| Monsters |
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Page 8 of 9 The bed was made, the breakfast dishes were washed and put away, the living room floor was vacuumed, the door to the shrine was locked and the Beretta was loaded and stashed under a cushion of the couch. The sound of Henry's mewling for it to stop came as if from a great distance, as it opened the door for its guest. "Pouring out there." The rain had flattened Celeste's hair but hadn't washed away her smile. "It's a good night to stay home." "Thanks for coming." It took the pizza box from her. "Come in." The top was soaked but the bottom was still hot. "Ta-da!" She pulled a squat jug of wine from a paper bag. "Took me three stores to find it." It hung her slicker over the bathtub and saw that she'd changed her clothes. She'd been wearing a red pocket tee and acid washed jeans under her work smock. Now she had on a ramie skirt that hung just above the knee and a fake batik polyester blouse -- a smart choice of fabrics. You could get blood stains out of ramie, as long as they were fresh. It had already decided not to rush. Now that it was in charge, there was no need to lunge; it could enjoy the moment. Besides, even monsters liked mushroom pizza and it hadn't eaten since lunch. They sat at the kitchen table and tucked away all but a slice and drank sweet wine out of coffee cups while she babbled about crusts and exotic toppings and Roseanne and the high cost of mufflers and kitty litter. She asked what kind of movies it liked and it told her comedies but that its VCR was broken. She confessed to staying up too many late nights with horror flicks. Her favorite was the Nightmare on Elm Street series. "Too violent for me." The monster couldn't help but notice that she was watching it like a movie. Her eyes never left its face. She was lit with an expression of fascinated suspense that got brighter and brighter with each cup of wine. "The problem is," she was saying, "they're running out of ideas. You can watch just so many decapitations before you stop taking them seriously. Half the horror flicks these days play for laughs. The other half are about as scary as Count Chocula." It offered the jug for a refill. She laughed and waved it away. "I've still got plenty left. You trying to get rid of it or what?" "Maybe we should move to the couch?" It was excited now. "More comfortable there." She stumbled coming out of her chair and it caught her, exercising so much restraint it thought it might burst. "'Scuse me," she said, her voice suddenly husky, "Hell of a lot drunker up here than I thought." She steadied herself with an arm around its waist and let it lead her down the hall. Her body was firm under her clothes; it could feel her heart pumping. "Where'd you say we were going?" It steered her through the door. "You remember the living room?" "Ah, yes. We were introduced earlier. Miss Lamp." She bowed. "Mr. TV. Mr. Table." She giggled and twisted around in a deft way that took it by surprise. She pressed closer and closer, arching up on tiptoes, stretching until their lips touched. Her tongue nipped against his teeth and she was kissing Henry, not the monster. When he realized he was back in control, he began to tremble. "I know." She moaned softly and pushed him toward the couch. "Me too," she said. "But sit down first." He slid as far away from the gun as he could and gaped as she unbuttoned her blouse. "You probably think I do this all the time." She was wearing more underwear than he had expected. Her bra was white lace, sheer enough that he could see her nipples. Above it was a wide elastic harness made of ace bandages stitched together. He remembered the three piece bathing suit but he didn't laugh. Her skin frightened him. "Well, you're wrong," she said. "I don't get many requests and the ones that do ask are always perverts." She released three metal clips and the harness unwrapped itself and fell to the floor. The hump on her back unfolded with a sound like hands rubbing together. Celeste grunted and twisted her head back and forth as if she had a crick. "No, it's all right," she said. "They just get a little stiff after being cooped up all day." She shook herself and two pointed masses of flesh dropped low behind her back and then slowly rose up past her shoulder. She smiled shyly at him and beat her wings; he could feel air on his face. They were double-jointed; he could see outlines of bones that reminded him of posters of starving children. "Oh my God," he said. The skin stretched between the needle digits was the same color as her face, flushed an embarrassed red. He could see a filagree of arteries. She had a span of about four feet. "Can you fly?" She shook her head. "I'm afraid they're pretty useless." She giggled. "Except maybe as fans." "I don't ... this is ... my God, Celeste." He shivered. "Can I touch them?" "Mister, you can touch anything you want." It was as if he was swimming across the room toward her. The wine burned in his belly like a pool of fire. She turned her back to him and held her wings still. They were covered with downy black hair and were hot as her lips. "Hey you, I'm standing here in my underwear and you're still dressed." She faced him. "Time to catch up." Her fingers tickled his chest as she took off his white shirt. She laughed drunkenly as she fumbled at his belt. His legs went out beneath him and he sank to his knees. "Thank you, God." Now he knew he could beat the monster. "You've sent me an angel." She grabbed a fistful of his hair and hauled him up. "Listen, Henry." He had never seen her angry before. "I walked in here on my own two feet because you're the only man who never stared at me. Nobody pushed me in here, especially not God. There is no fucking God! Or if there is, he's got to be the most heartless asshole in the universe." Her wings were flapped like pennants. "You look at me. Go ahead. I'm a freak, a monster. I didn't ask to be one and I had to learn to live with these damn things. And nobody helped -- my mother gave me this dumb name -- I still haven't got any god damn help. So if you want to thank somebody, you can thank Celeste Sloboda for staying sane despite the way most everyone stares." She was crying. "So that's the way it is, okay? I've pissed you off, you pissed me off and now we can go home and hate each other." "Celeste." She could think whatever she wanted. He knew God's work when he saw it. She was full of a kind of pain the monster couldn't use. Only he could. He knew that as long as he believed in this miracle, nobody, nothing could stop him from being himself. "Let go of my hair?" She released him and immediately stroked the back of his head. "I didn't mean to hurt you." Her gaze softened. "I'm sorry. I didn't want it like this." He could feel the monster slipping away. "I want you," he said. Her face kept getting bigger until it was the only thing Henry could see. They kissed forever and amen. Henry wasn't sure how he got naked. As he led her to the bedroom he couldn't remember if any woman had ever seen him naked before. She paused by the bathroom, traced the line of his chin, and smiled. "Henry," she said, "Do you think you might shave?"
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