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Passage
part 1
by Feech
"I broke my toilet."
It's a stupid answer, but it's the only one
that's the truth. Believe me, I tried to come up
with something better. But I know I can't lie to
Carmel. Oh, I could, and maybe I could get away
with it, but I have this sort of _instinctual_
inability to look him in the eye and lie to him.
And if I don't look him in the eye, I wouldn't be
me. And he'd know it.
Carmel nods.
"It's just so-- stupid!" I sputter, in case
he hasn't realized this himself.
"Why?"
Carmel can ask one word slowly. I don't know
how, precisely, he does it, but he can make it
sound like he has all the time in the world, like
it took him forever to come up with just that
perfect word and decide how to deliver it and he
closes his eyes slowly at the same time, like
there's nothing to expect from me but total
enlightenment from my response to "why?".
"Well--" I narrowly avoid a 'duh' appendix to
this hasty beginning-- "just think. Of all the
stupid reasons to commit suicide. That's not a
good reason. Not 'I broke my toilet.' I mean,
shit. You should be _in_ the toilet before you're
committing _suicide_. And it wasn't just that.
It was a whole lot of things. There weren't any
more choices. But still... Fucking broke my
toilet..."
"I don't think it's stupid," he states, again
slowly. I don't say anything, and he shifts so he's
sitting closer to me, with one hand-paw on the
couch where the cushions are sort of bent in under
my ass; if I weighed any more, he'd be touching my
thigh. That's all right. I mean, he's hugged me
before and shit. I just don't know what'll come
of this Twenty Questions thing. I mean, I knew it
was coming. But I didn't want it to. It's harder
than most other tests you have to face. I know
what the wrong answers would be with most people,
and they're all the answers that are my real life.
Welcome to the real life of Mara LeSard. You
dared to ask, didn't you. You just _had_ to ask.
We could save ourselves a lot of shit now by just
saying, "Good-bye! Was nice fantasizing about you
until you asked for the truth!"
I click my tongue against the roof of my
mouth. Carmel opens his mouth, to speak some
more. "I mean, I don't think there's any good
reason to commit suicide. But, one poor reason is
as valid as another, then, isn't it?"
"I s'pose..." I mumble. "You know-- do you
know-- I just didn't have any money..."
Carmel is still. Just still, not like anyone
I know from the Soho Club or anything. He doesn't
jump around, and he doesn't startle at noises like
I do, and he doesn't laugh at me when I do it.
But, he laughs when I do the talking to him that I
would do to myself, back in my shit-flat, when I
work on my bit. I just stand around and talk to
him and he laughs, and he's a good board to sound
off of. I would know his laugh in a roomful of
people's, I think; I'd like him to come and see me
work, but I somehow doubt that the Soho Club would
be Ritzy for him enough, you know? I mean, you
shoulda seen the restaurant he took me to for
dinner tonight. And the night before that.
"I have-- a lease-- that holds me culpable
for any damage to the plumbing. And I fucking had
to call the _plumber_. And he's standing around,
you know, they don't just come and do a _job_,
it's like, they take your money for the time it
takes, and I'm like breathing down his neck,
freaked out because there's a _plumber_ in my
_apartment_ and every minute he's there I'm out
that much more for my meals next week. You know?"
I'm doing that breathing again; I never choke
on my own words on stage, or in my own "home", or
even when I'm just talkin' to Carmel or myself to
get my thoughts going so I have something to
snatch up and use on stage. It's just too damn
close to the other things, here; the past, the
present blockades that hold it fiercely back,
sending news from the front that things ain't
looking none too good for the homeside if people
keep _asking_ things... Might just have to let
that past come storming through, and then he'll
see. And it shouldn't fucking matter, but it
does. Damn. He smells like a pine tree. Like
Christmas, only quieter. Like a rabbit, but not.
I suppose like a SCAB. Like a forest in the city
or something else so Goddamn poetic.
"You know?"
"Of course, yes, I know."
Of course you know, I want to sneer. Of
course you fucking know. Everything I say you've
planned the answer for so perfectly. I'm half
tempted to _try_ your ass. I'm half tempted to
see what you say when I _really_ tell you...
Sure, you got the truth out of me about the toilet
and the stupid-ass jogger's tape fashion statement
and the overpass. But I don't want to tell you,
I think. Why is it so close to the surface?
