CANDY

            He and the bedsheets were drenched in embarrassment and irreplaceable shame. In this respect, his day was beginning in exactly the same way that it had for the past several years. This morning in fact, it was so heavy that he couldn’t bring himself to move for close to an hour.

On an appallingly long string of nights, he had fallen asleep under the oppressive weight of his own self-loathing. He even imagined that it had gained substance over time, becoming a human shaped cloud which lightly dozed next to him in bed. He had the sensation that if he so much as twitched a muscle, it would wake up in a horrible mood and nag him incessantly. Today it was spooning him, wrapping it’s entire corpulent body around him from behind in a tight pretzel. The thing’s breath was in his ear, both rancid and smoky from the lingering scotch of a previous binge. He felt its touch and lay stock still, watching the sunlight gain strength against the space under the curtains. He had slept for two hours. He gained the courage to rise, and on stiff legs walked haltingly toward the shower. He allowed himself to savor at least the brief pleasure of unwrapping a fresh and diminutive bar of complimentary soap. It had been provided by the hotel, where he stayed under the pretense that it saved him from a long drive into the city. As he scrubbed furiously under the pinpricks of scalding water, he watched the lather roll over the precipice of his distended belly. The white foam landed in misshapen sunbursts before it finally slithered into the drain.

The door of this shower was also a mirror. He was grateful when steam obscured his reflection, that of a man no longer young or thin, a man of small frame, receding hairline, and thickening middle. He was developing diabetes, high blood pressure, and a series of bizarre neurosis, such as the uncontrollable urge to steal silverware and salt shakers from upscale restaurants. This was becoming a problem, as he dined out on a daily basis, and often in the presence of clients and coworkers. He was almost certain that during the process of at least a few delicate maneuvers from table to pocket, that a probing and startled eye had noticed but looked the other way. Regardless, a month’s worth of pilfered utensils were piled in the bible drawer of the bedside table, in a mass grave with a growing body count.

            He contemplated this behavior as he cleaned himself, which reminded him of a painful moment at the bat mitzvah he had attended the previous evening. Just after slipping an elegant fork between his sock and ankle, he had become extremely agitated, and consequently broken into a cold sweat. He grew increasingly paranoid that this was obvious to the others at his table. When chewing the remaining ice from his empty drink failed to soothe him, he had nervously blurted out a tasteless joke about a child molester leading a boy into the woods, resulting in stunned silence all around. He shuddered in remembrance and scrubbed harder.

An hour later in his cab to work, he felt cleaner, slightly less anxious, and at least capable if not optimistic. But another remembrance disturbed him, that of the previous night’s dream.

He had been naked, standing in a long line of smartly dressed and attractive young men. At the front of the line was a beautiful woman with a twisted smirk and laughing green eyes. Flashbulbs went off around him with alarming closeness, blinding him, giving him a strong urge to immediately urinate. He suddenly realized that he was being broadcast live on national television, enlisted as a dubious competitor for the woman’s affections. He couldn’t lose his place in line, but his bladder and his bowels twisted and expanded inside of him with terrifying urgency. He ran away propelled by frantic instinct, and when he at last reached a toilet, a long stream of foul defecation left his body, overflowing the soiled bowl.  The woman with the pitiless eyes was notified, and immediately disqualified him with a single impervious glance that lingered in his mind for far too long before he finally snapped awake.

He reached the office still haunted by his imagined humiliation. In this frame of mind, he noticed that his secretary had left a magazine on his desk. On the cover was the picture of an up-and-coming young actress, staring with parted lips into the world beyond the front page. Seeing the image caused the corner of his mouth to twitch and turn downward. It reminded him of a young woman he had once known, who he had always thought resembled that particular actress. On one lonely and aimless night, he had wandered into a club and spotted her topless form from across the room. He was intrigued by her breasts, which were small and real, though he couldn’t help but notice had nipples darkened in the telltale mark of recent motherhood. He had become unaccustomed to the idea of amorous feeling alongside desire, yet he was extremely moved by this girlish young woman.

She had immigrated to the country only three years before. When she told him stories about her infant son, he promised that he would change their life. Six months and forty thousand dollars later, he begged her to meet him elsewhere, even if only for dinner. Her firm response was in polite but broken English; she was grateful for his help, but he must understand that he was only a customer. He refused to see her again.

