Dearly Departed
for MJF
Anti-‐Copyright 2012 Mackinaw Spoon
NERE PRESS, Stl MO I am indebted to Tommaso Landolfi
Author’s Note This text has been lifted from an account by the biographer of Nikolai Vassilevitch, an account concerning the gentleman’s late wife⎯I am thanking the ghosts of Mr. Butchell and Ms. Acker. At an open window, I am experiencing the dazzling hammer of the sun as it swells ever larger in the sky in its terminal swing toward my hangover.
Behind me, my friend, my sister, slipped already from sheets, has left the bed empty. A world I have known has vanished like my smooth face, like my first pair of shoes. I know not who this is about to be burned up. Stl, MO August 31, 2012
He loves me. He so loves me. He loves us both. At this point, relieved of the ghastly affair of Martin Vault-Blench’s wife, I admit to being defeated by heaven and hell. Yet I blister from the need to tell this story, one that raises in me such questions. Have I the right to disclose that which is unknown to the whole world, which my Master himself keeps hidden from the world (and he has his reasons), and which I know will give rise to every kind of malevolent and fearful misunderstanding? Something, moreover, which will certainly offend all sorts of lying, hypocritical people, and probably the honest ones too⎯if there are any left
Have I any right to disclose something before which I recoil? before which I yearn? before which I blossom? The fact remains: I am a biographer and so have unyielding obligations. Though I am no longer in a position to carry on with this worldly notion of earning a living I believe that each datum of so towering a genius will be of value to us and to future generations, and so I will not conceal that which in any case has no hope of being fairly and wisely judged until the end of time.
(Moreover, what right have I to condemn? Is it given to me to know, not only what intimate needs, yes, but even what wider and higher ends may have been served by the deeds of a lofty mind which perchance may appear vile? No, indeed, for I understand now: “It is true,” someone once said, “that I also must die, but for quite different reasons.”) I will come now to what I know beyond doubt, and can prove beyond question, about this matter which will never⎯dare I pray⎯cease to be.
x Primarily a dentist, Mr. Vault-‐Blench advertised in Jetsam Chronicles⎯“Real or artificial teeth from one to an entire set, with superlative gold pivots or springs, also gums, sockets and palate formed, fitted, finished and fixed without drawing stumps or causing pain.” His ad read on to include antique and restored prostheses, glass, ivory and porcelain eyes, minor surgeries, and taxidermy and apothecary services. Undisclosed was his penchant for magic, though many of his best clients must have
known this, as some left the glowing warmth of his study with little parcels, bags, or tiny jewelry boxes unaccounted for in my books.
Martin studied in his youth with Fogies Glow, a wretchedly ancient individual who traveled across Europe, the accounts of whom more approached folklore than fact. From Glow, Martin learned not only dentistry but every budding scientific practice having emerged from the shadows of the middle ages. What became evident was the dentist’s mastery of magic. Upon solidifying the fact of my appointment with the dentist, though I had published little and never before a book, and following pudding and tea, he gave me a tour of his home, my quarters, and the confines of his business on the first floor: the foyer, a sitting room, his study, and a few rooms where he received and treated his patients.
His enterprise, twenty years on Mount Street, had the atmosphere of a museum or boutique. Most everything was for sale. Even the mermaid. Curios adorned the walls and shelves of each space; they huddled in ornate cabinets or functioned as paperweights and centerpieces. In a corner of the foyer, rising taller than any man, a bear clawed the air, its head forever upward in a silent roar.
In the vast sitting room, skeletal birds suspended from the faraway ceiling turned slowly with wind stirring in from the windows. Long dead insects in glass boxes filled with soil, branch, rock or sand samples, appeared eternally fixed in one endeavor or another. Heads of game, portraits of the macabre and grotesque, extinct varieties of fish, fossils, artificial limbs, feet, hands, organic enigmas floating in jars of gold or milky liquid … The dentist’s enterprise had flair⎯his patients never objected, put to wait and wander the sitting room⎯this was an authentic expression of the man’s work.
