"We'll only be gone an hour. Just one hour," Christine was fretting and tearful.
"She'll be fine, dear, she'll sleep the entire time you're gone. You must get outside," Adele was insisting, shoving her out of the room.
The monkey was about three months old and Adele had persuaded Christine to abandon it to my care, just long enough to convince Christine that neither she nor the monkey would perish if they were separated, I believe.
I looked down at it. It was in its own bed, for the first time if I'm not mistaken. It no longer monkey-frowned at me. It sortof opened its mouth, made a face the women somehow identified as happy and kicked or wiggled its hands, as if it were inviting me to play, if you can imagine anything so absurd.
The strangest development was that I was beginning to suspect that it disliked the mask. Naturally, it was inconceivable to me that it could prefer my face, but it was definitely fascinated by faces in general. It seemed that the flat, featureless nature of the mask unsettled it.
"Ahem, look here, Ophelia," I opened. It stopped wiggling and stared at me. It did seem to enjoy being spoken to, but I was feeling ridiculous. "I am Erik, and I am required to supervise you until your Mother returns. I do not like it any more than you do. Now: I am going to sit over there," I gestured to the rocking chair, "and attempt to read, if you will be silent. Your Mother will return directly; however, in the meantime, I have NO FOOD for you. Observe." I exposed my flat chest, and it frowned at it. I believe it understood. "Also, if you will be so good as to not pee or shit or spew or anything like that, I shall be extremely grateful. When you are older, I shall get you a kitten if you will keep all your waste products to yourself until Mother returns. Thank you."
I made a mental note to start a page in my notebook about bargains I struck with the little fiend, so I would not forget anything. I was positive that it would turn me in to Christine if I did not come through with the kitten.
It screeched as soon as I sat down. It stopped and made a happy face as soon as I reappeared.
"Stop that. You are not abandoned. I know what it means to be abandoned--you do not."
I was not even seated before it started again.
"Monkey, this will get you nowhere with me. I am immune to your dubious charms. If you continue to scream, I shall rescind my kitten offer."
It either did not understand human speech after all, or it simply did not care. It screeched again when I disappeared from view.
"Ophelia. I will not dance attendance on you. We must find a way to coexist, and I believe I am being more than agreeable with you. You must hold up your end of the bargain, and try to be agreeable with me. Now, no more screeching or I will strangle you."
The next time I reappeared, it did not stop screeching. It did not care whether I was visible or not, whether I spoke or not. It just wanted to shriek, so I left it. I went down to the library; I could ignore it from there. I read, confident that it would eventually get tired and give up, but it didn't. I began to worry that if it was still carrying on when Christine returned, I'd be even more of a persona non grata than I already was. There was nothing for it but to return to the assassin's lair.
"Alright," I sighed, "you extortionist. What do you want?"
It had the same runny nose that Christine always gets when she cries too hard. Its entire face was juicy. It looked at me as if I was expected to remedy the situation somehow.
"Oh, for god's sake," I resigned. I used my handkerchief to wipe all the goo away, then found to my unparalleled horror that I had no place to put it but in my own pocket. I blasphemed. I came close to vomiting all over the little beast, which would have served it right, but I had no idea how to clean it up, so I fought that idea down. Anyway, if I did manage to vomit on it, Christine would find out somehow, and she would accuse me of trying to kill it. As if I would ever resort to anything so inelegant.
It was no longer making noise, but it was still staring at me expectantly. Clearly it thought it could charm me somehow.
"I am not going to pick you up, no. No. That is a perfectly comfortable bed, and there is nothing you need. I am not going to pick you up. I'm clean and wish to remain so."
It threatened to cry again. Really, it did; if you observe them, they screw their faces up before they howl, and it was just starting to screw its face up. I picked it up. I had to; it was wrecking me with its mental torture. It released a victory gurgle and permitted me to sit. When I began to read, it realized that it was no longer monopolizing all of my attention, so it began to squirm and kick. I had already discovered that it believed that it must completely monopolize all the attention of every sentient being within its sphere of control. I was still working out precisely how vast the sphere of control was.
"Here, you insufferable tyrant: Shakespeare. If I read this aloud, will you keep still? Would that please you? " The monkey enjoyed Richard the Third. It sucked on its hand until it fell asleep. Traumatized, I fell asleep, too. When Christine returned, she startled me awake with a kiss, the kind that I used to get--I think; I didn't really remember anymore.
