Graeme Gibson - Communion

“It’s always the same, out the side door into the alley, it must be dark, or almost dark, he’s wearing running shoes and goes directly to the park, into the ravine, he walks in the bushes beside the road until he comes to stand under the railway bridge . . .

He’s done this before. Listening at the back door. Nobody’s home, there are lights but nobody’s home, he’s sure of that: listening to the empty house, entering, he’s done it many times. Trembling violently he closes the door, he walks through the kitchen and along the hall to their bedroom, his sneakers make tiny kissing noises on the hardwood. Everything is clean, the rooms are clean, they smell of furniture polish, soap, perfumes and powders, wax, there are fresh-cut flowers by the piano and a bowl of fruit on a stand near the bedroom window.

She’s taller than the average woman and full-bodied, nevertheless he looks absurd; even after choosing the fullest, most shapeless clothes from her cupboard he still looks absurd. Usually he settles for skirts and sweaters, but this evening he tries on the purple and black terrycloth muu-muu. He undresses quickly, exchanges his underwear for hers, padding the brassiere with his socks, one in each cup . . .

Exciting as it is, it frightens him: standing in her brassiere, her pale blue nylon panties, seeing himself grotesquely reflected in her full-length mirror, he knows how vulnerable he is. What if they should come back, how could he possibly escape if they came back? He darts to the window, his body deep into the mirror, then back to the hall, in order to make sure they’re not returning because he knows they’d laugh at him, regardless of their initial shock, maybe even fear, they’d pity him soon, they’d laugh and laugh, they’d tell their friends . . .

Past the fat man, among the monuments, the line of mausoleums, the brow of the hill, scattering earth as he charges into the ravine, Felix struggles up the other side to the road, gasping for breath, sweating but he can’t slow down, there isn’t time; through the gate, blindly on to Yonge Street. Fighting his body, straining for his second wind because it’s come to him, Jesus Christ! he can’t believe he didn’t see it immediately, hasn’t known it all along, he prays he’s not too late. It’s obvious Walters will call the bastard, maybe he already has, perhaps the vivisectionist . . .

Exhausted, his body’s hurting him now, resisting him, but he won’t give in. The dog has been taken, it’s too late but he can’t stop. Too much is happening. He runs through lunchtime crowds and he has no idea of how he’ll save it, what he’ll do tomorrow, whether there’s anything he can do. Even if he put his mind to it, even if he did concentrate fully, examine the problem realistically from all its various points of view, he’d find no answer.

Seized in a red fist, struggling she looked into his eyes.

He trots into the subway station, back through the turnstile, and on to the platform. It’s best not to think at all. The train arrives at the same time as Felix: that’s a sign, an omen, it means he’s being given a chance. Now if there’s a good bus connection at Eglinton, if the same thing happens there, he’ll come to Walters with, not with assurance exactly, not with confidence; with something like grace. Harmony. He hopes so.

Occasionally, not often because he isn’t a stubborn man, not a man of principle, he’ll remain standing on some spot, a particular square, until the doors open directly in front of him, so he can walk right in. Once it took seven trains, but he wasn’t going anywhere, just out to the end of the line, so the time didn’t matter.

It isn’t that he hadn’t wanted to act, certainly he wasn’t indifferent: he’d tried to warn her, he’s sure of that; he’d stepped towards her, he’d spoken, he’d pointed with his right arm, what else could he have done? but she hadn’t noticed him, why don’t people notice him? Perhaps the tears blurred her vision, perhaps she was blind! It makes a difference. That’s why she couldn’t be warned, she was blind. It’s not his fault.

Why didn’t she hear him? He spoke, he said “Little girl”, he’s certain he did. She could have heard him even if she was blind. And she looked at him. There’s no denying that she looked at him. He can’t forget that look.

How could he have known the crazy woman was going to beat her? You don’t expect that kind of thing: Christ no, not a physical attack, who’s prepared for that?

Out of breath from running in the earth, her face admittedly ugly, coarse from exertion, but not brutal, not even angry: distracted, almost automatic, her voice muttering something or other without emphasis, without anger, as she struck the child back and forth across the head.

Stop it! he’d tried, it frightens him to remember stop it! for chrissakes she’s crazy, what if she kills her? But the words wouldn’t come. Trapped inside his body, he stared out through his eyes, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak . . .

… Fiercely lustful, a dog, a wolf, he pauses to sniff and growl at the bedroom door . . . he crawls towards her. He snarls. She understands immediately, she understands! She moans. His small red penis rises like a finger as she moans. He howls, she whimpers. Raising his face in gratitude, his muzzle to the ceiling, he howls; revealing his opening mouth, his soft underbelly, he howls and howls! With burning eyes she watches him pad to the bed, she whimpers more excitedly, she rises on all fours, she . . .

But first he must undress her, that’s essential: she has to be naked for everything to work. A few drinks somewhere and then back to his place, he’s got it all clear in his mind. Lots of laughs, but they both know he’s just priming the pump. Because she wants it alright, he can see that, Christ the way she looks! she’s horny as a toad, he pours the drinks and joins her on the sofa.

It doesn’t have to be in the bedroom.

The sun is hot on the shop window; women pass by in both directions, some of them cross the street, but Walters doesn’t need them today.

With burning eyes she watches him pad to the bed, she whimpers more excitedly, she rises on all fours, she shudders as he snarls, those full breasts quiver as she lifts her head, her face, exposing her throat, the stretching tendons . . . impatient she strains, rolling her eyes, baring her teeth she waits his approach . . .

Right away, even before tasting the drink, she buries her face where his neck joins the shoulder. Her hair smells of sweat. He puts his right hand on her left breast. They’re bigger than he thought! his hand can’t contain it all, it bulges away like a balloon full of milk, he’s overwhelmed.

Automatically he kisses her eyes, his sucking lips down the length of her nose: her mouth is small, it opens for his tongue, her teeth are pointed. He undoes her dress, slips his hand inside her brassiere and pinches the nipple. Her brown eyes watch him. He kisses them shut.

He’d swear the breast is growing in his hand. It lolls uncontrollably on her chest and the nipple’s like a walnut. Kissing her chin, then her throat, he undoes the remaining buttons down the front of her dress. There are seven in all: they’re not too small and she moves helpfully under his hands and mouth, he doesn’t have too much trouble.

She smells like roast beef.

She lifts her hips so he can remove the dress. She lowers them. Receptive she manipulates him, she’s not impatient like some, not embarrassed, she grabs her tits, he bites her belly. Fantastic!