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mallorys_cameraChapter 3 (vi)
The wife was out of town, Henry informed me as he fitted his key into his front lock and pushed the door open. Out of town for a very long time. In fact, she might never be coming back.
“Did you bury her in the backyard?” I asked.
“Confession is a form of self-indulgence” he replied.
He tried to tell me where she’d run off to after the knockdown, drag-out, no-holds-barred battle they’d embarked upon when she discovered him writing a letter to me. The fight had gone on for a week. There’d been rages, snarls, slaps, tears, vituperative denunciations. Desperate endearments. One morning, she’d actually crawled to him on her knees in an effort to win him back; he’d had to pry her clutching fingers from his trouser leg—
I wasn’t interested.
We were laying together on the marital bed. I don’t think he’d changed the sheets because I could practically smell Beatrice on them or what I thought was Beatrice. She smelled like sweat and rotting fruit with an under-whiff of garlic.
“So, what? You’re saying this is our hideaway now?” I asked.
“That’s right, my love. Our castle. Our little slice of Brooklyn paradise. Our miniscule wedge of Williamsburg heaven. There’s a cookery book in the pantry: One Hundred and One Ways to Prepare Manna. You have such delectable lips.” And he applied a gentle downward pressure to my head.
I’ve never known a single woman who made you describe her pussy to her while you had it in your mouth, but this was standard operating procedure for men, all men, even Henry whom one might have imagined would know better. He wanted to hear how beautiful his cock was. How its quivering length set a new standard for perfection. Why, hummingbirds could sip those few drops of clear fluid trembling at its apex and redouble the iridescence of their wings!
Then that was over.
I took an Egyptian cigarette from the tin I filched from Marder and lay on my back in Beatrice’s bed, blowing smoke rings.
“Why do you smoke those things?” he asked.
“I like them.”
“Don’t you think Egyptian cigarettes are a bit… pretentious?”
I ignored him.
After a few minutes, he got up from the bed, went to the dresser, fished out a tiny black leather sleeve and a miniscule hourglass.
The sleeve contained 13 ivory dice engraved with black and red letters.
“Do you like word games?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never played a word game.”
He nodded briskly. Rolled the dice. Turned the hourglass on its end.
“A.E.E. L. G.D.M.P.O.R.”
He studied the dice for a second.
“Eel. Age. Ego. Mad. Dam. Rale. Rape. Rage. Game. Gape. Dream. Drape. Grope. Ledge—“
“You forgot lop. And gal,” I said.
Henry shook his head. “Only five words to a combination,” he said. “And the combinations are by length.”
The hourglass ran out.
“Now it’s your turn.”
I rolled the dice.
I. G. S. N. Another S. A. J. K. U. L.
“Oh, you’re lucky,” Henry said.
“Lucky?”
“You rolled an 'ing'. And S! Two S’s.”
“Sin,” I said. “Gas. Ass. Gin.”
The hourglass ran out.
“Very good for the first time,” Henry said. “It’s not an easy game. But the fun thing about it is that it doubles as a kind of personality test. You know. Divinations! Revelations about the very fabric of your soul. Just look at the words you chose! Sin. Ass.”
“Those were the words that were there,” I said hopelessly.
Henry chuckled. “Yes, but there were other words there as well. Sun. Ask. Jug. You didn’t pick them.”
I was mesmerized by the game. I wanted to play it all day and all night. I never wanted to do anything else but pursue this dialogue with the ghosts in my mind who were hampered from communicating with me in any other way than through the anagrams formed by Henry’s dice.
Eventually, though, Henry got hungry.
“Do you cook?”
“What a question!”
“Never mind. I cook.”
I didn’t want to struggle back into my clothes. He offered Beatrice’s dressing gown. It was a shapeless thing made out of cheap satin that might once have been a color like lilac though repeated washings had turned it grey.
I insisted on bringing the dice and the hourglass with us.
“Move over, Dr. Frankenstein!” Henry said. “Or should I say Mary Shelley? For I, too, have created a monster.”
There were eggs in a bowl in the icebox. A large bratwurst next to the bowl.
“Is that made of pork?” I asked.
Henry kissed the tips of his fingers. “Noah should have brought 10 pigs on the ark!”
“Pork disagrees with my digestion,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows and reached for a potato.
I was surprised to discover how hungry I was.
I gobbled the food down.
But all the while, I would not stop rolling the dice and reeling off words. I made Henry do it, too.
After a while, Henry said, “I think it’s time to raise the stakes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every game has winners and losers, my ineffable love. Including this one. Of course, there are various ways to separate the winners from the losers, but let’s keep this simple, shall we? The winner is the one who has the most words. And to the winner, belongs the prize.”
“What prize?” I asked.
His eyes wandered guilelessly from my face to my figure.
“Oh, I’m sure I can think of something.”
I lost.
Three times in a row.
And that is how I came to be sitting on Beatrice’s kitchen table, wearing Beatrice’s dressing gown, which had come loose so that it no longer covered my shoulders and breasts; my head flung back, my legs flung wide, my fingernails digging into Henry’s scalp, as he knelt before me applying his agile lips and tongue to my pussy as Beatrice walked through the door.
