Steel Dog-25

Steel Bitch

Quentin dressed fast and drove slowly, hunting for any excuse to turn around.  But there was no stopping.  He drove those several blocks and parked on the street beside the nightbound Clinic.

“NO LADY SHALL BE TURNED AWAY,” the sign promised.  But the Clinic was closed, locked and empty.  Events had played out without Quentin’s help.  Obviously luck had kissed the point of his nose.  But as he began to turn away, a shuffling figure emerged from the back, small and round-bodied, seemingly unaware of his presence yet moving with deliberation into the unlit lobby.  A ring of important keys rode the right hand.  The woman never looked up.  The key hand lifted of its own volition, an intricate piece of brass finding the lock, and staring at the blank gray carpet between her boots, the woman opened the door.

“You damn well took your time,” she said.

“Bitch,” he thought.

And maybe she read his mind. The keyless hand lifted, as if to fend off a fist or harder words. Her face was unfamiliar, the voice dusky, old and fearless.  She turned, leading him into the back. “Faster, boy,” she demanded.  “We all want to make it home tonight.”

Quentin fell in behind her.  “I was showering when you called.  I had to get dressed.”

“Well, we’re glad for that blessing.”

Anger invigorated his step.  The lobby and its long tall counter were waiting for white-clad attendants who would sit in the day, dispensing advice and medicine with polished, cheerless grace.  The most substantial light came from a back hallway, but they had to first march through an unmarked glass door and past various desks, each littered with forms and personal effects.

“Why me?” Quentin asked.

The woman stopped, turned.  “Your name is the only name I know.”

He nodded.

One pudgy finger considered gouging him in the chest.  “You do realize why the girl came here, don’t you?" Standing in the lit hallway, it was important to keep their voices low.  But whatever had happened this evening left the woman furious, and she was determined to push Quentin back into the proper hole. “You’re the husband,” she spat. “This is about your responsibilities.”

Guessing enough, he said, “I’m not the father.”

“Well, there is no father now.  Or any mother.”

Quentin stepped back.  “I’m leaving.”

“No.”

Another step.

Profession and rank had limits.  This man could abandon her to whatever mess was transpiring here.  With a quieter, less certain voice, she repeated the word, “No,” before adding, “Please.”

Quentin’s retreat was finished.

Both hands grabbed the big ring of keys.  A nametag rode on her chest, but all he could read was the word, “Director.”

“She’s not well,” the Director warned.

“I imagine not.”

“This isn’t about the pregnancy.”  She came close enough for him to smell almonds on her breath.  “This is a very sad young woman.  Far from home and her people, and now this…this insulting mistake.”  Keys rattled.  “She wasn’t ready to live here.  And some busy, selfish prick had to abuse her innocence…!”

Quentin sighed.

“Please,” she said again, the word dipped in a pleading tenor.

“Did Farah ask for me?”

Appalled, the Director said, “She hasn’t asked for anyone.  Except God.”

Quentin looked down the hallway.

“And I don’t know which god,” she added.

Only one door was closed.

“Help your wife reach home,” the Director ordered.  “And if you take advantage of that poor girl…believe me, I’ll make you bleed…”

Steel Dog-24

How She Won

The pasture was vividly, impossibly green, and despite a hundred sheep chewing at the grass, there wasn’t so much as one pile of shit disturbing the perfection.  And She sat in the middle of the pasture, knees bent, feet beneath the unseen ass.  The daughter of God was smiling, the expression calm and untroubled and undeniably wise.  With eyes and with senses beyond sight, everything was visible to Her.  She watched the Roman world.  She saw Her death and the busy awful centuries to follow.  And of course She couldn’t stop gazing at the face of her Father--that pitiless and relentless and quite impossible parent.  Yet with all of that to watch, She still managed to notice Quentin standing among the sheep.

In an unborn language, she said, “Come here, ram.”

Quentin did nothing.

She said, “I want you, ram,” while feminine hands grasped her robe by the hem, pulling her only clothing past the knees and over the pretty head.  Then a useful burst of wind carried the garment into the air, spinning it once before it landed in his hands.  Quentin smelled the frank musky stink from between the legs and dropped the robe onto the clean grass and slowly walked towards Her, one hand patiently stroking his hard cock.

The daughter of God was smiling at him.