I read more into the kiss than I should have. I went into what used to be our bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed. Christine was humming; how I missed the sound of that precious voice. The tryant was sucking away as usual. I still got a knot in my gut every time I saw it latched on like that. Christine acknowledged me with a little smile, certainly nothing like what I used to get before, but my new reality dictated that I would have to survive on scraps.
"Christine, could you perhaps let…her sleep in her own room? Just tonight. Just til I fall asleep?"
"All alone?" she looked as if I had asked her to let me eat it.
"I want to curl up with you. Please."
"Of course you can curl up with us, Erik," she smiled.
"Not…both of you. Just you. Just us, like it used to be." Her face was saying no, so I started pleading shamelessly. Not a shred of self-respect was left to me. "I don't want anything from you, I swear. I just want to hold you." It was true.
"She's a tiny baby, Erik. How fair is it that a tiny baby is all alone in the dark, and the adults don't have to sleep alone?"
"How fair is it that I've slept alone since it got here? She got here."
"I never said you couldn't sleep with us. That's been your own choice."
"It has not been my choice. I want to sleep with you." I was definitely whining. I know that she hated it when I whined, but I couldn't help myself.
"You may sleep with me. And Erika."
"You should have called it Raoul," I spat, disgusted.
It used to be so peaceful. Then Christine had that child, and all the rules changed. I was instantly unable to do anything to please her, and she got angry every time I spoke with her. It had poisoned her mind against me. All I wanted was to please her, a dog at her feet. No more, no more. The only thing which even remotely satisfied her was if I was nice to her baby. Keep your friends close; keep your enemies closer, they say.
After five or six months, Christine's body appeared to be returning to something resembling its former contours. The parasite was growing so quickly that she could no longer produce enough food for it, so she began to supplement it with a variety of mush. I do not recommend watching an infant eat under any circumstances. It had several strictly ornamental teeth at this point; at least I hope they were ornamental for Christine's sake. The point is, the teeth were of no use for the mush, and it spat and bubbled out fully ninety percent of what Christine shoveled into it. I harbored a fleeting thought that it might perish of starvation, but my luck did not hold out. By this time, it could sit up and flail with relative accuracy. It took wild swings at the spoon, or brought its fist crashing down on the bowl, so the mush would fly every which way. The spectacle was nauseating, and I was terrified for my wardrobe and my home. I could not be present for any of it. It would get an evil glint in its eye and wave a fat little hand, all gooey with green or orange mush. Hoho, Erik, bring that immaculate shirt over here. Let me get my grubby mitts on that brocade waistcoat, you pathetic bastard. As usual, Christine and Adele found the bubbling, spitting and even some of the flailing and splattering adorable.
The women generally took a perverse delight in every novel way that the ever-more-mobile creature found to torment me. When it found itself in my befuddled, terrified arms, it would squeal with satanic glee and try to coat my face with as much drool as possible. It would suck on my chin or nose if it got the chance; it would gnaw on my fingers or my lapels if I was not vigilant. It would pat-pat-pat or slap-slap-slap cheeks, eyes, whatever it could reach. I was in peril whenever they made me hold it anyway. I tried to explain to them that I should not be required to hold it, that women have soft, cushy laps suitable for holding stomping babies. Men most definitely do not. They insisted that it knew and loved me, and that I had to stop being so distant. Well, I know and love you, Christine, what do you say to that?
It began to make a new kind of racket, wholly independent of shrieking and wailing. It discovered that it could go "ma ma ma ma" one day, strictly accidentally. It was just playing with its mouth, but to Christine, this was conversation, this was brilliance. A huge to-do ensued, which gave the little creature cause to expect that any sound it managed to conjure up should be met with Bravissimas and standing ovations.
Christine happened to race into the music room one day with her little prodigy. "Erik! Listen! Go on, Darling, tell Papa…" Of course it did not understand this command, but after the excitement of Mother Running was past, it resumed its babbling: "Ba ba ba ba ba ba!"
Oh-ho, but Erik is no fool; he has been at this for months now: he has the correct response at the ready.
"That is wonderful, dear. Brava, ah, Erika."
"She said 'Papa!'" Christine cried breathlessly. I used to get her like that…
"Yes, I heard, lovely." It most certainly did not say 'Papa'. Besides, I told it whenever Mother was out of range that I was to be addressed as 'Erik', and only when absolutely necessary, as in "Erik, please wake up, the house is being invaded". We were developing an understanding; the 'Papa' designation seemed much too intimate to both of us.
