Gregory Funaro - The Sculptor

Tippity-tippity-tap.

Sam was sure he was onto something-just knew he was so close to unlocking the key to The Sculptor’s mind. The secret lay in the reason why Michelangelo chose to portray his Virgin as a young mother. Dante’s Divine Comedy-Canto 33 of Paradiso. “Virgin mother, daughter of your son.” The inherent contradiction of the Holy Trinity; its “incestuous” context; the impure, almost incomprehensible parallel trinity-the father-daughter/mother-son/husband-wife relationship. That warped relationship between a mother and son.

Tippity-tippity-tap.

Mother and son, mother and son, mother and son…

Tippity-tippity-tap.

The son’s name is Christian. Christian. Christ. Oh my God. Christ.

Tippity-tippity-tap.

Could it be? Could it be that he sees himself as the Christ-that is, that he sees the relationship to his mother through the Pietà? The parallel trinity? Some kind of warped relationship between mother and son? Incestuous? Spiritual, otherworldly incest as defined in Slumbering in the Stone? Could it be?

Tippity-tippity-tap.

Sam said the mother was deceased? Was her name Mary? Is it possible? Could it all be true?

Christian! Oh, dear God, Christian!

Cathy suddenly became aware of movement to her right-saw a shadow cross the frame of the video screen above her.

Then came the smiling face of The Sculptor leaning over her.

“You’re awake, Dr. Hildy,” he said-then began to giggle. “Well, not totally awake, as I’m sure you’d agree.”

The Sculptor left her again, and Cathy could hear the squeaking of something metal-something rolling on the floor. Her heart was pounding-her mind booming with a voice that said her conclusions had to be true -a voice that at the same time told her what she must do to survive!

“However,” said The Sculptor upon his return to the table, “I need to make some proportional adjustments-need to give you some sleepy juice while I work on your boobies. Then you will awake, Dr. Hildy. Then you will come forth from the stone as fate intended.”

Cathy felt something cold and wet on her forearm-knew The Sculptor was prepping her for an injection of some sort.

“But tell me who you are first,” he said, pausing, staring deeply into her eyes. “Surely you must know deep down, surely you must already understand. Tell me who you are to become? Night or Dawn. Dawn or Night? Personally, with your bone structure, I see you unquestionably as the Dawn. However, given your mother’s history with her boobies, perhaps Night is more appealing to you. Either way, I promise I’ll leave it up to you. It’s the least I can do. Yes, after all you’ve done for me. I owe you that.”

Then, without warning, Cathy spoke.

“My dear Christian,” she said-her voice not her own, the subtle flicker of recognition in The Sculptor’s eyes giving her the strength to continue. “Oh my son, oh my dear boy-let me hold you one last time.”

The Sculptor cocked his head-curiously.

“Mary, Mary, mother of God,” Cathy said automatically, an inner force ordering her what to say. “Mother and daughter and wife of the Son. Let me hold you one more time, my Christian. Just like in our Pietà.”

The Sculptor leaned into her.

“I’m here, my Christian. Your Mary-your mother, your daughter, your wife. I knew you would understand. I knew you would find me again-my love, my only son.”

“Mother?” whispered The Sculptor-his eyes glazing over.

“Yes, my Christian,” Cathy said-at once lucid and borderline insane before the foul heat of The Sculptor’s breath. “It’s your Mary-your wife, your mother. Loosen the straps, my son. Let me make love to you again. Let me make love to you again in that special way, the way no one else understands-our secret. Yes, just like when you were a boy, my Christian. Let me take you in my arms and hold you the way I used to-just like in the Pietà.”

“Mother?” The Sculptor repeated. “Mother is that you?”

“Yes, my Christian. Let me love you again. Just like in the Pietà.”

“Just like in the statue, Mother?”

“Yes, my dear Christian. Mary and Christ. A mother loving her son. Just like in the statue.”

The Sculptor did not move his face-kept it close enough to kiss her-but Cathy felt his fingers on the straps at her wrists.

“That’s it, my son. Let me come forth from the stone. Let me touch you again from beyond the grave.”

First her right, then her left- yes, her hands were free! The Sculptor lay on top of her-his face nuzzling in her neck, the hardness of his erection pressing against her leg.

“I’m here, Mother.”

“That’s my little Christian,” Cathy groaned-a wave of nausea making her tremble. She swallowed hard and ran her nails down The Sculptor’s muscular back. “The strap on my head, my Christian-across my chest and on my feet-release me from my slumber, my son. Let your mother go. Let me make love to you again after all these years-let me sit up and hold you just like in the statue.”

Outside herself, Cathy watched the scene unfold before her as if she were sitting in a movie theatre. She gazed upon The Sculptor with detached terror as he, zombielike, his eyes locked with hers, unbuckled the straps on her head and feet. And when he sat beside her on the table, when he released the strap about her chest, Cathy watched herself in numb amazement as she sat up on the mortician’s table and took The Sculptor in her arms.

“Let me hold you, my son. Let me make love to you just like in the statue.”

The Sculptor lay across her lap-closed his eyes and suckled at Cathy’s breast as the man once called Christian moved her hand to his groin.

“This makes Mommy sorry?” mumbled The Sculptor. “This makes Mommy love me again?”

“Yes, my Christian,” Cathy sputtered-the dam that was her will, her sanity, about to break. “Mommy is so very sorry, but don’t ever forget that Mommy loves you.”

Her fear, her revulsion rushing back all at once, as Cathy’s left hand closed around The Sculptor’s shaft, the fingers of her right found the IV needle. Without thinking, without pausing , Cathy Hildebrant brought down the stubby steel barb hard into The Sculptor’s eye-heard a squirty pop and felt his penis go limp as he shrieked in pain, as his hands flew to his face and he flopped off her lap like a fish.

Cathy dropped from the table, The Sculptor writhing on the floor only inches away from her-his screams swallowed up by the spongy black walls surrounding him. Despite her panic, Cathy could not help but notice the computer screen. She did not pause, however, when she saw the figure of Michelangelo’s Dawn floating in the black like a corpse on the sea. No, instead Cathy immediately went for The Sculptor’s video camera-picked up the tripod and brought it down like a club on the back of his head as he rose to his knees. The Sculptor-a hand at his eye, the blood spurting between his fingers-braced his fall with his free arm; he just knelt there stunned for a moment staring at the floor. But as Cathy brought the tripod up again, The Sculptor unexpectedly kicked out his leg like a mule, knocking the video camera from Cathy’s hands and sending her flying into the mortician’s table. It swung on its chains-gave way to her weight as Cathy fell backward. There was a loud crack-the feeling of the floor giving way beneath her-and suddenly Cathy was falling.

In the split second that it took her to hit the cement below, Cathy understood what had happened-remembered all too well what the mortician’s table had looked like from the DVD and knew that she had fallen into a trap underneath. But unlike her intellect, her feet were not so accommodating; and Cathy slammed into the first floor of The Sculptor’s studio-her left ankle buckling and twisting in a bright burst of pain. Cathy howled and stumbled against the van-the force of her impact bouncing her backward into a pile of plastic sheeting. Yes, there was light down here cast from a small black-and-white monitor atop the drafting table.