Batten down the hatches! We need back-up at the
stockade! Danger, Will R--
"Mara." He touches the side of my face,
where a lock of hair would be on anyone else; on
me it's just more fur. Not that I have anything
against fur, you understand. Carmel's has got
some real color to it. Not washed-out beach color
like mine. "Want to tell me anything else?"
No. Not on your lucky bunny's foot life, Mr.
Sherwood. I like you too much.
Damn, he just can't be safe, can he? Where
are all my prey instincts when I need them? I
keep widening my rodentine nostrils in a decidedly
non-ladylike way, taking in as much scent of him
and his masculine vid-watching room (it has
"paneling") as I can... And not one molecule of
it sets me flying for the door with no thought for
anything but escape... But logic tells me that
here is a very dangerous man.
I mean, think about it.
For one thing, I trust him. That should be a
warning signal right there. It's always, when
it's not the butler, either the lawman, or the
priest, or the doctor or the judge. The
upstanding one, the one you need to have on your
side to get anywhere, is the one that turns on
you. So, for your perusal I submit the facts that
Carmel Sherwood is a Contributing Member of
Society. He is currently, _as we speak_, wearing
a Very Nice Suit. Carmel never wears anything but
Very Nice Suits. At the same time, he does not
criticize anyone else's clothing. Eh? Mm? Think
that over, why don't you.
Carmel Sherwood Owns His Own Business. He is
Active in a Lapine Pride and Support Group.
Not enough? He's _Catholic_. Took me to his
church for a visit, Christmas Eve. I could feel
myself being watched. Not in a "bad" way, but any
watching can sort of get to you. People were
smiling and gossiping about us. He said they were
pleased to have anything to gossip about, since
he's never been known to bring guests to church.
"I don't see my family over the holidays
proper," he told me, in that voice richer than the
scent of microwaved chocolate. "I visit them in
the winter, but only after most of the parties are
over. It wouldn't do to be unavailable, in my
line of work, when men need Nice Suits." He
smiled at me, as usual. I nodded. That's another
thing. He alters suits, sells suits, you know,
the haberdashery thing. If that isn't a
deceptively innocent profession, I don't know what
is. Certainly not that of the plumber. When I
was a kid, I didn't even know there was such thing
as a Maintenance Man. He was as elusive as Saint
Nick.
"Mamma, is there really a Maintenance Man?"
"Yes, Dear," replies the harried, but
oh-so-softly expressioned Mother.
"And he comes when we're gone and fixes the
shower?"
"So the legend goes."
We saw about as much of the Maintenance Man
as we did of the Jolly Elf. About as much of the
results of his passing, too. And when I finally
_do_ witness the Arrival of the Plumber, I freak
and try to decorate the overpass for Christmas
because it just costs too damn much and there's no
one to talk to and I can't take the truths piling
up anymore.
Carmel says he has a Family. He knows people
in church, too, and in his Lapine Pride group.
Lapine Pride. He asked me to join. I protested
that I'm not even a rabbit.
"There'd be such a scandal!"
He laughed. "But you do look like one, you
know, with the ears..."
"And when the truth got out..." I grinned.
"I think it'd be good for you. Have more
people to talk to besides me and Susan."
Susan's another member of the group, not
lapine either. A Norm. I have to give her a gold
star in my brain's section on loyalty for the fact
that she told me what I am.
I shrugged. "Yeah, maybe." I smiled a
little to let him know that was a 'yes'.
He hasn't probed that far yet... Not yet...
But what if he does? Won't that just prove what I
know already? He's not genuine. He can't be.
But-- but-- what if he _is_? What if against all
laws of relating to men there actually is such a
thing? If he knows it all, then, there won't be
any reason for him to ask, or pursue me, any
further.
And, much as I am a flighty bitch, I rather
like this brand of pursuit. I want him to like
me. So I can pretend that he's genuine and that
if he is he'd want me.
Fuck it, who needs him if he doesn't want me?
Screw him over a bridge, too. I got me and my
talent and my audience.
I squirm a little on the couch. The place
looks hardly used, even though he lives in it.
Even a sit-com set looks more realistic. The guy
is loaded. Freaking rich, compared to me.
He looks around the room, not having to move
much to do so, since he has big unsweetened-chocolate
eyes set on either side of his head, just like I do.
Unsweetened chocolate? There has to be a better
descriptor. But they're dark, just not as black as
mine... I dunno. My style's off. He's flustering me.
I'm pretty calm for being so flustered.
"I should put up a tree. Maybe, if you
promise to keep visiting through next Christmas,
I'll buy one next year."