Smiling only the dreamer.

Saying nothing, She laid back on the greenness, parting Her legs so that the vulva shone pink and wet under God’s sun.

And this was how She won, thought Quentin.  She conquered Rome because She died young and died lovely, and because inside their heads, lonely Latin boys secretly fucked the prophet.

Steel Dog-23

Satan's Legions

Vinnie was loud and effusive, insisting on a cousin’s hug that went on for an extra beat.  “Come in.  You’re visiting me, right?  Not some silly rump down the hall.”

“First you, then the rump.”

“Lucky me.”

Another woman shared the room.  Sitting before the window, a closed Bible in one hand, her pretty, suspicious face watched Quentin drop on the sofa.  Their hostess made introductions.

“Mary Jean,” Quentin repeated, immediately forgetting the unwanted name.

“Tea?” asked Vinnie.

The question was aimed at him, apparently.  “Angel Sweet, please.”

She vanished around the corner, water running in the kitchen, then gas.  Boom went the blaze on the tiny, unseen stove.  Quentin looked at the Bible-girl, and she looked away.

Vinnie returned.  “So what brings you out, Mr. Maurus?”

“Demons.”

“Oh, I can imagine your demons.”  Vinnie settled between Bible-girl and him.  A long hand slapped his knee.  “Still reading about thunder lizards?”

“I am.”

Vinnie looked at the Bible-girl.  “Quentin is something of a scientist.  He thinks a lot about the past.”

“And the future too,” he added.

That earned a brief, half-curious glance from the Bible-girl.  “Why are you here?” she asked, point blank.

“To ask a question,” he confessed, looking at Vinnie. “About you know who.”

“Except I don’t see that woman anymore,” Vinnie replied. Without hesitation.  Without pain or rancor.

Quentin said nothing.

“Is she still in that awful apartment?”

“Is it awful?”

“I’ve heard so.  But I’ve never seen it.”  Vinnie narrowed her gaze, smiled.  It was a sailor’s expression, the storm passed and quiet seas ahead.

He said, “I talked to her the other night.”

“So?”

“Something’s wrong.”

“She is a troubled person. If you want my opinion.”

“I just asked for it,” he said.

The Bible-girl was staring at him.  As soon as his eyes met her, she said, “I know the future.”

“Yeah?”

“Misery beyond all calculation.”

“That’s your prediction?”

She nodded, confidently when she promised, “Misery is our fate.”

This angel of doom was suddenly interesting, and prettier too.

Vinnie stood.  Then to someone, apparently Quentin, she said, “Come help me now, please.”

He couldn’t remember visiting the kitchen.  Around the corner, out of sight, Vinnie ambushed him with a deep, long tongue-twirling kiss perfected on the mouths of uncounted women.  Pulling back, she laughed at his surprise.

“Why do that?”

“To get your attention,” she said brightly.  “Did it work?”

“Barely.”

She held his hands tightly, sitting on the little room’s one stool.  Vinnie had a long body and short legs.  Even sitting, she seemed tall.  Her nose was level with his chest.  Her voice worked hard to stay quiet and confident.  “I don’t see Farah.  Ever.”

“I thought you might know something.”

“She’s an odd creature.”

“You’re not?”

Vinnie looked at his face, his chest. “Compared to you?  Hardly.”

The blue flame was roaring beside them, water boiling.  Hung on the far wall was a framed print showing God’s daughter and a flock of sheep.  A lamb lay in Her lap, and beside Her, noble and sturdy, stood an old ram with battered horns and what appeared to be one blind eye.

From the living room, the Bible-girl called out, “Lavinia?”

“I’m not that odd,” Vinnie whispered, off the stool and grabbing two cups from the tiny sink.

Quentin was careful with his cup.

Sloshing tea, Vinnie hurried into the living room.  Hoping for a fresh topic, she shouted the word, “Anyway.”

Quentin sipped too soon.

The Bible-girl leaned forwards.  “You don’t go to Warner.  Do you?”

Over his burnt, thoroughly kissed tongue, Quentin said, “I graduated.”

“I should have figured that.”  Then a reflex question:  “Why aren’t you in the army, or somewhere?”

“My foot’s missing.”

Both women looked at his shoes.  Then with a soft, marginally empathetic voice, Vinnie asked, “What happened?”