With a frown he shoved the magazine into a drawer, turning his attention instead to a holiday picture of his family. It seemed that at least the smiles of his teenage children were genuine. He and his wife, a dark-haired woman of forty five, with black eyes and taught skin, stood behind them closed mouthed but mostly pleasant looking. In a contrived gesture, their inside arms were linked, while those on the outside each rested a hand on the shoulders of their progeny. He noted the expression of his eyes in the photo; which looked as if he could have been stuck with a pin at that moment. The frown deepened and he turned the frame away.

For the rest of his day he made certain to think of nothing but contracts, taxes, and businesses in obscure countries that he has never visited. By the time the workday was over he had lost all sense of time, unaware once again of being the last man left behind a desk. His secretary impatiently situated her ample body within the door frame of his suite. She leaned against it and in a breathy voice, asked mock-seductively if she could be of any “additional service” before she left. She then snorted at her own humor, dropping the charade to focus complete attention on the enormous chocolate muffin in her hand. She peeled the grease soaked paper away with just her nails, only to boldly use every finger to tare free large spongy morsels and bring them to her fuchsia lips. As hot saliva flooded his mouth, he silently cursed her and her muffin, but also waste lines and diets and his lunch of chilled celery. She accepted his taciturn silence as a “no”, winked, and walked away licking her fingers.

He watched her leave and counted the moments of silence. He grew warm and dizzy as he thought for a bit too long of the shapely, careless girl she had been when he hired her ten years before. Sinking low into his chair, he fumbled one-handed for a half empty bottle of lotion in his desk. Feeling mildly ridiculous, he eyed the magazine before cautiously plucking it from the same drawer. He inhaled a pensive breath, throwing shifty glances into every corner of the stillness. Satisfied, he at last slowly exhaled.

A shrill noise startled him.

His wife was calling. He ignored the ring and waited for a message.

“Come home. Charlie is dead.”

On the drive from the city he didn’t think much about Charlie. He spent a good deal of time in traffic thinking about how he hated giving speeches more than anything, sexual frustration and gaining weight aside.  He felt the same tightening sensation in his chest and shortness of breath that he knew would precede an upcoming speech. A dull pain in his groin was growing increasingly antagonistic against his wishes, and the sweating fold between his engorged stomach and his pelvis begged to be itched. Few situations made him grateful to be home, but something close to relief touched him on the threshold of his front door.

            He let himself in just as his daughter rushed past, ascending the stairs to the quiet sanctuary of the second floor, her face swollen and stained with abstract mascara tears. His wife stood at the banister and watched her go as she tore ruthlessly at the cuticles of her own nails. She was aware that he had come in but merely chewed the inside of her cheek and stared flatly at the coffee table in the next room. He lowered himself gracelessly to all fours and peered underneath.

            Charlie had been a gift from him to the family. At the time, he was mistakenly assumed to be barely older than a kitten. His true age had in actuality been 13, as declared by a smug veterinarian. Only a few years later here he was, splayed ironically in the pose of a trophy rug. His jaw was open and his tongue was distended pathetically, as if poised to lap the trickle of white, foamy vomit trailing inches away. He picked up the stiff corpse with two hands but sensed without any intended humor that it could have been lifted by the tail like a Popsicle. He carried the thing in his arms to the garage and searched for a suitable coffin box, but his kind attempt was thwarted by the awkward position of the deceased. He would have liked to use at least a spare bed sheet as a shroud, but envisioning a lecture on designers and thread counts, he settled instead on a black garbage bag.

Cat and shovel in tow, he made a solitary journey to the backyard. He walked past the brick patio and the landscaped Japanese maples, past the gazebo and the tiki-hut for summer parties. Beyond the Victorian gazing ball, behind the miniature playhouse that was falling into ruin, he chose a patch of plain grass and started to dig.

Soon an oblong hole scarred the impeccable lawn. Charlie was buried.

            He gave the last rhythmic blows to the disturbed soil with the flat of his shovel, and then went completely still. His eyes turned to glass and wandered into the beyond with nowhere to rest.

It occurred to him that he planned to turn around and walk back in the direction he had come from. Yet there were many directions surrounding him. He pictured choosing any course at random, and wandering over the horizon into a new life that no one could recognize.
            He gazed deep into the woods which began only a few paces away. He remained locked in this stare for several moments, barely aware of the sensation that a flame within was slowly being extinguished.

He let the shovel drop and stepped forward to touch the nearest tree. Testing himself, he approached another one further into the shade. He continued this with several more, noticing as the shadows thickened that he could no longer see his own yard. It was at this point that he stopped, confused by an unusual change in atmosphere.

