dark but very much empty bedroom, one devoid of the phantasm that had so violently aroused him from sleep.
 
But to his dismay, that was not what he saw.
 
Rose was sitting below the gallery at the base of the wall.
 
Her legs were drawn up slightly, and both palms were flat against the ground.
 
A diagonal swath of pale-gray moonlight sliced across her torso, irradiating the red dress to a fierceness matched only by a signature scribbled in blood.
 
Above her, perched like a crow, was the painting, which was once more devoid of her form.

Staring with both fear and amazement, Jack now tried to convince himself that this too was a delusion.
 
He must be having another bizarre instance of sleepwalking, dreamwalking, as Gabrielle had called it.
 
But believing that seemed like the height of absurdity.
 
He absolutely was not sleepwalking, and no part of the woman gazing so curiously at him had its genesis in a dream.
 
Everything about this was too sure, too certain, from the feel of her body against him when he’d first awoke, to the present coolness of the floor beneath his feet.
 
Somehow all of this was happening.
 
Somehow all of it was real.

Jack became deeply concerned then, not because Rose had appeared to him yet again, but because for the first time in his mortal life, he simply had no idea what was happening to him.

“You weren't expecting me, were you?" Rose said.

Jack stared, blinked,
then
only shook his head in resignation.

"That shouldn't surprise me.”
 
She paused, gazing up at him.
 
“But it does."

Jack’s tongue felt like it was made of lead.
 
"Why?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Because I thought that after what happened at Magnolia’s, you and I would have come to... an understanding."

Jack grimaced, looked away, and then looked back.
 
“That was your doing?”

“Of course,” she
said,
a hint of frustration in her voice.
 
She peered at him a moment longer, then said: “Seems I’ve got what I wanted."

"What’s that?"

"Your attention."
 
She grinned hellishly.

Jack shuddered.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Jack.”

“What’s... happening to me?”

“Something good.
 
I’m not here to hurt you.”

“What are you here for?” he asked bitterly.

“I have something you want.”

“Something I want?”

“Yes.”

“And what is that?”

“Consummation,” she said simply.

Jack shook his head, not understanding.
 
“What are you?”

“That’s not important, Jack.
 
It’s what I have that’s important, what I came to give you.”

“Are you a ghost?”

Rose giggled.
 
"Ghosts don’t exist, Jack.”

"A demon then?"

The giggle quickly faded.
 
"No.”

“Then what are you?”

She paused,
then
responded: “I’m your gift.”

“My what?”

“Your gift.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The painting Portia gave you is not the real gift, Jack.”
 
She met his eyes. “The real gift is me."

Jack frowned.
 
“And exactly what am I supposed to do with you?"

Rose slowly leaned her leg to one side, in such a way that the dress slid down, exposing the tender flesh of her inner thigh.
 
"I think you already know."

Jack reared in disgust.
 
Whatever fear he’d had now moved toward anger. "That’s absurd.
 
Portia sent you here,” his face soured terribly, “to sleep with me?"

"Yes.”

“And why would I ever do a thing like that?”

“Because you want it, Jack.”

“Want what?”

“Consummation.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You want consummation, with Portia.
 
You’ve wanted it for some time.
 
And I can give it to you.
 
I can give her to you.”

He was about to speak, but what she’d said made him hesitate. “You do want her, don’t you?” Rose asked.

Again, Jack hesitated.
 
He did want Portia.
 
His recurring erotic dreams were evidence enough of that.
 
But the idea that Rose could somehow get Portia to go through with it sounded absurd.
 
“And just how do you intend to give her to me, drag her back here kicking and screaming?”

At that the woman stood to her feet.
 
She sauntered over and stood in front of him.
 
He couldn’t help but notice that she looked even less like Portia than she had before.

“Let me show you,” she said.

Jack peered at her a moment, not fully understanding what she meant.
 
Then his eyes drifted beyond her face to the back wall, to the picture of Gabrielle in the gallery.
 
He peered at it for a moment… and then felt something within him, something that he had not even realized was there, lift away.
 
It was replaced by a stronger feeling, that same overpowering sensation that had made him caress Gabrielle’s face the night before.

Then a soft hand took hold of his chin.
 
Rose was steering his head back in her direction.
 
“Let me show you,” she repeated.

Jack grabbed her wrist and forced it down.
 
“Don’t touch me.”

Rose seemed surprised.
 
She looked over her shoulder, trying to detect what it was that had distracted him away.
 
She quickly identified Gabrielle’s picture, then turned back.
 
“She can’t help you, Jack.
 
Only I have what you really want.
 
I have Portia.”

“And what if I don’t want Portia?
 
What if I refuse?”

“Can you?”

Rose had spoken this with such high-handed arrogance that Jack found himself suddenly enraged. “What are you trying to say?
 
Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“Give me a moment, and I’ll be glad to show you.”

“No, thank you.
 
I think I’ve seen enough.
 
I’m afraid Portia wasted her time bringing you here.
 
I don’t need a gift,” he paused, gazing at the picture of Gabrielle, “when I feel like I already have one.”

Rose glanced over her shoulder at Gabrielle’s image once more, and then turned back, incredulous.
 
“You would refuse Portia…
 
for
her?”

“In a heartbeat,” Jack said.

Rose studied his face, her eyes darting back and forth.
 
“No,” she said, seemingly reassured.
 
“You’re lying to me again.”
 
She moved closer, raised her hand to his cheek, and whispered once more.
 
“Now let me show you.”

“No,” he said so sharply, so assertively that it came out like a sneer.

Rose gazed at him for several moments, and then, as if she’d suddenly become aware of something, her lips inched toward a smile.
 
“Gabrielle, she’s special to you, isn’t she?”

“Maybe.”

“And Portia isn’t… special?”

“No.
 
She isn’t.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.
 
That’s so.”

“Then tell me, Jack Parke, who were you dreaming about before I woke you?
 
Who were you making love to?”

“Who says I was making love to anyone?”

“I do.”

“And just how the hell would you know what I was doing in my sleep.”

“I know because I sat there watching you for some time.”
 
She leaned in slightly.
 
“And your body was telling on you.”

Jack scowled.

“Now who was it?” Rose asked in an
unmasked
taunt.
 
“Who were you making love to?
 
Was it Gabrielle?
 
Or was it Portia?”

Jack felt a bulge of rage growing within him.
 
“Shut up.”

“Gabrielle,” she repeated mockingly.
 
“Or Portia?”

“I said shut up!”

“Don’t worry, Jack.
 
You’re secret is safe with me.
 
But I would like for you to answer something.
 
If it wasn’t Gabrielle that you were dreaming about, then tell me, just how special could she be?”

Thoroughly enraged, Jack grabbed Rose’s arms and drove her back until they’d fallen on the bed.
 
He forced himself on top of her, pinning her arms above her head.
 
He said, “You’re my gift, right?”
 
He could feel Rose’s legs straighten in a clear effort to keep him from forcing himself between them.
 
She turned her head to the
side,
seemingly unable to face him, apparently terrified at the prospect of what he was intending to do.
 
“You’re here to sleep with me, right?”
 
He buried his face in her neck, sampling the flesh there, before
raising
up.
 
“What’s wrong?
 
This is what you came for, isn’t it?”
 
Rose strained her eyes shut.
 
He went at her neck again, kissing down toward the soft tissue of her breasts,
then
came up once more.
 
“Answer me, dammit!
 
This is what you want, isn’t it?”
 
She finally snatched her head back to him.
 
But when she had done so, Jack found
himself gasping sharply, for the face now staring up at him was not that of Rose’s, but a perfect representation of Portia’s.