After Life (19 page)

down until his lips met hers and then he entered her and they began to

make love on this grave. Monica didn't complain about the hard slab. In

fact, it seemed to get softer and become as comfortable as a mattress.

She moaned softly, her fingers digging into him and driving him to be

more passionate. When he opened his eyes, he and Monica were drowning

in a sea of moonlight.

The lovemaking became more and more frenzied. It was more than erotic;

it was as if his body was in turmoil, maddeningly pursuing some

impossible orgasm.

He felt as if his head would explode and fly off his neck. He

envisioned his body turning into liquid and pouring down toward his

loins until it did burst and flow through his erection, his entire being

rushing into her. He thought she screamed, although he couldn't be sure

it wasn't he who had screamed.

Finally it ended and he turned over, his back against the cold slab. He

lay there, struggling to catch his breath, his eyes closed. When he

felt her rise, he opened his eyes. She gazed down at him, her body

seemingly gigantic, statuesque, carved from granite. It was wonderful,

she said. Wonderful. Then she laughed softly and fled into the night,

her nightgown flying up behind her, making her look like a fugitive

ghost.

He closed his eyes again; his heart was pounding so hard, he was sure he

would have a heart attack and be found dead on this gravestone with his

pants still down.

He struggled to pull up his garments. Finally his heart slowed and he

was able to sit up.

Where was she? He heard a car engine start and then saw the headlights

go on. Moments later she was driving away. This wasn't a dream; it had

happened, he thought, and scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands.

Leaning against the tombstone, he pulled himself to a standing position.

Still in the moonlight, he was able to read the monument. It was the

grave of someone named Frederick Hardenburg, but it was the birth and

death dates that brought a shudder to him. The man was his age when he

died. Just coincidence?

He stumbled away. The moon, behaving once again like a stage light,

slipped behind a heavy cloud and the darkness grew thick once more. Just

as he stepped onto the road and turned toward the house, he heard a

strange sound and paused.

Christ, there it was. Jessie hadn't imagined it after all.

Someone was digging out there, digging in the grave yard. The sound

seemed to grow louder and draw closer.

He stepped back, tripped, and fell on his rear end. He scurried to his

feet and ran all the way back to the porch steps. There, he paused to

catch his breath. Can't go bursting into the house, he thought. He was

sure to wake Jessie.

Calmly and as quietly as he could, he tiptoed up the steps, aware that

they as well as the porch floorboards squeaked. The hinges of the damn

front door squeaked, too. It was as if the house was determined to

expose him.

He reentered the apartment and stopped in the hallway to listen for

signs that Jessie had awakened. All was quiet.

He returned to the living room and turned off the lamp.

Then he hurried down the corridor and slipped into the bathroom as

quickly and as quietly as he could.

His face was a sight--all red and streaked with mud.

He washed quickly and then just stood there with a cold cloth on his

neck. Finally he made his way to the bed.

There was just a little moonlight coming through the window, but it was

enough to reveal that Jessie had embraced his pillow in her arms,

twisting and turning it as if she had been in some struggle with it and

finally had subdued it.

He didn't want to wake her, so he left the pillow in her arms and tried

sleeping without it. In the morning the alarm clock jerked him out of a

deep sleep. When he turned around, he saw that Jessie was already up

and his pillow had been placed under his head. He sat up and threaded

his fingers through his hair. Last night seemed so much like a dream

now that he thought he could tell himself it had been.

What was he thinking of? How could he let her pull him off like that?

And to make love on a tombstone . . .

let it be a dream, let it be a nightmare anything. He rose from bed and

went to the bathroom to shower.

Hot water, a good breakfast, the prospects renewed his optimism.

Sometime today, he would put an end to this Monica London business. He'd

go to see her and tell her in no uncertain terms to stay away from him.

Sure, he thought, that's what he was going to do.

The problem was he felt like a smoker who had stopped a thousand times,

deluding himself each time that he could stop anytime he wanted to stop.

Maybe it was because of this house, he thought. There's a curse on it;

it puts a spell on its inhabitants. It makes me sin, he rationalized.

Sure. What was that story Monica London told him--the story about the

DeGroot ancestor who killed her adulterous husband and cut his body up

to spread over the cemetery. Wasn't it ironic, though, how it was

Monica who told him the story and then tempted him into adultery?

In the bathroom, he paused before the mirror and studied his face. God,

his eyes were so bloodshot. In a way he was lucky Jessie couldn't see

him this morning.

He was about to turn away and start the shower when something on his

body caught his eye. He paused and then brought his hand to the spot on

his chest.

It was where Monica had touched him that first time in his office. He

had thought she had jabbed him with a fingernail, but this blemish it

looked more like the scar from a burn, and it seemed to be growing

larger even as he stared at it. It felt hot to his touch. It even felt

as if it were burning into his body as well as around his chest. He

stepped into the shower as quickly as he could and ran a stream of

ice-cold water over it. It appeared to help. The burning Jessie sensed

Lee was very different this morning. He had been aloof, kissing her

quickly when he entered the kitchen and then moving away as if he were

afraid of her touch. He wasn't as talkative either, and when he did

speak, he sounded tired. She wasn't sure when he had finally come to

bed last night. All she knew was she had awakened sometime during the

night, realized she was clutching his pillow in her arms, and returned

it to him without waking him.

