Heretics (7 page)

10

Madeline was even more spellbinding than usual that night.  Standing in the front room, beneath the chandelier, with the balcony on the second floor behind her, the stone and metal and pottery faces of ancient gods and goddesses watching them like sentinels, the entire area bathed in the shadow of insufficient candlelight, it all seemed like a waking dream.  She had applied makeup to her eyes—something neither Harry nor Rip had seen her do before—dark liner and shadow that made her eyes appear even larger and more radiant than normal.  Yet they lacked the carefree look they often possessed so effortlessly.  These eyes were serious and focused, the eyes of someone on a mission, and someone who had no intention of being denied; the black liner applied more like war paint than window-dressing.  Her hair, still damp from a recent shower, was pulled back into a ponytail and fastened with a rubber band, her usual kerchief missing, and she wore a simple sheer white nightgown that reached her ankles.  As was often the case, she was barefoot.  In her hands, she held a small brass holder with a single thick candle in it, the flame lighting her face and producing a small halo behind her.  

      “Holy shit,” Rip said, neck craned as he took in the room.

      “You should see it in the light,” Harry said, still unable to take his eyes from Madeline.

      “I bet,” Rip mumbled.  “So, we all alone, or what?”

      Madeline nodded.  “My father’s on a business trip, he won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

      “What about Fortunata?” Harry asked.

      “She’s in her bungalow.  There’s no reason for her to come in the house unless she suspects I’m up to something or if we make too much noise.”  Her smile became more animated and she swept the candle about slowly, like a miner leading the way through a darkened cave.  “That’s why I have all the lights out.”

      Rip checked his watch.  “It’s almost midnight, won’t she be asleep anyway?”

    “Never can tell with Fortunata.”  Madeline started for the stairs then stopped, brought the candle back around.  “She’s a
bruja
, you know.”

      “What the hell is that?”

      “Spanish for witch.”

      Harry looked at her questioningly, but before he could say anything she continued.    

      “In fact, she’s originally from a small coastal village near Lima known for the number of witches and healers who live and practice there.  It’s a rather beautiful place, really, surrounded by palm trees.  I only saw it once—briefly when we lived in Peru—but it left quite an impression, as did the local fortunetellers and shamans.  Quite a breeding ground for spiritualists of nearly every variety.”

      “A witch, huh?” Rip thought on it a moment.  “Cool.”

      Suddenly, Madeline’s expression was set in stone.  “Think so?”

    “Whatever.”  Rip shrugged.  “The important thing is that I come bearing righteous doobage.” He produced a joint from his jacket, held it up between them.  “I’ve already tested it personally, we’re talking
choice
.  Children, let’s get small.”

      “Upstairs.”  Madeline smiled.  “I want to show you guys my room.”

    As she turned and headed again for the staircase Rip caught Harry’s eye and flashed a quick,
I-told-you-so
 wink.  Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets and followed them across the marble floor, his eyes scanning the high ceilings and surrounding hallways and darkened corners, unable to shirk the sensation that they were not as alone in the house as Madeline would have them believe.

    Outside, a restless ocean crashed the shoreline, and the wind began to cry.

***  

The hallway beyond the second floor balcony was dark and felt as if it went on forever.  With Madeline in the lead, Rip in the middle and Harry pulling up the rear, they continued on in silent formation, past one door that stood closed, and then another.  Eventually they reached the end of the hall and found themselves faced with a third closed door.  Madeline turned the knob and leaned a shoulder against it, opening it and trailing the slow swing of the door with her candle.  

      “Welcome to Lady Madeline’s Freaky Sex and Sinful Dope Emporium,” Rip said.  He chuckled, but it sounded forced and laced with anxiety.  

      No one else said a word as they entered the room.  Now in the rear, Madeline closed the door behind her, moved by them then stood next to a large and elegant canopy bed dressed in a sheer drape.  With a slow pirouette, she revealed her bedroom in a vague whirling glimpse as candlelight panned the walls.  A bookcase, a dressing table, a mirror, a closet door, matching nightstands on either side of the bed, a framed print of a Marianne Faithful album cover on one wall, plush carpeting covering the floor.