Martin’s study, the size of which approached a ballroom, inspired awe (as did his sitting room), so possessed by the same spirit of perverse curiosity expressed elsewhere. Bookshelves were everywhere; there were more books than I’d ever seen before. Eternalized animals, archeological relics, idols, maps, pages from arcane atlases and globes of all sizes and other various objects displayed in cabinets were by no means crammed there. Brown leather chairs, small tables and oil lamps, surrounded a fireplace. Before the enormous hearth, a short distance, the skin of a tiger, its tail and head too, had been rendered a rug. Rugs, more than one would have imagined, had once been pieced and overlapped as to render no trace of the floor beneath. Small tables, upon which were displayed further curios and more books, accompanied by wooden chairs each, spread the length of bookshelves on one portion of the back wall where, otherwise, a few doors opened to patient rooms. A row of windows matching those in the sitting room, through which light poured during business hours, took up half of one long wall facing the street; attached were thick drapes, falling every evening, I was told.
In lieu of a proper desk, there were so many surfaces and trunks, no, there was no such desk; Martin had instead placed, in a corner of the room, a modest bed
clad in blankets and quilts. Present was a wardrobe, a mirror and a dresser upon which sat a pitcher, a basin, and a chamber pot. The dentist lived in that room.
In another corner of his study⎯the infamous and most bizarre object in all his collection, yes, the one all who entered his practice most wanted to behold⎯ Martin displayed a glass coffin. It stood upright, braced against the wall facing any who enter the room and perchance turn south. The panes of glass were framed with dark wood, hinged and latched together such that they could easily open and fold back. The lid was composed of one long pane.
He beamed in front of the body of his wife, who I mistook for being quite dead⎯No, she was dead, despite her warm complexion, her moist lips, her long brown hair instantly smelling of lilacs when he opened the lid … He roared with self-‐satisfied glee: You can’t see what I’ve done! I suspected he’d perfected some type of preservation, some process by which a cadaver might cease to deteriorate
We’ll come to that, he smiled, shutting the lid, but we’ve much to discuss before I catch you up to my most recent successes.
x Let me say it at once: Marty’s wife is not living, not like any other woman is living. But quite simply, neither is she dead. Yes, she is not dead; and this will explain the perplexity, or even indignation, of certain biographers who come to be the intimate friend of the Master; or those who employ his services or often go to his home for company or parties or to prowl oddities where, although they have seen the dearly departed, they have not once seen her breathe; from this they will deduce all sorts of disgraceful and gruesome complications⎯yes, clinical and criminal
… No, good people, everything is always simpler than it appears. But I don’t have long. I must write quickly.
No one else has seen her breathe because she cannot breathe, or to be more precise, she can only breathe in certain conditions⎯as you will see⎯and it has always been except once, in tête-à-tête with Marty. So waste no time with any cheap or empty refutation but come at once as to exact as complete an assessment as possible of the being or object in question.
x For three years, I read his letters, journals and diaries; books he passed me, ones he wrote; scads of scientific articles … Laboriously, I took notes and composed drafts of his accounts. I’d come to know, and yes, blushing, admire Marty so very much. Every two months, I presented my drafts. Shortly thereafter, he’d kindly return them with notes, and we carried on.
I assisted in the business, handled sales, prescriptions, and the appointment
books. This created much opportunity for me to come into contact with the stories and fascinations of many patrons, patients, clients and loiterers. Quite a few of these odd tales, over the years, simply baffled me, so planted in the supernatural they were. No one had seen Marty’s wife breathe, but, always, with a hushed tone glance over the shoulder, they said they’d heard rumors. I once joked that an infant’s head, the remnant of a baby born with extreme deformations, pointing to a jar on a shelf in the dentist’s voluminous sitting room, often cried in the middle of the night. There have been times I graciously, because the people wanted it, added a little mystery or suspense to my stories so as to elevate the persona of Mr. Vault-‐Blench.
x Most evenings, I dined with Marty. We’d begun to cook together, clean up together. It had become a source of some pleasance, this intimacy between us. I had come to know much about Marty (nearly enough to fill a biography).
Some nights I walked Hyde Park hoping to sight deer; others I read; but mostly I wrote, and wrote, and wrote about Martin Vault-‐Blench. He rarely left his home. Occasionally, there were invites to dinner parties, and I accompanied him; too there were requests for his presence on a scientific or medical panel or to deliver a lecture, but he usually retired to his study every night after we dined.
