Christopher WunderLee - The Loony - a novella of epic proportions

They played card games, Harris and Albert, in his room, beside the reflective night window. She convinced him to wander the grounds on not too bright days, to feed the dirty air rats in the driveway, and sit on the veranda and watch the twilight. They let her sit in on one of his interviews, something they agreed to a little too easily, in his opinion. He said more than his registration number, name, and rank, actually mentioned his mum, that was all they wanted, really, for him to cathartically blame her, and she held him after it was over in her arms. For the first time, they’d been so near to each other, she didn’t taunt him with her possible nudity or provoke him to fondle her quaggling petals, or engage him in paizogony immediately. They laid together and slept.

* * *

Harris’ Love Song for Albert

My wine is warm, I’m wondering whether I should have ever known you at all

The day is clear and I just can’t see beyond my windows

Because you’re so dear to me, so dear to me,

And it reminds me that I can take it all

Now the light is dripping from cold rain clouds, I drank too much,

I couldn’t sleep last night,

Not without you

Because you’re so dear to me, so dear to me,

And it reminds me that I can take it all

I’ve fetched you a beer, I’m wondering why I think you’re here

The hours are cruel and the days are longer still

I’m waiting for the day to come

When you’re near to me, so dear to me,

And it reminds me that I can take it all

So frightened for your empty hands, sleep leaves through the morning door

I used to watch you dream

And wonder if I was there

Because you’re so dear to me, so dear to me,

And it reminds me that I can take it all.

She, and Them, those that she was working for, were giving him back his axiopistic fantasy, the nubile wife with clinomania, caring, a little naughty, comforting. They stayed in his room mostly, Harris got dressed rarely, only when they were required to eat in the dining hall or for an appointment. Albert, for his part, didn’t leave the bed often, save for a glass of water or to fetch himself another package of cigarettes. He maintained his distance; never let himself believe she was there only for him. He knew he had to remember that, for one day she would be leaving, and he had to protect himself. She was aware of it, she tried to get him to talk with her about it, tried to rebuild permanently broken bounds, but he saw the lapis vacuum in her eyes, the distant forced emotions she feigned feeling, he recognized her role.

“Ally,” wondering aloud sounding, thespianly, “may I have you do something for me?” She’s at the other end of the bed, laying on her belly, her feet in the air, as she applies fingernail polish. Albert’s reading a newspaper, alternately studying the text and staring down at her posterior positioned slightly arched. She waves her wet fingernails and turns her head; their eyes meet briefly. He’s attentive, so she sends a lone finger down the crack, parts her legs more, and circles the hole, gives it a few little taps. Then, she makes eye contact again. Albert feels himself reacting to her proposition, she knew he’d never done that before, she knew that he wanted to but was too Presbyterian, she elevates her hinny a little bit, keeps her finger probing. He considers it, she said that she hated it, knew it had to be done, for Them, but that it hurt, hurt for days. He didn’t know it was so important, he begins to consider how imperative he is to Them. They’ve given her a message: Time to go to Sex-Con 5.

He waits for her hand to be just right and he clubs it with his closed fist. She screeches as it tears in, her own finger. He’s on her before she can remove it, straddling her thighs, grabs her offending hand and pushes. She tries, at first, to fight back, but he’s too strong. He uses both arms, shoving it further, she cries out a few times, as her finger edges its way deeper, but its too dry. He dumps a tube of her hand lotion in great ejaculating spurts onto her quivering cheeks, massages it into the fissure, and has her lubed properly. He forces her hand back and forth, two fingers in and out and way in and out, and way in and out. She’s grinding against the bed, caterwauling every time it disappears all the way to the knuckle, her gold band hiding, until Albert can’t stand it any longer and pulls her to her knees and drives himself deep into her shit-can.

* * *

“I don’t want that little retard in my house,” he hears Aunt Edna as he opens the backdoor and enters her linoleum, Spring-lit kitchen, clutching a pink ribboned present and a basket of technicolor eggs.

“Aunt Edna,” his mother’s pleading voice from down the hall, “he’s doing much better…”

“He’s not welcome,” her voice quakes.

“…it’s Easter Sunday…”

He was supposed to stay in the car. She’d looked back into the rearview mirror, but not the way she usually did, not with those disconsolate, dismayed eyes, but with a compassionate, earnest gape, and told the little boy in the middle of the seat, in his one and only cobalt blue suit and peach bow tie, after the tired hours of the sermon about Jesus’ second coming in the portentous temple, his little fingers fumbling with the ribbon of his proud gift, that she had to go in and make sure there was an Easter celebration at his distant aunt’s home. He knew it was untrue, not because she lied to him often, but because he could tell from her humility and her apprehension. Albert waited, his eyes downcast, discomfited, the way they always were now, that silent divulsion for his ill behavior, how it embarrassed her, how it upset her, until he couldn’t remain any longer, a sudden trepidation that she wasn’t coming back, that she’d left him in the car, and sought the asylum of Aunt Edna’s sympathetic ears. Albert climbed out of the backseat, fidgeted at the car door, he didn’t want to get in trouble, tried to assemble a feasible lie, and took up the present and the eggs, which he attentively watched mutely changing. He would bring them to his mother, “mommy, you forgot the eggs.”

His cousin Sandy, standing near a metallic white with red and blue stripes jungle gym, her finger near her mouth, her eyes set upon him, took flight when he emerged from the car door. She’d been watching him since they arrived, her enormous elliptic eyes fixed upon him as he sat motionless in the car, only his lips moving. Albert knew she understood about him, even in her innocence, and he felt self-conscious and culpable within her gaze, even little kids know he’s diseased.

He finally made his decision and mounted the partially bare, partially ivory steps, and stood before the screen door. It could make a noise, screen doors on back porches are want to do that sometimes. His little cherub arms were filled with the elaborately packaged box and the cedar branches of the egg basket, he had to put them down to open the door. He placed them beside the stairs and gently, hesitantly pulled the handle, stretched his foot out to hold it open, and reclaimed the package and the basket. He stepped into the familiar kitchen and stopped.

“He doesn’t belong here,” Aunt Edna was agitated, angry with his mother, because of him, because of what he had done.

“…for family…” her voice was injured.

“We love Albert,” a new voice, remembered as Vera’s, Uncle Ed’s wife, “but he’s unwell. Edna’s just watching out for the other children…”

“…he’s all alone…” she was begging.

“Its too much to ask,” his aunt said with finality.

Albert felt his guilt rising, trickles of saliva rolled off his lower lip and onto a cloudy blue egg, heat seared his face, he was afraid the coffer of his ribs would rupture, the features of the room swirled, pressing heavily down upon him. They were blaming her for him, she was unwelcome, he had ruined it for her. She couldn’t find out he’d heard, or knew, her eyes would betray how saddened she was in him, again, increasing, the mortified depression collected around her pupils, he saw it everyday, everyday overwhelming her stare. He’d humiliated her enough, even he knew that, could tell, became so obliquely aware after each time, she tried to cloak it with strained smiles and a lighthearted tone, but he felt it, each time, erupting within his heart.