I cock my head noncommittally. "Eh."
He chuckles. See, I can do that to people.
He moves his hand to my shoulder and cups the
sorta boney protrusion. So I'm a skinny bitch.
So sue me.
He keeps feeding me at those high-falutin'
restaurants like he did tonight, we'll have that
fixed _right_ up.
Actually, Carmel's hands are more like paws.
They have fingers about like a rabbit's; you don't
see 'em on bunny paws, but when he bends them you
can tell they're separate parts. And then he has
a thumb on each paw. I'm glad for my hands.
Especially since one is still healing up after my
little escapade. But he seems to get by all right
with his. Fuck yeah, he does. Think about it.
He's doing better than most of us.
He's still smiling at me. "Worried that I'll
lure you into a relationship with me and you'll be
stuck watching-- gasp-- Monday Night Football?"
I almost grin, but I bite the inside of my
mouth and say nothing. He knows just what I'm
thinking. Suddenly it occurs to me that by _not_
answering I'm letting him know that I'm distracted
and now--
"Why was there no one to talk to, that night?
Mara."
I sag. His hand follows my shoulder in its
downward curve. Don't bother, Will Robinson.
We're all already screwed.
I lean in towards his neck. Please don't pry
into this, Carmel. Let me just do this... I want
to try something.
Of _course_ I know this is just my way of
avoiding the question. You think I don't know
that? But at the same time everything about him
is taking over. More than that, it's me, my
reactions that defy all good sense. (So what else
is new, right, Miss Aspiring Bumper Sticker? But
never mind that. I'm a changed woman.) I know
full well that he's a dangerous creature, this
tall rabbit man, and I still lean in towards him
with my sort of flat mara muzzle wrinkling lightly
in a circle of his scent and twitching at the
tickle of the tips of his fur.
Don'tcha like that. Just look at us. It's a
fucking government conspiracy, I tell you. Color
coded and alphabetized. It's for the convenience
of their sinister plots. SCABS isn't a real
disease-- it's like-- one of those kids'
sticker-books with the dotted lines, only the
government fills it in on real people.
I just came up with this, but it's a really
good theory. Check it out. Mara, mara. Some
sort of South American rodent and it _has my
name_. Susan told me, else I never woulda known.
Long blonde ears and a fuzzy little weak chin and
clawed hands, and I could hop like a bunny if I
cared to. Carmel, caramel. His fur is like his
name. Coinkydink? _You_ be the judge.
I want to try to want you, Carmel. And I do.
It's so damn easy. I still don't say anything,
and he doesn't either. _Gawd_, he's too good at
shutting up. I didn't even hardly notice the
music on the multimedia feed system until now,
probably just when he wanted me to notice it. The
lyrics of all the popular love songs are so
audible, but it's not too loud to be intrusive.
His timing has got to be too good to be true.
More than that, it's me again, and my own
natural vulnerability. It's just that. I'm a
woman, out of a day job, not paid enough for what
I do, and here's this _tall_, deep-voiced,
_freaking rich_ _man_ who feeds me and calls me up
to see how I'm doing and invites me into his place
to talk and get to know each other... Do you know
how scary that is? Not to have him try anything
on me? It's too perfect a set-up. Like he has to
have ulterior motives. I mean, doesn't it make
sense that even if he _is_ an okay kind of guy,
I'm just head over my big boney heels because he
is just the sort of protector anyone in my
situation would want?
I shrug, even as I think to myself, but I
feel myself sinking in closer towards him. He moves
over and places one arm around my shoulderblades,
reaching up with those fingers and touching the
back of my neck. I lean first one side of my face
and then the other against him, below his chin,
closing my eyes when his fur brushes my eyelashes.
He wants to pull back just a little, ask me
the question again, but I have him effectively
stopped for the moment. He doesn't want to stop
me from doing what I want, what I'm asking for.
We rub against each other for awhile, our fur
when it meets interlocking in what feels like
little hugs. He is holding me, arms settled
firmly around my torso, and I can smell his suit
and the room and the warmth of the plastic of the
audio appliances in the room, but mostly just him.
His breath is sweet. It smells some of the
Italian food we just ate about an hour ago, but
that's sweet too. Damn, they had good garlic
bread.
"If you don't trust me, you don't have to
tell me. I wouldn't blame you," he murmurs,
brushing the fur of the bridge of his nose against
mine.
I blink up at him, taking my time. "Aren't
you too good to be true?"
