Reesor?”
“Shelly,” she said, and with that, found her courage. She strode across the stony yard, and up the steps, and holding me in one arm, wrapped an arm around his neck, and drew him into a kiss.
It wouldn’t be as simple as that soon enough. But for the moment, it was.
McGill’s house stank of old smoke and urine. The living room was a shadowy place. Dishes from a recent meal spread across a coffee table. Random-seeming pieces of clothing, yellowing paperbacks and empty bottles and cans clotted its shadowed corners. A large box of adult diapers sat near the doorway to the kitchen. She noticed none of it, of course—love sees, or smells, only what it wishes—but McGill was still ashamed.
“I . . . apologize for the state of things,” he said.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You probably can’t afford a housekeeper. You don’t charge enough for what you do.”
“It’s not right.”
“You saved my baby. It’s right to charge fairly for that.”
Of course, that was not what McGill meant. He meant that this wasn’t right, that there was no natural way that she would arrive at his door, and kiss him so. . . .
How was it for him these past days? I can only guess. When he watched her sashay past his locker those years ago, didn’t he dream of this day? When he could grow into and harness the talents of his mother, and use them to rescue that pale princess—to possess her, even as he drove the demons from her? Then, might he not have slipped his finger into the moist caverns of her mind, and communed with her as does my kind? And in so doing, truly possess her?
Shameful thoughts, for men of McGill’s avocation. Shameful, but once entertained, so difficult to dismiss.
“Don’t worry,” she said, standing near him now. Her heart was pounding—I could feel it as she held me to her breast. “I’m not going to try and give you more money . Come on with me.”
And she led us all, down a hallway, past a shut door—where the stink of piss seemed strongest—and through an open door.
McGill whispered an apology for the state of his bedroom. She told him she didn’t care—that she remembered now . . . that she wished she could undo the years and that she should apologize for not being able to.
There was an ache, she said, a hollowness in her that she had dismissed as ennui, until she saw him again. McGill might have said: that is how it feels, when a demon tweaks a heart, and turns it to another direction. He might have made fists, and turned to me, and said, “Let that woman go, you fuckin’ cocksucker.”
But our McGill . . . in spite of his vow, in spite of his avocation . . . in spite of his other responsibilities . . . he said nothing.
She took the pillows stacked at one end of his sagging bed, and made a small nest for me on the floor beside the bed.
Then she whispered an apology to me, and set me in it. “Mummy’s right here,” she said, and turned away.
And McGill . . . precious McGill . . . your McGill, he took her in his arms, and ran his hands over the soft skin of her waist, the curve of her buttock. For that moment, he forgot everything . . . transformed forever, by his awful dream made flesh.
And so, I crawled.
It was a strain—the infant wasn’t really ready for crawling. But such as we know nothing so well as the bending of sinew, the diversion of will. And off I went—out the door, back to the hallway, past the lavatory, and to your door. It opened for me without protest: any wards McGill had ever bothered to place on it had long ago faded.
You smell of piss. I wonder if you know that? I wonder how much you know, locked in that skull of yours? I can see you now, in your old hospital bed.
I can see the leather straps that McGill uses to keep you still . . . to keep you from harming yourself, or burning the place down, or harming him. You could still do a lot of harm—you were always a big girl. I remember how you held down
“Shelly,” she said, and with that, found her courage. She strode across the stony yard, and up the steps, and holding me in one arm, wrapped an arm around his neck, and drew him into a kiss.
It wouldn’t be as simple as that soon enough. But for the moment, it was.
McGill’s house stank of old smoke and urine. The living room was a shadowy place. Dishes from a recent meal spread across a coffee table. Random-seeming pieces of clothing, yellowing paperbacks and empty bottles and cans clotted its shadowed corners. A large box of adult diapers sat near the doorway to the kitchen. She noticed none of it, of course—love sees, or smells, only what it wishes—but McGill was still ashamed.
“I . . . apologize for the state of things,” he said.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You probably can’t afford a housekeeper. You don’t charge enough for what you do.”
“It’s not right.”
“You saved my baby. It’s right to charge fairly for that.”
Of course, that was not what McGill meant. He meant that this wasn’t right, that there was no natural way that she would arrive at his door, and kiss him so. . . .
How was it for him these past days? I can only guess. When he watched her sashay past his locker those years ago, didn’t he dream of this day? When he could grow into and harness the talents of his mother, and use them to rescue that pale princess—to possess her, even as he drove the demons from her? Then, might he not have slipped his finger into the moist caverns of her mind, and communed with her as does my kind? And in so doing, truly possess her?
Shameful thoughts, for men of McGill’s avocation. Shameful, but once entertained, so difficult to dismiss.
“Don’t worry,” she said, standing near him now. Her heart was pounding—I could feel it as she held me to her breast. “I’m not going to try and give you more money . Come on with me.”
And she led us all, down a hallway, past a shut door—where the stink of piss seemed strongest—and through an open door.
McGill whispered an apology for the state of his bedroom. She told him she didn’t care—that she remembered now . . . that she wished she could undo the years and that she should apologize for not being able to.
There was an ache, she said, a hollowness in her that she had dismissed as ennui, until she saw him again. McGill might have said: that is how it feels, when a demon tweaks a heart, and turns it to another direction. He might have made fists, and turned to me, and said, “Let that woman go, you fuckin’ cocksucker.”
But our McGill . . . in spite of his vow, in spite of his avocation . . . in spite of his other responsibilities . . . he said nothing.
She took the pillows stacked at one end of his sagging bed, and made a small nest for me on the floor beside the bed.
Then she whispered an apology to me, and set me in it. “Mummy’s right here,” she said, and turned away.
And McGill . . . precious McGill . . . your McGill, he took her in his arms, and ran his hands over the soft skin of her waist, the curve of her buttock. For that moment, he forgot everything . . . transformed forever, by his awful dream made flesh.
And so, I crawled.
It was a strain—the infant wasn’t really ready for crawling. But such as we know nothing so well as the bending of sinew, the diversion of will. And off I went—out the door, back to the hallway, past the lavatory, and to your door. It opened for me without protest: any wards McGill had ever bothered to place on it had long ago faded.
You smell of piss. I wonder if you know that? I wonder how much you know, locked in that skull of yours? I can see you now, in your old hospital bed.
I can see the leather straps that McGill uses to keep you still . . . to keep you from harming yourself, or burning the place down, or harming him. You could still do a lot of harm—you were always a big girl. I remember how you held down
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