      Harry looked up, noticed a swirl pattern on the ceiling.  In the flickering light it made him dizzy.  He looked away, tried to think of something witty or interesting to say.  Failed.

    Madeline set the candle on a nightstand then pulled back the sheer screen of fabric surrounding her bed.  It struck Harry as an odd facet, and reminded him of stylish mosquito netting.  Once she had secured it behind one of the posts, thereby creating an opening, she sank down onto the mattress and lay back as if being absorbed by it.  Rip wasted no time in slipping in next to her, stopping by the candle long enough to light the joint.  Together, they lay on their backs on her bed, sharing the smoke and talking quietly.  Harry lingered near the door and wasn’t able to make out what they were saying, so he listened to the night instead and tried to convince himself to join them.  As the room quickly filled with a pungent odor Harry tried to imagine all the things Madeline had done in this room, the thoughts and dreams she’d had, the good times and the bad.  Had it all begun right here?  He wondered.  Had it been here, in this inner sanctum where she’d first learned of the
others
 and their alternate world she so often swore were real?  Was this where things had happened, things that led to their presence, things that allowed them to exist in the first place?  The ill-defined feeling of general dread that adorned the rest of the house was still evident, though it seemed more concentrated here, more passionate.                                            

      “Harry?”

      Her voice was a welcome intrusion.

    Through the opening in the curtain, Madeline’s hand reached for him.  “Come on.”

    Awkwardly, he moved closer to the bed and into the cloud of smoke.  He leaned toward the drape, poked his head in and took her hand in his own.  She gave a gentle tug and he allowed himself to be pulled down onto the bed so that all three of them were side by side on their backs.  As he landed next to Madeline, a trace scent of freshly scrubbed skin, of soap or a particularly heady shampoo, momentarily cut the smell of the smoke.  Harry closed his eyes; felt someone put the joint between his fingers.  He took a deep hit, held it in his lungs and imagined nuzzling that skin, tasting it, breathing in its fragrance.  Questions rushed through his mind in rapid succession.  
Is that all there is to you?  Is that all there is to your relationship with her, to your feelings for her?  Does it all boil down to nothing more than tightness in your crotch, a sexual desire?  Is that all it means, all
she
means to you?

      As if countering his thoughts, in a dreamy voice Madeline said, “I want you guys to know something.  I love you.  I love you both.  I really do.  Sincerely.”

      The bed shifted.  Harry opened his eyes; saw Rip sit up.

      “Does that make you uncomfortable, Rip,” she asked,  “my saying that?”  

      He ran his hands through his hair and smiled.  “No, it’s just…”

    She sat up a bit, rested back on her elbows.  “Tell me.”  Madeline looked at Harry for support.  “Tell
us
.  What’s wrong?”

    “Nothing, it’s—nothing’s wrong—it’s just that…no one’s ever said that to me before.”

      “Ever?”

      Rip’s eyes were glazed and moist, but the pot was no longer the lone culprit.  “Ever.”

      “Well, I’ve never loved anyone before,” she said.  “So we’ll let this be a night of firsts.  Would you like that?”

      “Yeah,” he smiled.  “I would.”

      “Harry?”

      “Works for me.”

      “Don’t be flippant, I’m serious now.”

      “So am I.”  He took another pull on the joint before handing it back to her, hopeful she had bought his attempt at casual cool.  “Let’s make this a night of firsts.”

      “Yes, let’s.”  Madeline slipped from the bed and glided across the room, stopping once she had found a spot between candlelight and shadow.  She stood there in her white nightgown, eyes the color of night, hair the color of sand seared beneath white-hot summer sun, hands on hips, and watched them with the serene confidence of a lioness casually selecting her prey.  The flame danced, licked the walls with sparse light.  “Have you ever wondered,” she said suddenly, “why it’s often difficult to express love or affection yet expressing hatred or anger is almost always effortless?”

      “Because it’s harder to love someone,” Rip said.  “Hate is easy.”  

    “Have you ever
expressed
 your love for someone?” she asked him.

      Rip, who was now in possession of the joint, killed what was left of it then deposited the roach in an ashtray on the nightstand.  “You mean, am I a virgin?”