"Me?" He smiles, lifting a bit of lip so that
his white teeth show on one side. "Hardly. That
is, I am really a bastard. I'm luring you into my
house to listen to soft rock and watch football,
and when you have finally succumbed to my
well-dressed charms I shall reveal my bastardy
side."
I smirk. Then I realize I don't have
anything smart-ass to say. "Aren't you hiding
anything?"
"Like what?"
How can a grown man look so innocent? I
sigh, almost helplessly. "I don't know, Carmel,
_you're_ supposed to know."
"I'll level with you. A lot of people
respect me, but not very many really like me. I
may not be the sort of person you want for
intimate company."
"That's not what I'm looking for. Fuck,
Carmel, these sorts of stories don't exist. That
you're a 'real person with flaws' doesn't cut it.
You're netting me here with your perfect looks and
your perfect answers and that never happens
without there being a deep, dark secret."
He flicks an ear. "What do you suppose mine is?"
Before he's even done talking, I realize that
I haven't been speaking about him at all. It's
me. Only that's not fair. I don't look too good
to be true. I'm not anything but a bitch
comedienne rodent-girl with... nothing. No
family. Piss-poor job. And he's asked, in a way,
about...
Well, not really. He's asked me about why
there was no one to talk to, that night. No way
but the highway. I don't have to mention the
_whole_ truth. Besides, my heart is kinda getting
into gear, here. Faster beats than I'm used to,
and I like it. My nostrils are pumping lightly,
too, and he's very warm to hold onto.
I press closer to him, furry cheek on furry
cheek. He moves to reciprocate.
"Oh, Carmel, I wouldn't know..."
He breathes on my left temple. "Just thought
I'd ask. I like to know what evil I'm up to.
Whatever happened, by the way, to my affair with
my housekeeper?"
That was one of the first sinister secrets I
presented him with. He loved it.
I tilt my head. "It grew uninteresting."
"Oh?" He chuckles, deeply. "Not exactly
good for the ratings?"
"Nope." I bump against him, making him hold
me closer and press his claws into my upper arms.
I stay hidden beneath the pursuer's own arms and
chin, thinking fast before I look up at him again.
I needn't really tell him the whole truth...
Before I've lifted my head all the way,
Carmel has begun to enclose the bases of my ears
in his hand-paws and rub the short, soft fur
there. The effect begins to be felt down under,
so to speak. The same light sensation is
repeating in a few other places on this body of
mine.
Carmel lowers his fur-trimmed lips to mine.
I know what he's going to do; he offered me a kiss
once before and I accepted. Your basic
one-second's worth, on the lips, with one hand on
my cheek to steady me-- in case I should swoon or
anything, I guess. Maybe I would have fallen off
balance without that hand and he would have been
held liable if I broke my skull.
He begins kissing me. It's so light, I know
he knows what he's doing to me; he's
_deliberately_ making me wait for it, the bastard.
I can feel him brushing me and only a few parts of
my dithered brain are even marginally aware of the
petting his hands are doing over the back of my
head and my shoulders. It's all a Goddamn
calculated seduction act.
Of course, it's working like a charm. I open
my mouth about the width of his lower lip,
waiting, and he finally sinks into the kiss and
begins moving his lips and tongue over mine. I
think about it for awhile, trying to be rational
instead of all this _feeling_, but all that comes
up rationally is, "Fuck, Mara, kiss the man."
I do. I touch the tip of my tongue to each
piece of his mouth. We're warm, our warmth is
coming back at us mixed with each other's heat.
It's a long, slow kiss. I forget to think about
it much until he stops, just before I would have.
I start to look up at him indignantly, when it--
hits me. Damn. He wasn't just kissing me... I
was kissing him. Each other. Fuck. We were
kissing each other.
I could have sworn I had this look packed
away in some Zip-loc Baggie part of my mind, but
it escapes without even any alarms set off to warn
me, and he sees it. He knows. I must look about
as wide-eyed and star-struck as any rich kid on
Christmas morning. I think I'm about to start
blubbering. No, I'm not. I am far too
sophisticated for blubbering. Instead, I'm going
to sit here with my mouth hanging open, staring at
him as if he just grew wings.
He just returns my gaze, remarkably
intelligently, damn him for having the upper hand,
and his arms stay solidly around me.
He smiles, faintly.
The music is playing, ludicrously-paid
artists (like I intend to be some day, in my own
black-comedic way) doing their thing with lyrics
that I know are meant to melt my heart like a
marshmallow but which are working on me anyway.