She had had such horrible nightmares. Once again she heard those

strange footsteps, only this time in her dream she was able to picture

something making those sounds.

She had to refer to it as something; it wasn't a person and it wasn't an

animal. Not exactly an animal. It was more like a giant insect,

something with a hard shell instead of a back, something that stood on

two feet, if you could call them feet. They were scaly, fish like

appendages, slabs of meat, and they left this trail of slime as the

creature moved through the hallway and up the stairs to old man Carter's

apartment.

In her dream she had opened the door just as it was halfway up, and it

turned. It had no head, just a swollen lump with two slits that housed

pale yellow orbs, each dripping a green, syrupy liquid that flowed down

the black sides. Suddenly, what she thought was solid softened to form

a sort of toothless mouth, and instead of a tongue, a triple-headed

snake emerged, each head spitting and hissing. Her gaze dropped quickly

as an enormous phallus sprang out from the creature's crotch.

The tip of it was as red as a hot coal.

The first thing that was odd about her dream was the fact that she could

see the horrible thing. For a short period, when she had opened the

apartment door to see what was making the sounds, her sight had

returned. The second was that she didn't appear to be surprised. It

was as if she knew, as if she were merely confirming her suspicion. The

creature seemed to understand. It smiled and then continued up the

stairway, moving with what looked to be a limp.

At breakfast she wanted to tell Lee about the dream;

it had been so vivid. But she knew he would simply chastise her for

indulging these horrible images and thoughts. He would blame it on her

wild imagination or simply on the wine. He certainly wouldn't see any

significance in the dreams, nor would her relating them to him change

his plans in any way.

In fact, she concluded that his standoffish behavior this morning was

the result of her complaints and some times hysterical behavior. Maybe

she had been unfair and unrealistic to expect him to understand and

appreciate her second sight, if she could call it that. Maybe he had

been right all along--maybe her accident and the trauma of becoming

blind had left her mentally unbalanced, her thoughts often distorted,

her imagination unhinged.

Apparently no one else had complained about late night digging in the

cemetery. Lee never heard the strange footsteps, and he certainly never

heard the voices. As far as he was concerned, she had permitted

Marjorie Young, a woman who had suffered a nervous breakdown, to spook

her, to feed her frenzied imaginings and nurture her distortions. No

one else heard strange tones in people's voices or felt their bones

through the flesh when shaking hands. No one else heard skeletons

crumbling in the night or laughter in the wind.

If you took away those things, what did you really have? One night a

man got drunk and fell out of his truck in front of their house? The

police had come promptly to take him away, and apparently he had done

things like this before. Lee's team got into a free-for-all and the

school and community had become excited over it?

Well, as Tracy had said, these were small towns with traditional

rivalries. People don't have all that much to entertain and distract

them up here. Marjorie Young had nearly electrocuted herself and as a

result had a radical change of personality. Well, maybe she was a

schizophrenic.

Maybe everyone was right--she was a nervous, hysterical woman.

Calmer minds had to rule the day, Jessie reluctantly concluded. Lee

wasn't all wrong about that. Where were they running to? What would he

do? If he thought he could turn things around and was willing to give

it another try, why shouldn't she support him and give it another try

herself? They were moving out of this spooky place; things had to get

better.

Feeling guilty now, she tried to cheer Lee up before he left for work.

How about my making chicken Kiev tonight? she asked him at the door. It

was his favorite dish. I'll call the grocer and have everything I need

delivered.

Sounds great.

And I might just make a chocolate cream pie for dessert, she added.

Fantastic. You feel up to it? he asked.

Yes. I'm in the mood to drown myself in domestic duties today, she

replied, smiling. We won't have any wine at dinner, though, she added.

He laughed. I don't care if I ever have wine again.

Okay, Jess. Oh, what time is Dr. Beezly coming to see you?

Two o'clock, she said, and laughed. I nearly for got.

I'll call you in the afternoon to see how it went.

He leaned over to kiss her on the lips. Once again she sensed his kiss

was perfunctory, which left question marks dangling in her mind. She

stood there listening to him depart. The quickness in his footsteps

made it seem as if he were fleeing. Moments later she heard him drive

off and all was quiet. She shook herself out of the pensive mood before

it could settle over her and return her to her previous state of

depression, and then she went off to make a list of groceries and plan

the dinner.

She wanted it to be something special, romantic. It had been a while

since they had made passionate love, or since they had simply been truly

loving to each other.

Most of their time had been spent mulling over these problems, real and

imaginary. It was time to turn things around, and nothing did that

better than a gourmet meal, soft music, and fervent lovemaking. She

longed for it and for the moments of satisfactory, sweet fatigue that

would follow. Tonight, for sure, she would have an easeful,

trouble-free sleep. She was determined.

She was surprised to receive a phone call from Marjorie Young later that

morning.

Tracy and I were just talking about you, she said, and I thought I would

call to see if you were doing all right.