Sacrifice Read online

  blah-blah-blah…

  So hubby’s not going to be home this weekend, huh? Steve thought. What a useful piece of information!

  The article had a photo of the esteemed Commodore Laurel and his wife.

  And his wife had looked pretty hot.

  Pretty damn hot indeed…

  Steve had merely looked up the name in the city phone book, and there it was–the Commodore’s address.

  Easy pickings, Steve thought.

  But first he felt like a quick preliminary pipe cleaning. Hence, the drag.

  The drag, he thought.

  A unique place. An eyesore. He pulled out of Citco and turned right. There was one right now, sitting on the bench advertising american pest service; Steve chuckled at the analogy. But this girl was black, and Steve didn’t like them black. Up at the corner of Lafayette, a blonde stood by a graffiti-marred wall, smoking a cigarette. Okay, she was white, but she was also so obese she barely looked human. No thanks. Steve passed, then shouted, “Eat much?” out his window. Several more black girls loitered past the hotel, jabbering at him. Niggers, Steve thought. They’re fuckin’ takin’ over. But then he pulled over at the big Plexi-covered bus stop. A thin white girl discreetly flagged him down. Cutoffs, halter, flip-flops, really dressing up tonight. “You a cop?” she asked after getting into the car. That was always the first thing out of their mouths, to beat an entrapment rap. “No, I ain’t a cop,” Steve said and nearly laughed, thinking, I’m a burglar, a rapist, and a murderer. Not a cop. “How much for some quick head?”

  “You want the blow-and-go, huh? Twenty bucks,” she answered. She had long, wheat-colored hair and was tiny, rack-skinny. Probably a crackhead, Steve deduced. He gave her a twenty, which disappeared like magic into her pocket.

  “Pull down to the end of the street,” she said. “The condo lot. Cops never go down that far.”

  Steve did as instructed, while her small hand found its way to his crotch, perking him up. He pulled into the parking lot, found a spot, then doused his lights and had his pants down to his knees a few seconds later. The scenario appealed to him. A dark parking lot, past midnight, a whore with her desperate face in his lap. He liked the ambience. She got to work right away, and it didn’t take long for her deft mouth to relieve him of his orgasm. He pawed at her small breasts through the halter. His knees shuddered.

  Boy, that was quick, he thought, and that was another thing he liked: transposing her desperation, using her mouth for a seminal receptacle. Yeah, he liked that a lot. She was a useless human being, and Steve had just helped her feel a little more useless. He liked the idea of contributing to the hell that must be this skinny addict’s life. She spat his semen out the window; then her thin face went wan when she turned back to Steve.

  He was pointing his small .25 automatic right between her eyes.

  “Change of plans, sister,” he said. “Give me back my twenty, and everything else you got.”

  She was shivering, trying not to show it. “Come on, man,” she said. “I need that cash.”

  “I know, and that’s why I’m taking it. So give it up unless you want your last stop of the night to be the city morgue.”

  The whore actually continued to hesitate. “Gimme a break, man,” she appealed again. “I worked all night for this money. If you rip me off, I’ll go into—”

  You’ll go into withdrawal, Steve finished for her. He loved it! This was the extent of her desperation. Here he was with a gun in her face, threatening her life, and she was still making a fuss. She’s got balls, he thought; he could almost admire her.

  Eventually she handed over the money. Looked like about two hundred, maybe a little more. Not a bad shake for a few hours’ work. Instead, she’d go back to her pimp empty-handed, get her ass kicked, get her face bloodied. No rock for you tonight, baby. Steve was proud of his accomplishments.

  But when she made to get out of the car, he stopped her

  “Hey, whore. You’re not leaving just yet. I’m feeling a bit randy tonight. You’re gonna give me another suck.”

  She sputtered under her breath. There was even a tear in her eye.

  He grabbed her head with one hand and pushed it down to his crotch. “You know what to do, so do it.” With his other hand he kept the gun pressed against her forehead; the implication was clear. “And no funny business down there. You even think about biting it, I’ll pop your junkie brains right out the window onto the street.”

  Steve relaxed back in the seat, enjoying her endeavors.

  What a great way to start the night, he thought.

  ««—»»

  The dream again.

  The black church, the chamber of lichen-covered rock, the consoling whispers, and the figure in black.

  And then—

  (Alice? Alice?)

  —the angel.

  “Dessamona,” Alice whispered to herself when she awoke. The luminous-green hands on the mantel clock read 3:15 a.m., and she could hear the sedate pulsings of crickets from outside. Stupid, she thought, remembering Holly’s mention of burglars. She’d left the French doors open. She wasn’t paranoid, but this was just plain dumb. A warm breeze off the bay eddied into the room when she got out of the four-poster bed and walked, nightgown flowing, to the balcony.