Not a word between us, for several moments.
It's too late, now. Too late for me. But I
can't tell him that. He doesn't know what I'm
capable of... Or was capable of. Never again.
You don't know what it's like to be incapable of
something until you've done it once and felt the
change in your gut, worse than SCABS, worse than
loneliness and worse than the car passing you up
on your one best chance for a suicide.
Well, shit. I can't suspect him any more,
even though I have to pretend that I could. And I
can't tell him enough to scare him away. So, I
have to tell him enough so that he'll let me
continue. His scent as I experience it is
beginning to take on a tinge of raw sex under that
decorous pine-like whiff.
I take off my jacket. I may as well make it
clear I intend to stay awhile.
I lean into him, head against his chest, and
begin fingering carefully at the upper edge of his
slacks where I can get hold of his white shirt and
untuck it for him. I pull his shirttails out and
touch the fur on his side, nothing between my palm
and his torso. He breathes in, sharply and
deeply. Well, he likes that, anyway. So do I. I
glance up at him. As soon as he catches my eye,
he speaks.
"What was wrong that you didn't have anyone
to go to, that night, Mara? You had a family,
sometime. What happened to them?"
God, yeah, what happened to them. You want
to know? No you don't. But I'll tell you another
story, another story of my pitiful idiocy like the
broken toilet. A little bit more of my lurid
autobiography.
Suddenly, I am distracted from the imminence
of more South-side shit-hole confessions. This
man and this place are too rich for things like
that to be able to reach here. His mouth is
close. I reach up and begin licking his muzzle,
my chest getting caught into the same quick, needy
rhythm of my tongue.
Carmel reciprocates. His tongue tastes
different when I touch it on different places. I
shut my eyes and breathe to fuel more kissing and
just keep on. He's holding the back of my skull,
stroking the fur, so I reach up and do the same
for him. He makes a sound, not a word, just a
sound; it is a flattering comment on my hands'
touch.
I can't taste enough of his mouth at once. I
don't know just when he begins to slow down, but
eventually I can no longer ignore that he's
exerting a bit more pressure on my shoulders,
asking me silently to cease kissing and look at
him.
Reluctantly, I do so. His eyes are clear and
just a little demanding.
"Are you sure you want this? I mean... I
wouldn't be surprised if you didn't exactly trust
me, and now..."
"I--" I lick my muzzle-sides. "I-- never
really wanted it before. I never..."
He looks surprised, but maybe a little
hopeful. His hot scent is so thick in my nostrils
that changes are readable, but all layered up on
each other. He smells like warmed mint.
"And... do you now? Want it, I mean?"
"Yes." I try to kiss him again, but he turns
me aside with a palm cupped under my chin, just
allowing a slight brush of our whiskers together.
"Tell me something. Please. You don't have
to, I know that. But I-- don't feel comfortable
with this unless I know where you're coming from.
Please. Understand that I don't mean I don't want
it. I do, very much. I just want to know that
you're really okay with it."
I lick his hand, lightly. I look down at the
carpet with its straight lines left in the
unexplored vacuumed territory. "It was a phase I
went through. For a few months in high school."
Before I left high school and everything else
that mattered to me.
"What was?"
"Just... He wasn't important to me. It was
a fling, it wasn't anything. He didn't mean
anything to me."
Carmel touches the indentation behind my eye,
petting the fine hairs. "But..." I can tell he's
struggling with whether to make an assumption and
just charge on, or pussyfoot around the issue. He
might as well out with it. I'm used to all the
damned assumptions. I'll correct him right quick
if he pegs anything wrong. At least he's here
where I can fly right back in his face if he shits
me. Don't get that option with too many people.
Have to do it whether they're there to appreciate
it or not, on stage.
"But, wasn't your virginity important to
you?" He has decided to charge ahead, and it's a
doozy of a question. I chew on my lip and mull it
over.
I finally shake my head, almost
imperceptibly. "Like I said, it was a phase I
went through. I thought... that if I let a
man... have everything he wanted, then he would--
you know-- love me."
"It didn't work out like that."
"Fuck no. _Fuck_ no."
I almost wrench my arm out of his grasp to
make my point, but there's really no need. I
tense up, but then I go limp and poor-postured and
look at the way the furniture shadows fall on
carpet. If I had a carpet, maybe the shadows in
my apartment wouldn't look so harsh.