Bentley Little - Dominion

He walked into the kitchen. Taking a frozen burrito out of the freezer, he slit the plastic wrapping and popped it into the microwave. He grabbed a beer from the fridge.

Sometimes he wished he didn't have to eat or sleep. Sometimes he wished he could work nonstop. He hated his job, but truth be told, he hated his time off even more. At least when he was working his mind was kept busy, he had something to think about besides his own life.

He downed the beer in three quick swallows, but he found that it wasn't enough. He needed something stronger.

The microwave timer rang, and he took out his burrito, dropping it on a plate and pulling off the wrapper. He opened the cupboard above the refrigerator alcove and withdrew a bottle of scotch. He thought of getting out a glass, but decided against it. He didn't need another glass to wash.

He sat down, ate a bite of burrito, drank a swig of scotch.

The burrito and the bottle were finished at almost the same time.

In the light of morning, with an all-news station reciting a litany of last night's events on the radio, with the smell of fresh coffee permeating the kitchen, the idea that his mom could have been involved in someone's death seemed not only far-fetched but ludicrous. He stood in the doorway, watching for a moment as his mom, her back to him, stood at the counter, spreading cream cheese on toast. If she had killed that man, he realized, she would have had to have done so between two o'clock, the time he'd met the man in the hall, and six o'clock, the time she'd come down for breakfast. She would have had to have done so without making a noise, and to have disposed of the body just as silently.

He was thankful that his suspicions had faded. If he had still suspected his mom, he would not have known what to do. Would he have turned her in? Told the police anonymously? Confronted her? Done nothing? He did not know.

His mom either heard him or sensed his presence, for she turned around.

There were dark hangover circles around her eyes. She tried to smile at him but only partially succeeded. "I'm sorry about last night," she said. She would not meet his eyes.

He nodded silently, equally embarrassed, and busied himself looking through the refrigerator for orange juice.

"I went out with Margaret and Janine and a few other friends after work, and I guess I had more to drink than I thought."

He frowned. Hadn't she seen the newspaper? He glanced over at her. She appeared chastened, ashamed, but not to the extent that he would have expected. He cleared his throat. "That guy was murdered," he said.

She looked at him blankly.

"Your friend. The guy who spent the night."

"What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you even read the paper?" He shook his head at her and strode purposefully out to the living room, but the newspaper was no longer on the table.

"What did you do with the paper?"

"What paper?"

"The newspaper I put there last night!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It didn't just get up and walk away."

"Dion--"

"I left it there for you!"

"Why?"

He was angry at his mom suddenly. "Because that guy you fucked was murdered! I thought you might be at least mildly interested!"

Her expression hardened. She advanced on him, but he backed up behind the couch. She stopped, pointing at him with a furious finger. "Don't you ever speak that way to me again."

"Fine!" Dion said. "I won't speak to you at all!"

"Fine!"

The two of them glared at each other for a moment. Then his mom turned and stalked back into the kitchen.

Bitch, he thought. Fucking bitch.

He went down the hall to his bedroom and slammed the door.

Dion wiped his sweaty hands nervously on his pants and pressed the doorbell. From somewhere inside the huge house came the sound of chimes.

A moment later, Penelope opened the door. "Hi," she said shyly.

He smiled. "Hi."

The door opened all the way, and he could see, standing behind Penelope, her mothers. The women, all of them, were wearing identical green dresses--tight dresses which accentuated their figures. He could see dark nipples through the sheer fabric, faint triangles of pentimento pubic hair, and he realized that none of the women were wearing underwear. The knowledge embarrassed him.

Penelope too was wearing green. But her dress was looser, less revealing, and made of a different, thicker material.

All of them were barefoot.

He felt awkward. He was wearing blue jeans and a white shirt, with black tennis shoes, and he felt as though he had committed some type of fashion faux pas.

"Come in," Penelope said. "You didn't have any trouble with the gate, did you?"

He shook his head. "No problem."

"That's good." She smiled and gave him a private bear with-me look, then gestured behind her. "Dion, I'd like you to meet my mothers. All of them this time." She pointed, one by one, at each of the women in line. "This is Mother Margeaux, Mother Felice, Mother Margaret, Mother Sheila, and Mother Janine." She motioned toward Dion. "Mothers, this is Dion."

The women bowed to him in a strange, awkward looking half curtsy, a movement that seemed familiar to him but that he could not quite place.

"We are very pleased that you accepted our invitation to dinner," Mother Margeaux said. "We have been told so much about you and have been looking forward to formally meeting you." She smiled at him, a wide white toothpaste-commercial smile that he knew was supposed to be welcoming and ingratiating but which instead made him feel slightly uncomfortable.

"Why don't you all go into the other room?" Mother Felice suggested.

"You can talk for a while while I get dinner ready."

"We're having lemon soup and chicken with goat cheese," Penelope said.

"I hope you like it. I guess I should have asked you first."

"it sounds delicious," he told her, and it did.

Mother Janine grabbed his hand and pulled him away from Penelope, leading him toward the doorway into the next room. He could feel her smooth fingers lightly pressing against his knuckles. "I'm so honored to finally meet you," she said. "I'm so thrilled."

He looked back at Penelope, but she only smiled, shrugged, and followed them.

"Do you have dreams, Dion?"

"Everybody has dreams," he said.

Mother Janine laughed, a low, sultry laugh that somehow put him on edge.

"I dreamed last night that I was a flea bathing in your blood--"

"Janine!" Mother Margeaux said sharply.

His hand was let go, and Penelope sidled next to him. "Sit close to me,"

she whispered. "I'll help you through this."

They walked into the sitting room.

The dining room table was large and regal, the place settings formal.

The room smelled of an unfamiliar odor, a scent at once organic and alien. Dion sat near the head of the table, next to Penelope. The pre-dinner conversation had been neither as awkward as he had feared nor as strange as he had expected. Penelope's mothers had asked the usual parental dating questions, subtextually quizzing him on his intentions toward their daughter, and they seemed to be fairly pleased with his responses.

Dinner appeared to be a different story. The moment they had stepped into the dining room, all conversation had stopped, as though they had walked through some sort of soundproof barrier, and the only noise had been the scraping of chair legs and the quiet slap of bare feet on hardwood floor.

Now the only sound was the slurping of soup.

Dion cleared his throat, intending to talk, if only to pay Mother Felice a generic compliment on the food, but the sound was so loud and out of place in the stillness that he immediately gave up the idea of speaking at all.

Across the table, Mother Sheila picked up the carafe from between the twin soup tureens. "Would you like some wine?" she asked Penelope. Her voice was barely above a whisper.