      “Yes, I mean are you a virgin.”

      “No.”

      “Harry?  How about you?”

      He shrugged.  “I don’t see what the point of all this is.”

      “That means yes.”

      “So, what if it does?”

    “There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin at eighteen, Harry.  We’re still a few months away from graduating high school.  We’re no longer
children
, but we’re hardly seasoned adults either.”

      “I’ve done stuff, I mean it’s not like I haven’t—”

      “You’re among friends, Harry,” she said softly.  “Relax.”

      Rip nodded, made a quick comical face at him then looked away.

      “Fine, are you a virgin?”

      “Does it matter if I am?”

      “No.”

      “And if I’m not?”

      “It wouldn’t make any difference to me either way.”

      Madeline smiled.

    “So,” Harry said, “
are
 you?”

      “Aren’t there many ways to answer?  How do you define the term?”  She removed her hands from her hips and let them dangle at her side.  “For example, if a young girl is raped, but at the time of the assault she was a virgin, is she still a virgin afterward?”

   
Be careful.  I’ll tell you what you want to know, Harry, so I’d suggest you make sure you’re ready to hear it.

      “If she was raped then obviously she’s not a virgin anymore,” Rip said.

      “So virginity has only to do with the physical realm then?”

      “See?”  He laughed, pulled a fresh joint from his jacket pocket.  “Told you this shit was kick-ass.”

      “I’m serious,” she said.

      “You’re stoned, Madeline.”

      “Yes, but I’m also serious.”

      “Yes,” Rip conceded, “being a virgin is a physical thing, of course it is.”

      Harry wanted to stand up and scream, wanted to tell Rip to be quiet and think about what she was saying, what she might be revealing to them.  But his body tingled from head to toe and he found it impossible to be upset.  “You’re saying virginity is also an emotional thing,” he said.  “That in terms of consensual sex, the young girl is still a virgin.”

      “Yes.”  She nonchalantly poked at a small patch of carpeting with her toe.  “But even beyond that, there’s sex and there’s love.  They’re two different things.”

      “Not always,” Rip said.

      “No, not always, you’re right.  But they can be, and often are.  You can have one without the other.”

      “Yes, you can.”

    “So then this young girl would still be a virgin when it comes to love, to
making love
, yet no longer a virgin when it comes to sex.  Like in those corny love stories where the man always says something like, ‘I’ve had sex before but I never made love until I met you.’  Isn’t there sometimes truth to that?”

      “I don’t know, Madeline,” Rip said.  “Is there?”

      As usual, Harry thought, Rip wasn’t as out of it as he liked people to believe.  

      Harry sat up, scooted to the edge of the bed, watched as Rip grabbed the candle and lit the fresh joint with the tip of the flame.  He held the candle out, to better illuminate her, and grinned through the smoke slowly curling toward the ceiling.  

      “This is stupid,” Harry sighed.  “None of it makes a difference anyway.”

      “Well I think it makes a difference,” Rip said.  He stood up, returned the candle to the nightstand and pulled off his jacket.  He let it drop to the floor then sat back down, the joint resting between his lips.  “And besides, you never did answer the question, Madeline.  Are you a virgin or not?”

      “Jesus, man,” Harry muttered, “don’t—”

      “Relax.  She’s among friends, too,” he said.  “Right, Madeline?”

      “It upsets you, doesn’t it?  Sexual violence.”

      “Of course.  Shouldn’t it?”

      “Depends.”

      “On what?”

    “On who is perpetrating the violence, who it’s being perpetrated against, or if it’s even being perpetrated
against
anyone at all.  Some people like sexual violence, they enjoy it.”

      “Yes.”

      “Some people enjoy inflicting it.”

      “Yes.”

      “And some people enjoy having it inflicting upon them.”

      “Yes.”

      “In fact, the line that exists between sex and violence is often exceptionally thin.”

      “Yes, it is.”  Rip swallowed so hard it was audible.

      “Tell me, does sexual violence happen a lot in reform school prisons?”

      “Yeah, it does, actually.”  He drew an angry drag, exhaled a stream of smoke directly at her.  “Does it happen a lot in rich girls’ houses along the cliffs of Virtue?”