“A mowing accident.  When I was nine.”

“No, that’s not it.”  She scrunched her eyes.  “Your father is a Hero.  I remember.”

“And I remember steel blades hacking up my foot.”  Quentin grabbed his right shoe, laughing when they flinched.  “Just kidding.  Yeah, I have a deferment.”

Silence.

Then the Bible-girl said, “You’ll lose the deferment when the war comes.”

“Which war?”

“The final war,” she said with a quiet, gray tone.  “The Book of Truth talks about today.  About these exact times.  Satan’s legions rising in the East, but the world and heaven are waiting to be won by us, as they should be.”

The creature was insane and gorgeous.  Unavailable and toxically desirable.

Nobody spoke.

Then wanting nothing to do with the world’s end, Vinnie popped to her feet, and with an extravagantly painful smile said, “I hate to do this, but I’ve got my own studies.  Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Steel Dog-22

Conversation

The line sang in his ear.

He rehearsed.

Then came a dry click followed by a long moment of silence before what might or might not be a breath.

Into that breath, he said, “Farah.”

A deeper breath. “Hello,” she said.

“This is Quentin.”

“Quentin.  How are you?”

“Fine.”

“That is good.”  The voice was precise and uncomfortable, carrying a trace of embarrassment.

“You’re at home,” he said.

“I am.”

“How are you, Farah?”

A long pause.  Maybe the line went dead.  But she returned to say, “I am…what is the word?  Bittersweet.”

The precision had vanished from her voice.  What Quentin heard was alcohol—a little, a lot—and shifting, chaotic emotions.  “Bittersweet,” he repeated.  But of course she was.  Everybody was.  Days were short, the night winning the war.  Every sane person was growing less happy now.

“I’ve been calling you,” Quentin said.

“Yes?”

“A few times.”  If “few” meant at least a dozen times.  "And I came by your apartment two or three times.”

Four times, but that number would sound needy.

She breathed.  She said, “I wasn’t home.”

“The last time, you left a note on your door.”

“Did I?”

“‘Returning soon,’ it read.  So I went out in the yard and sat with your dog.”

“My dog?”

“The statue.”

“Of course.”

Quentin listened to her swallow.

She said, “I wish I had seen you.”

“How are you?”

Farah didn’t want that question.  Better to repeat the obvious. “School keeps a person busy.”

Quentin waited a moment.  Then, “Hello now.”

“But I am sorry,” she said.  “I have to friends to meet, for studies.”

“It’s good hearing your voice.”

“And yours too.”  Then a laugh began, joyless but long-lasting, ending with the words, “Someone’s at my door.  I must go.”

Steel Dog-21

Demons

The meal demanded oysters.  The lady ordered oysters because of certain effects that she alluded to but wouldn’t name.  Older than her companion, attractive and dressed to accent her strengths, she had a vigorous bust and a long elegant neck.  She was pleasant and discreet.  Nothing more than dinner was promised, but something was being planned.  The insistency that both consume shellfish was as close as she got to talking about screwing.

The awful state of the world was a more public topic.

“I worry about my son,” she said.

Her little boy was nineteen and sitting on the fringes of Asia.

“He watches them.  That’s his job, Intelligence is.”  She allowed herself to be prideful, despite her reasonable concerns.

“Intelligence,” Quentin said.

He meant to sound sarcastic.

She didn’t notice.  “He tells me news,” she said, one hand reaching partway across the table.  “News I shouldn’t know.  About our enemies.”

“Which enemies?” he asked.

She laughed, the question was so silly.

When the oysters were finished and the plates cleared away, she said, “People fear the Mongols most.  But not me.”

“The Han?” he guessed.

“No, we bloodied them plenty in Vietnam.”  The strategic thinker nodded, eyes narrowing.  “No, the worst are the Persians.  Crafty, sneaky.  Like demons in human skin.  That’s what they are.”

“You know this?”

“Yes, I do.”

Some moments demanded brilliance. This one needed nothing but an honest voice.

“By the way,” Quentin said.  “I’m married to a Persian lady.”

Again, the so-silly laugh.  But when she looked at his face, at the serious gaze and the set of his mouth, the woman instantly regretted wasting money on oysters.