Occasionally, he drank; but it was on these rare occasions he did it for days. He once closed shop for a week, infrequently emerging from his study; this created stress for me explaining when patients who’d seen the cancelation notice outside began pounding on the door, The dentist has taken ill … Such times, I imagined him going mad in there. I knew how tortured he was, and yes, it was such times I wanted desperately to take the role of nursemaid; but I struggled dwelling on his preference for the dead body of his dearly departed to that of any living female. He talked to himself, sometimes weeping, sometimes roaring, on these occasions for, perchance I walk downstairs, bound for the kitchen and pass the closed study doors, I often heard his voice escaping Forbidden was I to enter the study at night. It was his sanctuary.
But I often lingered, slipping into the longing of which returns one to the days of her youth. For it was true: I was young enough to be Marty’s daughter, and regarded, not as unpleasant or unattractive, no, I’ve had my share of suitors, but perhaps as past what most would consider a marrying age. Most mornings the tea was ready as I descended the stairs, sunlight lighting already through windows, the doors of his study open and inviting … We ate fruit or bread or pastries while going about the business of opening shop. One morning, early, having risen before the sun, (as I was apt to do but this morning, and for no particular reason, I dressed and went down early) I saw Marty standing
in the foyer, weeping in the dark. No, I could hear him but I could not see his face for the blue hour yet to be upon us; he was a silhouette. My sudden presence shocked him, this evidenced by his taking a few steps back; he uttered my name and as I approached even closer, he edged toward his study. I could see upon his face, in his eyes that were now lightly aglow from the fireplace, tears Yes, his study doors were open and from its interior, endowed with shadows like tar, light from the blaze on the hearth reached out. I inquired as to what could be the matter, (obviously this was not the first time I’d seen Marty weep, no, often when he drank, he was maudlin) knowing in my heart he was crying for his dearly departed. Marty quickly composed himself, wiped his face, and said something to the effect of the past returning to him at times.
Standing just outside the study, as I’d taken his hands and attempted to deeply penetrate his gaze, as any woman might, I heard the wife release a fart. No, we both heard it, and though the look on my face must have been something, he shook his head and excused himself, shutting the doors of the study behind him. It was after this singular morning that I began to grow apprehensive of the woman.
x Marty’s so-called wife is no ordinary woman. Even in death, she’s ravishing. Since women’s skins are not all the same, I should specify that Mary’s is an olive tinted skin, like that of certain brunettes. It, or she, it’s hardly necessary to add, is purely feminine. Her face is unadorned in color, powder, blush or lipstick. Her hair spreads wavy around her, curling and twisting near her waist. She’s dressed in a white funerary gown, and she’s barefoot.
x One night, following that on which my curiosity regarding the dead woman took its turn to agitation, Marty exited his study in agony, lurching with an empty bottle, catching himself against the wall. It was on such a night I had sought some tea and was in the midst of making the stairway when he looked at me and said, I’m growing tired, adding something to the effect of his behavior After all, not very respectful … He loved his dead wife in his own way⎯however inscrutable it may have remained, he loved her; but which her did he love, the memory or the object? I’d become preoccupied with searching out a moment to confront him. For a year we’d been stuck at January 14, 1775, the day Mary succumbed to an illness the nature of which had yet to be revealed. It wasn’t my intention to accelerate toward the goal of any biographer; I’d become fond of Marty, yes; but also it was true, I wanted to finish my book. I wanted to make my Master proud yet … something, what had he said, a recent success … What’s transpired these last eight years?
I’d become fraught with anxiety for the gap yawning before me, rendering me incapable of finishing the text. (And I wanted to lift from me this awful suspicion that so inspired a type of childlike fright.) I saw the time wasn’t right. I helped him upstairs due to the fact that the sun had long been down and my entry to the study was not permissible. He rejected undressing, and collapsed onto my bed. He instantly fell into sleep. How could I suggest he was satisfied with the dead woman while, in a certain sense, yes, it was true, such a thing appeared as having slipped from the reservoir of his capabilities? The frequency had increased, these bouts of drink and solitude … So curious was I as to how one could spend each day with the body of a corpse, yes, a terminal reminder that one’s beloved had crossed the threshold of this coil … I moved next to him, awake finally to the emotions incinerating me.