The wife was out of town, Henry informed me as he fitted his key into his front lock and pushed the door open. Out of town for a very long time. In fact, she might never be coming back.
“Did you bury her in the backyard?” I asked.
“Confession is a form of self-indulgence” he replied.
He tried to tell me where she’d run off to after the knockdown, drag-out, no-holds-barred battle they’d embarked upon when she discovered him writing a letter to me. The fight had gone on for a week. There’d been rages, snarls, slaps, tears, vituperative denunciations. Desperate endearments. One morning, she’d actually crawled to him on her knees in an effort to win him back; he’d had to pry her clutching fingers from his trouser leg—
I wasn’t interested.
We were laying together on the marital bed. I don’t think he’d changed the sheets because I could practically smell Beatrice on them or what I thought was Beatrice. She smelled like sweat and rotting fruit with an under-whiff of garlic.
“So, what? You’re saying this is our hideaway now?” I asked.
“That’s right, my love. Our castle. Our little slice of Brooklyn paradise. Our miniscule wedge of Williamsburg heaven. There’s a cookery book in the pantry: One Hundred and One Ways to Prepare Manna. You have such delectable lips.” And he applied a gentle downward pressure to my head.
I’ve never known a single woman who made you describe her pussy to her while you had it in your mouth, but this was standard operating procedure for men, all men, even Henry whom one might have imagined would know better. He wanted to hear how beautiful his cock was. How its quivering length set a new standard for perfection. Why, hummingbirds could sip those few drops of clear fluid trembling at its apex and redouble the iridescence of their wings!
Then that was over.
I took an Egyptian cigarette from the tin I filched from Marder and lay on my back in Beatrice’s bed, blowing smoke rings.
“Why do you smoke those things?” he asked.
“I like them.”
“Don’t you think Egyptian cigarettes are a bit… pretentious?”
I ignored him.
After a few minutes, he got up from the bed, went to the dresser, fished out a tiny black leather sleeve and a miniscule hourglass.
The sleeve contained 13 ivory dice engraved with black and red letters.
“Do you like word games?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never played a word game.”
He nodded briskly. Rolled the dice. Turned the hourglass on its end.
“A.E.E. L. G.D.M.P.O.R.”
He studied the dice for a second.
“Eel. Age. Ego. Mad. Dam. Rale. Rape. Rage. Game. Gape. Dream. Drape. Grope. Ledge—“
“You forgot lop. And gal,” I said.
Henry shook his head. “Only five words to a combination,” he said. “And the combinations are by length.”
The hourglass ran out.
“Now it’s your turn.”
I rolled the dice.
I. G. S. N. Another S. A. J. K. U. L.
“Oh, you’re lucky,” Henry said.
“Lucky?”
“You rolled an 'ing'. And S! Two S’s.”
“Sin,” I said. “Gas. Ass. Gin.”
The hourglass ran out.
“Very good for the first time,” Henry said. “It’s not an easy game. But the fun thing about it is that it doubles as a kind of personality test. You know. Divinations! Revelations about the very fabric of your soul. Just look at the words you chose! Sin. Ass.”
“Those were the words that were there,” I said hopelessly.
Henry chuckled. “Yes, but there were other words there as well. Sun. Ask. Jug. You didn’t pick them.”
I was mesmerized by the game. I wanted to play it all day and all night. I never wanted to do anything else but pursue this dialogue with the ghosts in my mind who were hampered from communicating with me in any other way than through the anagrams formed by Henry’s dice.
Eventually, though, Henry got hungry.
“Do you cook?”
“What a question!”
“Never mind. I cook.”
I didn’t want to struggle back into my clothes. He offered Beatrice’s dressing gown. It was a shapeless thing made out of cheap satin that might once have been a color like lilac though repeated washings had turned it grey.
I insisted on bringing the dice and the hourglass with us.
“Move over, Dr. Frankenstein!” Henry said. “Or should I say Mary Shelley? For I, too, have created a monster.”
There were eggs in a bowl in the icebox. A large bratwurst next to the bowl.
“Is that made of pork?” I asked.
Henry kissed the tips of his fingers. “Noah should have brought 10 pigs on the ark!”
“Pork disagrees with my digestion,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows and reached for a potato.
I was surprised to discover how hungry I was.
I gobbled the food down.
But all the while, I would not stop rolling the dice and reeling off words. I made Henry do it, too.
After a while, Henry said, “I think it’s time to raise the stakes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every game has winners and losers, my ineffable love. Including this one. Of course, there are various ways to separate the winners from the losers, but let’s keep this simple, shall we? The winner is the one who has the most words. And to the winner, belongs the prize.”
“What prize?” I asked.
His eyes wandered guilelessly from my face to my figure.
“Oh, I’m sure I can think of something.”
I lost.
Three times in a row.
And that is how I came to be sitting on Beatrice’s kitchen table, wearing Beatrice’s dressing gown, which had come loose so that it no longer covered my shoulders and breasts; my head flung back, my legs flung wide, my fingernails digging into Henry’s scalp, as he knelt before me applying his agile lips and tongue to my pussy as Beatrice walked through the door.
