Randy White - Black Widow

I leaned over the sink, washed my face, knotted a towel around my waist, then returned to the bed, and stood facing Norma as she said, “I have to go. Can I borrow a shirt and maybe those sandals? I have to be down the mountain before it gets light.”

I said, “You’re staying here.”

“I thought you’d tell me to go away. Now you don’t want me to leave. Funny thing is, I almost didn’t come. I knew the rooms you’d been assigned, but I thought the English woman was here, and you were over there. I finally figured it out.”

I said, “Senegal Firth is an incredible woman,” and knew it was the drug talking. “You’re both incredible women. She’s got to meet you.”

Norma said, “Uh-huh,” the way people do when talking to a drunk, and put her bottle of water on the nightstand. She looked up… let her eyes move from my face to my feet, then to my face again. “You’re all scratched to hell. Why don’t you tell me the truth? You scared Fabron off. I heard men swearing and fighting. I’m thinking it was you. You saved me. The only reason you’d lie is if-” She paused, her attention inward, putting it together. “-the only reason you’d lie is to protect me. Or protect yourself.”

I was thinking: My God, the woman’s brilliant. Brilliant and beautiful.

“Marion? Be honest. Were you at the Lookout tonight?”

I nodded. “Where I saw the boats recovering your nephew’s body.”

The woman flinched. “Did you see Fabron?”

“Only for a minute or two.”

“You didn’t stand there arguing with him? I know I heard men arguing.”

“I didn’t stand on the cliff with Fabron. I swear.”

“A lot can happen in a minute or two at that place,” Norma said, eyeing me as she thought about it, probably picturing different scenarios, seeing herself wrapped in the carpet, the long drop to the water. She let it go, now thinking of her nephew.

“Paul,” she said, still inside herself. “That poor, sweet boy. He never got his chance in life. Had a daddy who stole orchids for money. He came to a bad end, too. It was like it was in the boy’s blood.”

I thought, Was the boy’s name Paul or Rafael? But then Shay came into my mind, a woman troubled by her own blood linkage to a brutal father. Dexter Money would have lined up Fabron, Wolfie, Ritchie, and the others and shot them without remorse-but not because he loved Shay. Dexter had a killer in him. Some people are born to it.

“I’m sorry about your nephew.”

“You showed that. You’re a good man. I think I owe you more than you’ll ever tell me.”

I was patting the woman’s leg, reassuring her, but also feeling her thigh, skin taut beneath the sheet, and thinking, Such a sensual body, seeing her face, the way her eyes converted light into liquid amber.

“You’re gorgeous. One of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen.”

She said, “Uh-huh,” again, but I saw the flush of a woman unaccustomed to compliments.

“Did they try to kill you because you warned me this afternoon? It was sweet and brave of you to warn me, Norma-”

“That’s not the reason,” she said, looking at her hands. “It was something else. Can we not talk about it?”

I was stroking her hair again. Couldn’t help myself. “Whatever you want. I want you to be happy… and safe. You deserve to be safe.”

The woman smiled. “I don’t know if that’s the Divinorium speaking, or you. But it doesn’t matter. Drunk or sober, it’s a damn short life, and you’ve got to take comfort where you find it. The sound of those waves coming through the speakers-you recognize those sounds in the background?”

I tilted my head, saying, “Birds?” trying to pay attention to the sound track instead of the woman’s face, and her contours beneath the sheet.

“Not birds. Listen close. It’s from a tape someone made over on Saint Lucia where all the honeymooners stay. There’s a few jungle parrots calling, but mostly it’s honeymooners making love in the morning.”

I forced concentration. The yelps and whistles of birds were redefined as the primate sounds of lovers. A brilliant idea-an idea I’d heard somewhere before. Audio pornography. Subtle, subliminal. Impossible to ignore as it radiated through the ears to the abdomen as a warm, engorging glow.

I stood, staring, stroking her hair as Norma shifted her position on the bed to face me. “You may not think therapists are experts. But I am.” She grinned. “One look, and it’s obvious your ching chi toxins are elevated. But I want you to understand something.” Done with the joke, Norma turned her grin to a soft, sad smile that squeezed my heart. “This is different for me. This isn’t a job. It’s for pleasure now, Marion. Then I’m leaving. Okay?”

Norma reached and touched her fingers to the towel around my waist. She tugged the knot free. At the same time, she released the bedsheet, showing herself to me.

Door opens. Shadows absorb a shadow-Norma-sized. Door closes-click-the sound of a secret sealed.

Door opens. A figure clothed in white appears. Door closes-click-and displaced air floats an odor to my bed. A hooded face stands above me.

Lips where bugs might feed say: “I’ve been watching you. You remind me of a feral orchid-all pistil, no stamen. Yes… pretend this is a dream.”

Norma’s lips, swollen with wanting, warn me: “I don’t drink that stuff because it gives me dreams.”

Dream… dreams… dreaming. I drift in and out of sleep, uncertain what is real, what isn’t.

I’ve been watching you…

“Men-she likes men. The Widow picks her favorites, watching them on a monitor, and they don’t even know they’re being watched. I’d bet she’s seen all of you there is to see…”

I’ve been watching you… all pistil, no stamen…

Fingernails from a dream explore my face, then shoulders. Fingernails flex-cat claws dig, drawing blood.

“Ouch!”

Dream melts into nightmares that are old familiar scars: napalm flames, the stink of flesh… my index finger twitching on a trigger as, nearby, young men lay frozen in their innocence, alive, terrified, eyes fresh with homecomings; haylofts, ghettos.

The stink… that sickening smell, where’s it coming from?

A woman’s masculine voice tells me: “I am a child of the church. A disciple of the Holy Virgin. Through the sacrament of blood, I will judge the purity of your heart. Are you shocked that I crave sin?”

Touch of a rough-tongued cat licking my neck. Cat claws flex deeper.

“Get away!”

A dream, Ford, stand easy. You’re only dreaming.

There is no helmsman when we sleep. The brain becomes a default computer, organizing random data into familiar patterns. Sparks leap synapse gaps; neurotransmitters arc. Chemical film snippets play on the backside of our eyes. Meaningless.

A woman’s masculine voice tells me: “Desire is pain if you love the church. Pain is the path to redemption. We are born to suffer through the grace of our Holy Mother, the Virgin Mary. Spread your legs now. I want to touch you…”

Mary.

A familiar voice reminds me, “The only woman who impressed my mother-in-law was a dead virgin named Mary. The perfect Catholic girl-kept her knees together, but still gave birth to a saint like Michael.”

A familiar voice says, “My family has done business in the Caribbean for years…”

A familiar voice says, “A couple of his aunts invested in Father’s project… I’ve met Isabelle Toussaint four or five times in Paris.”

A familiar voice says, “I thought Shay rented the house through the Internet. But maybe she asked around for advice…”

Images of orchids and empty white cribs drift through darkness as another familiar voice says… says… what?