x The next morning the dentist awakened me with his mouth, with soft yet ever impassioned kisses (one of his hands had seized a breast). Groggy then very excited, I returned his advances most eagerly. It was Sunday morning and so, as the saying goes, we had all the time in the world.
x What followed was a season of sustainable bliss. Endlessly, all the summer, we made love. Marty had begun to sleep in my bed, to hold me at night. The proximity of his body next to mine was such that, yes, my dreams too were saturated by Marty. Every time he opened my legs, and thrust inside me, he stoked a fire ever higher, sufficient as to bring me to evaporate. The taste of his mouth, and yes, the taste of his sweat, was potent like wine divined by Bacchus himself. We climbed all over one another, opening every secret source of pleasure. We laughed and moaned, love making. I lightly brushed his body with the tips of my fingers after, since the sensitivity of the body remains quite high after the act of love. His gooseflesh spurred from me smiles and joy, for so satisfying was his company.
There was passion I’d not previously known. His pheromones washed over me like some narcotic. I would say I was constantly dreaming if I hadn’t completely given myself to the ridiculous hope that we should share the rest of our lives
x
Deep into August, a distance maneuvered between us and I had begun to feel silly, yes, foolish to think that one could halt the rotation of the seasons. With fall⎯yes, autumn had not ceased being the single season bringing me to weigh against myself certain life altering decisions⎯Marty had again taken to drink. One night, in my room, reeking, he burst into tears immediately following his deposit between my thighs. He rolled off me and sat up, swinging his feet to the floor. He expressed a notion regarding his immense guilt for having strayed so far from his wife. As perplexed as I was, I wrapped my arms around him, pressing my breasts into his back. I said all was well, adding something to the effect of how natural it was for feelings such as these he must possess to linger in the heart
… I said Mary would want him to move on, to enjoy what life offered him, to love another. I suggested she might be smiling down on him from heaven He jolted away from me then, standing and turning to face me, You don’t know, my God, what I haven’t told you! and he raced from my quarters. I was torn apart, obliterated, and attempted to follow but, at the bottom of the stairs, I saw him take to his study … I rapped on the doors and hollered through that I understood, I would be waiting for him.
x We worked the next two days but spoke very little. The burden of composure possessed me. Inching, I reached out to Marty, but my expressions failed to stir from him any emotion. The dentist simply shook his hands, as if exasperated.
I’ll come around, he offered. I politely informed him that it could be construed as improper for him
to smell of alcohol during business hours. These two days, he failed to join me for dinner. I pecked at quickly assembled
morsels. I wondered if he would return … At night, lying in bed, I attempted, like a telepath, to shoot my thoughts into his head as one pulls and releases arrows. I couldn’t sleep, this being a mere second night without his presence; and perhaps, if I was being honest, I’d hoped for some signal from him on my way to fetch tea from the kitchen⎯And I did hear something … I was instantly overcome with a necessity to transgress that simple request I’d never before considered …
Neither could I identify that which so compelled me to open the doors to his study nor could I keep from doing it … I tiptoed to the doors, dropped slowly to my haunches, and pressed my ear against one of the keyholes.
He was talking to himself again, as one talks to something that is not present; but he was addressing his wife. I was certain he was drunk but I listened and began to articulate a confession … Marty had begun to speak of me, yes, weeping, apologetically expressing passion for another … Though his voice quickly faded, sideways from the crackling of wood in the fire, I distinctly heard the coffin squeak open. I heard shuffles and grunts the likes of which belong to a man beneath a heavy
load. More silent still, and following a brief moment wherein I heard nothing, the sounds of his bed, a loosening, the rustling of, what my mind already was screaming, a funerary gown …
My hands trembled turning the knobs, slowly pushing the doors as to allow but a thin stripe in order to peer inside … In the light of the fire, on Marty’s bed, was his dearly departed. I saw her gown hung on a door of the wardrobe. They were both naked. Marty’s back faced me, as he faced her standing at the foot of the bed.
He took hold of her ankles, and pulled her body close to him. As he released his grips, with her knees now at the edge of the bed, her legs dropped to the floor. Her arms spread out as a result of this movement. Her head had turned toward the drapes.