He had detected an odor that was pleasant but misplaced. It teased him by lingering inappropriately with his green surroundings. It was a spicy perfume of apple and clove, a warm and nostalgic smell that flirted with the boundary between caramel and burnt sugar. He was aware of something feminine in this. Although it was savory it also carried a note of darkness, overwhelming the initial image of maternal comforts with something mysterious and forbidden. 

With a gentle caress, the scent was leading him to walk forward and further transgress the boundary of the trees. He stumbled deep into their midst, numb to the stinging insects and stray branches that lacerated his cheeks, indifferent to the gnarled roots that tripped him. His pace quickened and the smell became more powerful the further he advanced.

            It wasn’t remarkable that he eventually came to a clearing, or that in the clearing there was a house. What was remarkable was the power of his desire to taste this house. Yet he could hardly comprehend even touching it. He didn’t fully believe that it was even standing in front of him.

            He approached cautiously and placed a hand gently against the nearest wall, as if touching the sweat-covered flank of a frightened animal. The wall was colored cinnamon brown, with just the slightest warmth and the slightest downy give. A very faint phantom outline remained after he lifted his fingers away. 

            The window in this wall was grainy and opaque, divided into four sections with a thick piping of fresh icing.  He timidly scraped the colored glass with the nail of his pinkie, which he then brought slowly to his tongue. A pinprick point of sweetness radiated outward. When he touched the pane as well, his index finger disappeared to the top knuckle, lost in a buttery white cloud. He pulled the moistened appendage away, brought it to his mouth, and licked it clean of the rich confection.

There was a path of wafer cobblestones that shattered and cracked easily under his weight. In a near trance, he followed them around the side of the house. They were leading him towards the door, which was nearly obscured by delicate vines of crystallized orchids. He touched the handle, a red and white peppermint swirl which grew sticky from the sweat of his trembling palm. He turned it, compelled to open this door by an impulse stronger than reason. He willingly abandoned himself at that moment, giving himself completely to what might only be a beautiful mirage.

            There was only one room inside the house, and in it were only three things. One of them was a lighted fireplace. The flames crackled and wavered, throwing bizarre patterns of subdued orange hues into every corner. Against the other wall, well away from the heat, there was a small bed. In the bed was a telltale curvy lump covered with a blanket. The back of his neck tingled as he approached the motionless form, feeling alternately fearful and weightless. He slowly lifted a corner and stripped it away.

            He stood there transfixed, still holding the blanket. He let it fall, and swayed slightly, continuing his stare with slackening jaw, until finally a smile transformed him. It began as the uncertain grin of a practical joke’s victim, and slowly shifted into enigmatic look of contentment on a Pharaoh’s death-mask. It slowly stretched, becoming the face-severing rictus of a jack-in-the-box. His inner light was re-ignited, flaring both blue and white, electrifying his gaze.

            He broke the silence with a low, sustained laugh, and finally spoke.

            “you must be...Candy...”

            He chuckled again until his laughter escalated. His entire body shook and tears of relief were squeezed from his eyes.

            She stared at the ceiling with un-seeing black licorice eyes. There were no complications on her cherry lips or tangles in her red licorice hair, which was plaited into sticky braids. No breath inflated her pneumatic white chest with nipples of pink gumdrops. He touched her spongy white face tenderly, as a salty tear raced toward the corner of his mouth.

            He lifted her. Her marshmallow body was nothing in his arms as he carried her past the threshold. He protected her body from branches and stray twigs as he picked their way carefully through dense wilderness. When they emerged into the open, they slipped wordlessly past his own house and finally into his car. He drove her blissfully toward their new life.

            If the eyebrows of the waitstaff were raised at their tables for two he didn’t notice. If he was often at a loss for how to fill the silences with her he didn’t care. A month of dizzy euphoria passed, giving him a glowing zeal that others noticed and were intuitively suspicious of. There was a feverish intensity in his pupils that somehow begged caution. His coworkers retreated from him uneasily. It is unlikely though, that they could have fathomed his thoughts. He was always in his mind’s eye replaying the previous night’s lustful charades. They were vibrant technicolor epics, starring his serene and pliant concubine. In the hotel she always waited, exposed and expectant of his return.