  She stepped out, the veranda’s new weather-guarded wood warm on her bare feet. Often, lately, she forgot that she even had a prosthesis, and for a moment she thought she could feel the warm wood on the bottoms of both feet. What had Holly called the phenomenon? Ghost-Limb Syndrome? Something along those lines. But the itching had subsided now that Alice gave it some thought. It was strange. She’d just been jerked awake in the middle of the night by her recurring morbid dream. She should be exhausted, but the only thing that had occurred to her just then was how good she felt.

  I haven’t felt this good in years…

  Alice stood at the rail. The moon was egg-shaped tonight, not quite full. It seemed to sit on the water, an eldritch, dark-orange color. This was the same place from which the lookouts watched for trade frigates from England over two centuries ago. What did they see? What did these arrivals look like? And how often did the ships come? The questions seemed foolish; what did it matter? She turned, went back into the watch room, and closed and locked the French doors behind her.

  Something on the scroll-foot antique dresser caught her eye. Alice went to it, picked it up.

  The note George had left, in a primitive scrawl.

  Alice,

  Sorry to leave. I didn’t want to wake you. Have a job at six in the morning. I’ll give you a call soon.

  George

  Well, that was nice, at least. Lots of men just ducked out, didn’t bother leaving a note. It’s the thought that counts, she figured. However, to be honest with herself, she sort of hoped George didn’t call. What she’d told Holly earlier was true. The sex was great, but he’s just not my type. Where could she go with him if they dated? Rudy’s Tavern on wet T-shirt night? The pool hall? And where would she take him? The four-star dining room at Loew’s? The dinner theater? He’d wonder why there weren’t French fries on the menu. No, there was no point, it would be useless.

  Alice, instead, viewed it as an instance of sheer extemporaneousness, of primal improvisation. So what? So she’d had sex with a man she was physically attracted to. The ideology infuriated her. It’s okay for a man to sleep around. That’s macho, that’s cool. But when a woman does it she’s a slut. Since the occurrence she’d been regretting it, but finally she realized that she was regretting it only because that’s what society had taught her to do. Her feelings had changed now, though. Why should I regret something that felt good? she asked herself.

  I don’t regret it at all.

  Her memory lightly backtracked. She remembered it all now. George’s stout, muscled physique squashing her own body down time and time again in its desire for her. For some reason that meant more than anything. His desire. He hadn’t fled. He hadn’t retreated in disgust at the
sight of her artificial leg. In fact, for their entire time together Alice hadn’t been the least bit self-conscious about it. She hadn’t even been aware of the prosthesis. Maybe she really was finally coming out of her shell of apprehension and low self-esteem.

  The prospect made her feel even better.

  Her recollections, however momentary, dampened her sex where she stood, such that she felt tempted to make use of the occasion and lie down in the bed to masturbate. But that was something she hadn’t done in ages, and doing so now would make her feel alien, a self-abusing shut-in. Instead, she put the plumber’s note back on the dresser under a bronze paperweight, a tiny bust of Lord Baltimore. She didn’t really know why, but she wanted to save the note. A memento, a fond reminiscence. It was something she could look at in years to come and be happy about.

  She walked around the dark house, past beautiful antique furniture and heavy drapes. She was just moseying around, which most people would deem a peculiar thing to do at this hour, but she didn’t care. Why should she? For the first time in her life she was deciding that what other people thought was immaterial. Maybe that’s part of my problem, she considered. She should only care about herself, and about what she thought, not others. Who knew what Holly would say to that. Probably more shrink mumbo jumbo. Sometimes it seemed that Holly honed a special edge to make Alice feel bad. Of course, the psychiatrist claimed it was only because she was concerned about her, but what good did that do Alice?

  None at all.

  Next, she found herself, without any real volition, walking down the steps to the basement. At the bottom of the steps she reached out for the string, found it, and turned on the light. The contractors had done a fabulous job erecting interior walls to divide the basement into two separate rooms, the largest of which, way in the back, she used for extra storage—winter supplies, rock salt, and the like. There were two forward rooms: the entry in which she stood now and a second room, where she kept a work bench and tools, for any fixing up she might want to do herself, her garden supplies, and most of the stuff from her old condo that she hadn’t, and probably wouldn’t ever unpack. The original walls, which formed the actual foundation of the house, made for a striking contrast. These walls were made of the original crudely cut stones, fixed by mortar that was no doubt as old as the house. The stones, she could see, were stained by age, and the mortar had long turned yellow. And there were several places where old slats of wood had been used to fill in gaps. Though primitive, it made the basement look that much more authentic, that much more like the post-Revolutionary watch house it really was.

  Now the bare cement floor felt cold on her bare foot. It was cool down here, and open despite its mustiness. She walked around then, absently running her hand along the rough rock-and-mortar walls, touching the occasional wood slats. She would’ve thought that wood, after two centuries, would have rotted. Or perhaps it had, and the slats had been replaced years ago when the originals had deteriorated. But that wasn’t likely, judging by their look. All a uniform dark-brown color, all a uniform texture and grade. It was obviously the same source of wood planks that had provided these fillings.

  Alice continued to walk idly around and run her hand over the rough bumps of the wall.