I witnessed Marty open her legs, take hold of her hips and move very close. His buttocks clenched. He slowly plunged but a few times before … And I was certain it was by some carnal rhythm that her body had begun to move as I grew crushed and revolted the woman’s legs, her arms slowly wrapped around his body As she lifted her head from the bed to face him, her hair thick as shadows, I fled to my quarters
x … I reeled, hysterical, mad before the vanity, sitting on a stool, incapable of believing what my eyes had seen. I debated with my mirror. My face soon departed, finding my knees, and I quietly howled and wept. The moonlight from the window, rather than illuming the contents of my room, made them dark. I didn’t, no, I couldn’t sleep that night, vibrating I was as if a blizzard had suddenly devoured me. The next day, a Saturday, I remained in my room, refusing to open my door. I summoned a voice, as best I could, indicating I’d fallen ill when the dentist finally came up to inquire as to where I’d been … He politely apologized, said he understood given his recent, severe animosity, adding his best wishes for a speedy recovery and, obviously, his services as a doctor. Unfathomable, the depth in which I felt drowning. I was both surprised and revolted that he’d come to see me. I marveled at what, so few days before, had been the absolute opposite of disgust.
I stayed in bed all day, through the night. My brain, it seemed, was an insect in which a parasite had laid thousands of eggs now hatching, exploding the body of their vessel. These creatures moved over me. The weight of their population rendered me incapable of movement. My heart had grown heavy as an anchor plunged through me, plunged into the bed. So stifled were my lungs, I could hardly breathe, as when long in a run the limbs burn and the belly boils
… Such was the pain in my stomach, I’d awoken to a regurgitation neither prompting nor delivering its promise I was sick, and I was slowly coming to the fact that I must address with the dentist what I’d seen.
x
Sunday evening, I went downstairs and found Marty had prepared dinner. When he saw me, he urged me to sit at the dining table, scrambling to fetch me a plate. I insisted I wasn’t hungry, but would take some tea. He smiled, and the look, which once would have set my loins afire, instead gnarled my gut. Wait there, he said. He returned with the tea, which I took, and sat before me. Are you feeling better? he asked. I indicated that I very much needed some time to articulate my thoughts for, I confessed, I’d recently fallen witness to something that has subsequently left me utterly disturbed. His face plummeted into deep concern, and despite his most ambitious efforts, I revealed only that I would need another day or so to put into perspective that which I must address. He apologized, adding that he very much hoped that the gravity of whatever was the matter was not due to some act or another of which he could conceivably have been the source; he went on to extend additional regret at having injected such distance into our relations so abruptly; and pleaded for my forgiveness. I lowed my head, rising with my tea, and retreated to my room.
x Monday, endlessly grueling, found me unable to perform my duties with the pleasure or pleasance I once possessed. The burden of composure had not lifted, and I’d begun to tremble beneath its weight. Many people with whom I’d grown accustomed displayed worry or concern for me. I assured them that I was quite fine, and that this would pass. Marty had been asked to deliver a lecture that evening, and had expected my company. I’d completely forgotten and realized I’d not be discussing with him tonight the matter of his wife. I declined, saying that I was not yet feeling up to getting out. He said I should be there, that I was, after all, his biographer, and added something of a succulent meal to be served … I reminded him that I had read his notes, I had read his lecture; I allowed that all he need do was to pass along to me an assessment of the evening, his reception, and perhaps any written reviews should they arise; and I indicated that my appetite had quite departed from me. He scowled but, despite his obvious dissatisfaction, accepted my decision. He attempted much conversation between his appointments, but I, for the remainder of the day, would not speak to him. I didn’t even look at him. He assisted with the duties of closing and, before leaving for his lecture, cast me a wave I neglected to return.