            As time continued to pass she no longer had to wait. He stopped answering his phone. He felt no need to eat or shower or shave. His small universe was a dark room lighted with the one burning star of his obsession. With every ecstatic thrust against her soft body, a new trapping of the outside world was destroyed. He willed himself to believe that this would continue forever, yet there came another day.

            On this day he made love to her as he would on any other. He came inside of her and finally released the iron grip of his fist around her hair. He wiped sweat from the wrinkled creases around his eyes, and still panting, took her face between his hands. He scanned her sweet features, feeling impossibly swollen with loving affection. But as he continued to look he began to realize that something was wrong.

            He imagined that he saw a flash. Frowning, he looked closer. The disapproval in her frozen stare was unmistakable.

            For several minutes he still believed that he could placate her with cloying words and playful caresses. She remained willfully unmoved, and he finally pulled away in hopeless exasperation.

            “I don’t understand. I’ve given you everything. what could I have done to offend you?”

            He received no reply.

            He got up and paced the room, chilled by confusion and doubt. As he walked, he became increasingly certain of the problem; she wanted to leave. She was no longer happy and he was powerless against it. He searched every recess of his mind for a remedy and found nothing but frustration. Sadness flared, then anger. His thoughts became a putrid slurry of muddled ideas, a series of inverted memories.  It was possible that she had never been happy. He seemed to observe himself objectively for the first time, the amorous fool while she coldly waited. He reached for his wallet, pulling out crisp bills and flinging them at her still body.

            “Is this what you want? I know it isn’t me, it must be this!”

            He finally threw the wallet as well. She didn’t so much as flinch at the impact.

            His face became increasingly distorted as he waited for a response. Rage and frustration finally seized his features. He ripped a lamp from its table and hurled it to the ground, fracturing it into a dozen pieces with a spectacular pop of bursting light. When this didn’t calm him, he straddled the defenseless body and held it by the throat, shaking her violently as he clenched. His strength gave out at last and anguished tears came as he shuddered in dry heaves.   Every ensuing motion was fueled by desperation. He stroked her hair as he dried his red eyes.

            “I’m sorry, so sorry” he whispered, repeating this like a healing chant. He carried her to the bath and filled it with steaming water. He spoke to her as the tub filled, “candy, candy...we can leave this place. Just us... “

            He lowered her body and sat beside her, leaning his head against the porcelain as he stroked her hand. In this position, he fell asleep.

            When he first opened his eyes, her absence was confusing but not frightening. He stared uncomprehendingly into the tub, which was drained of water. He considered what he was looking at, turning a half formed idea around in his mind like a found oddity in the hand.

            He touched a white ooze at the drain. He asked himself if it might be soap. What then, were the two tiny black beads, bleeding dark inky trails into the last remnants of used water? Or the intestine-like coils of swollen red rope? His heart raced and his breath came in short gasps as he willed with every fiber for his mind to remain calm and blank.

            In a daze he left the hotel. He found his car and steadied himself behind the wheel. For the entire pensive drive from the city he murmured quietly and frantically to himself, as if words could chase away the descending shadow of morbid certainty.

“something, there must be something.”

            Night had fallen and it was beginning to rain, he was almost there, and peered anxiously through the droplet-soaked windshield at the road ahead. He reached his driveway, abandoned his car, and trampled the soggy lawn as he jogged then ran through the yard and into the woods.             He weaved haphazardly between the trunks of every tree that threatened to block his way, nearly losing his footing at each treacherous moment. When he finally reached the clearing he was out of breath and almost giddy from the intensity of the dry burn in his chest. The house was transformed by the darkness and the rain, appearing now only sinister and ugly. He groped his way around the side. The rain was already eroding the walls, and this time he was touching a mass of crags that crumpled under his touch and stained his hands with oozing brown muck.

            He reached the door and kicked it furiously, discovering that it was locked. He exhausted himself further by beating it with his fist before at last collapsing to his knees, emitting a sustained  animal yell that tore the life from his throat. He was taken with a final crazed notion of consuming the entire cruel structure. He tore off fistfuls of wall, cramming them hungrily into his open mouth. He coughed and choked, sobbing into his filthy hands as the storm gained momentum. It at last crumpled him into a wretched mass of soaked clothing and defeated flesh.       

The world went black.

            He was discovered the next day under a clear but grey sky, alone and face down in a lumpy field of mud and silt. His wife tore at her cuticles and chewed the inside of her cheek as she identified the bloated but unmistakable body. She herself would call to inform the office.