  Then—

  Her finger lodged against one of the slats, and—

  How do you like that? she thought.

  The slat came loose.

  It had slid out of its encasement of old mortar: dark and crumbly wood. At least there were no termites in it. She let her finger remain, then pulled a little. The slat nudged out an inch.

  Well, I hope the whole wall doesn’t collapse, she thought, and pulled some more. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have done this, but when the slat had first edged out, she had noticed something on its surface.

  Something that almost looked like letters.

  Here goes. What the hell? she thought. Then she pulled against the slat more forcefully and extracted it from its place in the wall.

  The wall, happily, didn’t collapse. The slat’s removal left a black gap between the hand-cut stones.

  Then she held the slat beneath the light, to better see the letters or markings or whatever they were.

  Yes, they were letters, finely engraved into the old wood plank:

  scrimm, the letters read.

  — | — | —

  17

  It wasn’t that Micah was a bad person…

  He was actually a great guy: personable, generous, honest, benevolent. He worked hard, paid his taxes, loved his mother, never took anything in his life that he didn’t earn. Micah was the kind of guy, in fact, who would pull over in a rainstorm to help a stranger change a flat, whereas most wouldn’t pull over at all, except to rob said stranger. Micah, in other words, was a quality human being.

  But…

  Well, Micah had propensities that a certain type of person would most certainly find objectionable from a standpoint of even the most modern morality.

  He pursued, with a subtle vengeance, the physical company of the opposite sex. Some would call him a romantic. Others might refer to him as a ladies’ man. And still others would unheedingly label him a male slut.

  He did not, however, view this himself as a gesture of human lust, or even human weakness. He loved women, that was all—all women, all shapes and sizes, all colors and creeds. And what he pursued more in life than anything else was the demonstration of this love via the act of sexual intercourse. Wholly, completely, and ultimately. And, not so ultimately, he pursued any sensorial adventure in between.

  Micah was a budding cartoonist—actually, more than budding, because his cartoon strips had been published in a number of places. He worked as shift captain waiter at the T.G.I.F.’s, at the brand-new Harbour Gates Shopping Centre on Route 2, and he worked a hard fifty to sixty hours a week. Much of his spare time was relegated to his artistic endeavors.

  And any spare time left after that was zealously devoted to the physical proximity of women.

  Women loved Micah. They were enamored of him. To put it another way, they followed him down the street like he was some Pied Piper of sexual bliss. Most guys found it difficult to pick up women in bars on a regular, or even an irregular, basis. The only difficulty Micah was accustomed to was deciding which beautiful girl to take home at any given time. Micah was the Baskin-Robbins of sex: You had to take a number to get served.

  And it was no real wonder. Micah’s soft, southern accent was a great seducer in itself. Women loved southern accents. His wit, spirit, charm, sense of humor, and good luck only piled more icing on the cake.

  And it was a big cake…

  I should stay home tonight, he reckoned as he sat at his inclined professional drawing board. Micah was on the verge of becoming a hot property in the field of cartooning. Right now he was working on a picture book for children, and he’d already secured a top agent in the field. But time was everything, he knew. It was a professional dictum to anyone who wanted to succeed in any aspect of the creative arts: You either screwed around or you worked, and too much of the former only reduced the likelihood of success. Micah knew his time should be used more wisely, and he fought hard to incorporate this knowledge into his daily life. Every hour of his spare time that he used toward his art was another step to the professional success he so desired. Every hour he spent targeting women was another step in the reverse direction.

  It made life very difficult for him sometimes.

  More often than not, very difficult.

  Sometimes he just couldn’t help himself.

  Well, I got some work done tonight, he reasoned. All work and no play makes Micah a dull boy. The decision had already been made, actually. It was his day off; he didn’t have to be to work until five p.m. tomorrow, and it was a beautiful night.

  He switched off his overhead fluorescent, then got up and walked to his window. He looked out. They were out there, he knew. All the beautiful, wonderful women.

  They were waiting for him…
/>   Thirty minutes later, Micah was showered, shaved, and dressed for town. And in only a few more moments he was pulling out of the Crofton apartment complex, in his new red Miata convertible, the top down, the jet-lacquered paint job glimmering like wet oil in the parkway lights.

  The summer breeze sifted through his short, dark-blond hair. The stereo kicked out some twangy country tune (Micah was from Lexington, Kentucky), and just then the entire world seemed to open up to him, as it had so often in the past. Yes, the world. The world of passion, the world of love.

  The world of beautiful women.

  Micah smiled as the sports car sucked down onto the road through the turn onto the city exit. He knew how to play the game. He knew women and he knew exactly what buttons to push. He knew how to get what he wanted.

  Will I get lucky tonight? he asked himself.

  No answer was necessary.

  ««—»»

  Bored, Alice thought. The house felt dead with silence; she felt like a museum piece in the midst of the restoration and all the beautiful antique furniture. George the plumber, of course, hadn’t called back as he’d said he would, but she’d already been through that. She didn’t really want him to call. But—

  What do I want then?