One evening, Christine advised that she was having a bath, meaning, 'Erik, you are on duty. Do not let the child set fire to anything other than yourself, because, as you know, I no longer care if you burn to death.' Fine. I protected myself with a pillow and it was duly plopped into my lap. It immediately went for my book.
"No, this is not yours and if you touch it, it will be destroyed."
It was distracted by a sudden inspiration to stomp on the pillow, hoist itself up, and plant a sucking, drooling 'kiss', according to Christine, on my face.
"Charming, thank you."
"Ba ba ba ba ba."
"No, what have we discussed? Erik."
"Rih."
"Hm. Yes, alright, that is an 'R-I' sound. Brava."
"Rih."
"Yes, good. Sufficient."
"RIH!"
"Do not bellow, it is unlovely in a young lady. You cannot hope to ensnare a vapid Vicomte if you bellow. Ssshhh."
"TTHHHPPHHH. Rih rih."
"Brilliant…look, sit down, will you? Yes, sit down. Good. Thank you."
"Rih."
"Be certain you mention that to You-Know-Who when she returns, the Rih, she will be elated." Now that it was older, if you mentioned 'Mother' when Mother was not actually present, you instigated a riot. "Shall we read? I shall read, and you shall not touch the book. Are we agreed?"
"Rih."
"Right, if she stays gone long enough, perhaps we'll even read about your namesake."
It was asleep well before Ophelia's big scene. Christine returned and praised me lavishly for having put it to sleep so cleverly. I lapped it up: self respect is grossly overrated. She looked quite pretty, in a frothy gown which appeared miraculously unstained by baby-spew. She scooped the harmless-looking thing into her arms and whispered, "I was thinking of putting her down in her bed, at least for awhile. I'll just…be upstairs."
Hm. In the halcyon days of our marriage, this would have been a bona-fide invitation to paradise…but in the present climate, I had no idea what to make of it.
Christine was reading, but started dramatically when I entered.
"I am a bit rusty," I smiled, "Did you mean to imply that you wanted my company?"
"Yes," she set her book aside and chewed on a finger. She studied me as I undressed; this was sufficiently nerve-wracking. I slipped in beside her, a bit hesitant to reach for her. Likewise, Christine seemed timid about reaching out for me. Ah, well, let's see if I can get my face slapped, I thought, and went for a kiss.
I did not get slapped; she responded enthusiastically. I was actually not expecting much; the kiss nearly drove me to rapture. Encouraged, I decided to inspect my former playground for significant changes in the landscape. Bottom, hips, waist, all seemed back to normal size with no noticeable flab. Her belly was flat and taut again; she even had hipbones, a pleasant surprise. I inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair and reclaimed her throat with my lips.
"You love me," she whispered. "You love me, you love me." Could she have imagined somehow that I didn't? What had I done—or failed to do—to convey that? Oh, no, my sweet, it was you who went away; Erik has been here all along, praying for your return.
I unlaced her gown and ran a tentative hand between the breasts that I could definitely no longer claim, still beautiful. Christine sensed my ambivalence. She guided my hands to her sides, where the rib bones give way to the first hint of fullness, and drew my jealous face to its beloved resting place. Feather-light lips and fingers; gently, gently. They were different in a way I could not name: fuller? Warmer? She arched her back and rewarded me with a wordless murmur. Yes, that's right, I'm not your baby; I'm your lover. You remember me, Christine…
I was ripped from my bliss by a sudden effusion. I realized Christine was leaking, grimaced and groaned in disgust before I could stop myself. She gathered her gown around herself and shrunk from me with wounded eyes. I buried my face in my hand and wondered why we seemed to have to struggle for every bit of joy we found. She laced herself up and ran off to fetch her baby. I simply ran off.
In the morning I went upstairs and got Christine a big bunch of flowers. She hadn't gotten any flowers since she stopped singing, and I wanted her to know that she would always be my diva. I had been genuinely moved when she said 'You love me' with such wonder in her voice. If Christine could ever doubt my love, then I had indeed failed her.
When I got home, the creature was flinging cereal and shrieking with delight at the destruction. Christine looked very tired. I felt a fresh stab of hatred for the child. Christine began to rise to get me coffee, but I waved her off that. I would have preferred to give her the flowers without an audience, but the fiend was especially nosy about these goings-on. I moved dangerously close to Mother, I handed her the brightly-colored bundle, and I whispered, "Don't worry, it'll be alright." For the first time in months, it fired a monkey-frown at me. For once, however, Mother was on my side. I got a kiss, a hug, and a couple of tears. I raised a surreptitious eyebrow at my little nemesis to warn it what a formidable adversary I could be, especially if I could get a few minutes of alone-time.