Steel Dog-20

Conversations

Quentin didn’t realize what he was doing.  Eyes and emotion conspired in secret, never sharing their plans.  For weeks he would set a course that took him past the object.  Walking to the library; walking toward Harp.  Just outdoors to breathe the evening air.  Ignorant as he was, the maple tree stood where it had to stand for seventy years, eating sunshine during the shortening days, building sugars and new wood while feeding and sheltering a multitude of greedy mouths.  Then the nights turned cool enough and deep enough, and the year’s sugars began the long migration into the lush invisible tangle of roots that were the genuine heart of the tree.

Quentin was heading home from the library when a mouth cursed at him, making him look up.

The squirrel offered a fresh insult, or maybe some kind of apology.  Most of the world’s languages were secret, even to the speaker.

“Come down here,” Quentin said.

His nemesis seemed to consider the option.  But other pressing business caused the animal to turn and race along the branch, and that’s when Quentin noticed the damaged limb and the first cluster of bright orange leaves.

Holding course, he reached home without further incident.

Farah’s number was written on the back of the phone book.  He dialed slowly, giving himself a few moments to practice the conversation.

The line sang.

Nobody answered.

And then he hung up, the imaginary conversation continuing inside his head.

Steel Dog-19

The Season of Burning Leaves

Summer was a fine time of year, undoubtedly.  But Farah confessed to craving chilled nights and sudden colors, leaves flying and the smell of smoke.  What kind of tree turned so incredibly orange?  One of them grew on campus.  The summer term was underway, and she couldn’t be happier with her classes and teachers, and she was making new friends, which was a relief.  She could be a very shy person, particularly around men.  It was her culture, and it was her nature too.  She had always felt fat, even as a little girl.  In a world where men ruled, being heavy was a curse.  In a society where love was one thing and one thing only, a fat young lady might never find anyone to cherish her.  But that wasn’t the case here.  And that’s what she loved most about the Western world.

“And autumn leaves,” Quentin said.

She laughed easily and for far too long.  Every burden had been discarded.  The universe was thrilling and lovely and perfect.  Women were so fortunate, she insisted.  They could fall in love with whomever they wanted, and did Quentin know why?  Because the female was the essential sex.  Ladies didn’t exist just to make babies, but they were also the natural state of the species.  Men were derived from women.  Genetic research proved as much.

“I don’t remember that article,” he admitted, turning at the Clinic’s corner, aiming for the steel dog.

Ignoring every doubt, Farah explained how a woman could love another woman, and it was perfectly natural.  Which wasn’t the case with men and men.  Though some tried.  She knew Persian males who dreamed of their own kind.  Married, respectable fellows would meet in private locations for no purpose but tawdry sex.  But women weren’t that way.  Emotion was what mattered, she insisted.  Before sex, two souls had to nest together like those little wooden dolls the Mongols made.  What were they called?  Not that it mattered.  “Two souls nesting,” she repeated as they pulled up in front of her house.  “That’s how it is with us.  But for a man, it’s just sticking his business into a girl or a man.  It’s geometry.  Ten minutes and a mess.”

Quentin put his little car into neutral and looked at her.

In the history of the world, no human had ever been happier.  It was the middle of a fine warm day, and nothing was wrong, which perhaps was why Farah said, “Why don’t you kiss me, husband?”

He did.

Then they pulled away, but she kept watching him.

“What?” Quentin asked.

“Thank you.”

“Sure.”

“No, let me thank you.”

He could have asked, “How?” and could have waved her off, saying, “No need.”  A multitude of answers went unsaid.  But Farah unzipped his trousers, both hands easing his cock into the open.  The right hand pulled it upright while the left stroked the underside, teasing that point just beneath the swelling head,

Quentin looked up and down the street.

“Do we have company?”

“No.”

“The perfect day,” she said.

That first clear drop of fluid emerged, and her thumb pulled it down the shaft.

“This won’t take ten minutes,” he mentioned.

And she smiled--a fetching, utterly believable smile.  “You don’t want to make a mess, do you?”

“I don’t care,” he said.

She shrugged, and the hand moved faster.

“When you’re close, tell me,” she said.

“I’m close,” he lied.

And then her head was down, teeth clipping the fringe of the glans before the mouth opened wider, and he pusher her down, his fingers crawling through the depths of that black, black hair.