x
I sat in the foyer on a bench next to the large bear⎯intrigued suddenly by the notion that it had once brought me chills. Who could say what source drives us to perform devilish acts? The dentist was a genius, a talented one. Who any more, I was begging no one, would have been capable of discerning evil from love? I couldn’t have plotted or premeditated what I accomplished next. I felt the will of the universe rising in me as I’d become little more than a marionette I walked to the kitchen. I slowly approached the study, opening the doors slower still. With he sun nearly down, only the faintest traces of light in through the windows, I walked to the fireplace, stoked what remained, and added a few logs. I stared into it, transfixed by what I did not know. I wanted to touch the flame, I wanted it so very badly but instead I meandered to the windows and unhurriedly dropped every drape. For a moment, I stood gazing at Mary, slipping from repugnance to rage. She was stunning, appearing very much alive as if she were sleeping. Night was upon us. I opened the lid of her coffin. I reached down and gathered the bottom of her gown, lifting it as to afford the movement of my hand to the woman’s cunt. My fingers brushed and tenderly pinched her vulva as one might the back of a kitten’s neck. I inserted two fingers inside Mary, and she wasn’t dry, and she wasn’t cold. I saw her eyes open. I saw her mouth gape, sucking in air. She took several quick breaths. She came to life in the coffin, and I went deeper. Mary’s hands braced the panels of glass beside her, and she dug against my hand with her body. Such was her moisture, I imagined the tips of my fingers wrinkling; eyes ever widening, a look of both horror and excitement rising on her face⎯quite powerless to frown⎯Mary asked, Are you the biographer? Using my hand to lead her, going deeper still, I walked Mary out of her coffin, as if she’d become a puppet. She placed her hands on my shoulders, Why are you doing this? Where’s Martin? With my free hand, I produced the blade from my pocket, brought it to Mary’s throat and sliced it open. She gasped, gurgling, and seized her throat. Her blood didn’t jet, no, but it spilled, and there was so much of it. Her dress felt wet on my arm; blood washed past my hand. I expected her to die all over again, but she didn’t. I pulled my fingers from her, dropped her gown and staggered back. Mary dropped to her knees, but she didn’t die.
x Emboldened by an act I could not explain, I calmly descended the stairs the next morning. I hadn’t slept. I’d heard nothing in the night of the dentist or his wife, nothing on the stairs, nothing outside my door. I washed my face at the basin on my dresser, dressed, and went to face Marty. As I crossed the foyer, the study doors opened and he saw me. He wasn’t instantly angry, but I knew such an emotion must have been in him somewhere. I truly regret your actions while I was away last night.
I neglected to respond, staring at him instead. And so. He appeared defeated, fatigued. Place the cancellation notice outside.
Do not open the shop. I must now repair what damage you’ve done. I must rummage the attic for another gown. I must fit my dearly departed with a lace choker. You’ve certainly left your mark around here. And what would you have me do? He frowned at me then, rubbing his chin. Dine with me this evening, and I will confess it all. You will have this most recent chapter of my life.
x I spent the day writing mostly, with tea, water, croissants and berries beside me. The weather was most pleasing, so I elected to sit outside the kitchen beneath a gazebo. The grass was cool. I flattened my dress beneath me.
Composure was no longer a burden. The desire to flee from such an experience was not present in me. Though I too felt defeated, if I must be honest, I had nowhere else to go. This had been my home, for years all I knew.
x As the dining hour approached, I made my way back to the house. I found the table adorned with a fine meal, not extraordinary but completely prepared without me. There appeared before me a pot of stew, potatoes, bread, jelly, and pudding; Marty had set the table for us. Please, he whispered very close to my neck, causing me to flinch, do sit. He’d approached me from behind, and passed in front of me to offer a chair. I sat, and he placed a napkin in my lap. He disappeared into the kitchen for but a moment and returned with a tray, a steaming teapot and two cups. He poured our tea, sat mine in front of me, and took his seat. He sipped at the liquid that way one does when attempting to assess the temperature of a drink. Mmm, he nodded swallowed and, licking his lips, looked at me and said, I promised you an account of recent years. Yes, I agreed, having lifted and taken to my tea. Marty began by suggesting neither he nor any of his colleagues called to the house could explain what precisely was the matter with Mary. In December, she’d begun to experience headaches the caliber and duration of which often caused her to faint. Into January, with her symptoms ever more severe, she was struck with a fever that, simply, never went away. The dentist explained how very aware he was of Mary’s impending death He allowed the evening before she expired, a conversation between them inspired a pact On Mary’s deathbed, they performed a spell. All that was required of Mary was she be present and conscious. (Marty neglected to explain the remaining details of his magic.) The next evening, after she’d died, yes, he waited for the sun