"Erik, I would like to have another before Erika gets much older."
"Don't be ridiculous, Christine. Absolutely not."
"What do you mean?"
I put down my fork and glanced at the spy. It now sat in a special chair, right at the table with us. The idea is that it learns how to eat like a human by example. Anyway, it was omnipresent, there was no chance of a private adult conversation. So there were two sets of nearly identical blue eyes demanding a response.
"I mean no, darling. You have one," I gestured at it, "which is more than sufficient. I didn't want that; I certainly don't want a brace of them."
"How dare you make such a choice for me?" she demanded. The little hypocrite.
"How dare you make the choice you did for me? That," I stabbed a finger at the monkey, which was taking Mother's side and glaring at me, "was your choice: this is mine."
"We'll just see about that," she smiled. Her meaning was clear.
I glanced at the monkey again. I felt we were veering into subject matter which was inappropriate for it, but perhaps if we danced around the subject euphemistically enough, we would be able to wage a successful marital battle after all.
"Oh, no. I am not the hapless Romeo I once was, my dear. I shall not be succumbing to your tawdry blandishments again."
Christine leaned across the table and whispered, "You'd take me right here if I gave you the slightest encouragement."
I could think of a number of unkind things to say. I was feeling childish; my new standard feeling, so I admit I considered saying a few of them. I couldn't. I excused myself to the parlor and reached for the newspaper, hoping to quell my churning stomach.
The child was duly tucked in. Christine perched on the opposite end of the sofa, wearing her We Are In For A Serious Discussion face. With every passing year, she was getting more bloody-minded.
"Erik. I do not want Erika to be an only child. I was an only child, and I prefer—"
"Is this how you intend to seduce me? You need rehearsing, my dear."
"No, I was trying to appeal to your intellect. I—"
"Christine. The time for this conversation, sadly, is long past. Had you discussed your concerns with me before you incubated the first one, I would have told you then in no uncertain terms that I would not be a witting party—"
"Liar! You were a witting party!"
I felt tired and fairly beaten and we'd scarcely begun. The truth is, I've never had any stomach for arguing with her. It makes me ill. "Christine, listen: our home is quiet for the first time in months. You followed me in here, and it breaks my heart to learn that you want to argue. I do not wish to argue, but I want you to be happy. Tell me, what shall we argue about?"
She cried; she curled up under my arm as if she was my angel again. Blessed tears on my shirt…we were all alone in the world. "Erik, please don't say these things. Don't say you'll never touch me again!"
"I didn't say—"
"Yes you did; it's what you meant!"
My eyes began to burn. I had nothing to say, so I smoothed Christine's hair and touched my lips to her forehead. She kissed me once; again. She pulled me down, somehow managing to rearrange us so we were comically, gloriously entangled. She tugged at my clothing impatiently; all I could manage was to clear her skirts out of the way. My fingers sought and found her desire. "No, no," she panted. She had no interest in preliminaries. Just do it, Erik.
There was no life in me. I don't understand it; I wanted her, I always want her. How can a body betray and humiliate one so utterly? Why does my body oppose me?
"Christine, I…think she is crying…" I lied, drawing away.
In an instant my Christine had vanished. The Mother was saying, "Oh, Erik, I'm sorry, but you understand, dear," as she dashed away.
Professional coward that I am, I feigned sleep when Christine returned. She tucked a quilt all around me as if I were the infant; it was a gesture of such heartbreaking tenderness. I have never deserved her; never, never.
As is my usual pattern, I obsessed until I found an explanation. I realized that the child had some strange and terrible magic, more powerful than any I'd ever known existed. It completely vanquished the love charm that I'd created with Meg's murder, leaving me utterly emasculated. I couldn't even feel rage or terror about it; there was nothing but a blind awe. What a fearful little creature it was. I had underestimated it shamefully, at my genuine peril. I understood that I had to befriend it, I had to make it love me.
Christine blamed herself for my…'lack of interest'. Hadn't I called her a draft horse? It did no good to tell her how beautiful she was, or to call her attention to the fact that she was wearing all the same clothes as before, or to take her shopping. She refused chocolates. She barely ate. I became convinced that she intended to starve herself until I made love to her again.