to fall … He said it had to be at night, and her reanimation would last only so long as the sun remained absent from the sky. As you evidently know, he added,
if anything is inserted into Mary’s vagina, she will come back to us. I shuddered, and rose to refill my teacup. For eight years, I’ve struggled with what can only be deemed a necessary
misery. Tortured, you might say, yes, a tormented love; but love nonetheless. Look at what I’ve done, his voice had risen, I’ve kept a woman from dying! But neither does she live, I suggested, returning to my chair. She lives until dawn, he smiled, and yes, how I wish we could spend every hour with one another, but every night I go to her, for so many years now, she returns to me. What’s the matter? You look pale. Had he seen something in my face? I’d begun to feel quite strange, as if under the effects … I dropped the teacup; it slipped from my fingers. Yes, he said, I placed a small portion of a drug into your cup that has rendered you nearly paralyzed. You may feel as if you are going to fade from the room, but that side effect will rise no further than perhaps that which accompanies a bit of wine. The dose won’t kill you. He’d drugged me. I couldn’t move. My arms slumped off the table. So weakening were my legs that I slid out of my chair and fell onto the floor. Marty took a moment before he joined me. He’d gathered several jars and pouches and a pestle and mortar. He sat down next to me, removing dust, filaments, scabs of things from the pouches; using a dropper, he added whatever it was from the jars. He ground them together, looking at me, confessing his mad love for me but indicating that, despite the torture, he could never live without his wife. Tears burned my eyes.
I wanted to debate this fact; from the floor, I ached to remind him of the summer, of the season without Mary, but I couldn’t speak I’m afraid, I have no other recourse, he added, lighting the contents of the mortar and then quickly blowing out the flame. He dropped a bit of water into it, swished and stirred before repositioning himself and propping my head onto his knee; he pressed one finger against the back of my tongue and poured the stuff down my throat, all the while uttering an incantation in a language I could not decipher. My body retched but once, and he slapped my back. I felt none of this, except the slightest of sensations in my mouth, my throat, and my gut. Marty tenderly lowed my head. He frowned, and his eyes appeared in the midst of welling. My highest hope, he said, is that you understand when you awaken on the other side. I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant. He stood, walked away and again returned, sitting down, weeping now, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, and revealed a vial of clear liquid. He slowly uncorked the top taking a deep breath and said, This dose will kill you.
x
Am I mad too? That I don’t know, but what I do know, what I have seen with my own eyes, yes, what I have experienced⎯it is all true, and an account of deep grace
I awoke with Marty on top of me, inside me and I was already flowing. I felt like a flower unfolding beneath the sun. My first breath electrified me. As one shivers in the cold, I shook to warm life. Marty moved into me, not in and out, but deep and deeper. My legs climbed over him. My arms spun around his neck, and I grinded aggressively. As I lifted up, he placed his hands on my shoulder blades. He kissed me, I kissed him, and he was weeping, saying to me how sorry … I shushed him, my own eyes welling, and said, You have attained your highest hope.
After we made love we held one another until he fell asleep. I rose then and walked to the dearly departed. Marty had replaced the ruined gown with another; though not quite as fancy as the first, it too was white, and entirely appropriate. Around her neck, hiding my handiwork, he had fastened an ornately embroidered choker. She’d bathed, washed her hair, looked beautiful as ever; Mary was still Mary. And that is the sum of my knowledge of Marty’s wife. In the final chapter, to be added at a later date, one I will endeavor writing any night so lofty a genius chooses to revive me and explain the consequences of my account; I shall tell what happens next, and I pray that will not be the end of his career, or his life⎯I pray it will be of his fame.
I hope I have thrown sufficient light on a gruesome matter, yes, but one in unveiling his secret, I might have persuaded you, good people, not to leap to hasty conclusions but to sit, yes, one over which to endure serious contemplation … What else can be the goal of a humble biographer such as the present writer but to serve the Master who is the object of her study? And dawn will soon arrive. I don’t know where I belong … I’ve yet a coffin. So I’m going to stow my pages now, and join the dentist in his bed.
56 Mount Street 1783
Also by Mr. Spoon
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Girlie Night 3: The Script Cracked, 1953
Fabula Love in the Desert