The Collection

'Someone's coming!'

'What?'

'Two women are coming this way.'

He grabbed the shovels from the center of the room and smiled. There was something in that smile that put me on edge. 'You mean we're going to catch them in the act?'

I waved him into silence. 'We've got to hide!' I whis­pered.

'Why?'

I didn't know, but I felt it, sensed it, was certain of it. I glanced quickly around the room. In the far corner was a small stack of boxes and packing crates.

'Come on!' I whispered. I led the way over to the boxes, climbed into one, and was grateful to see Matt follow suit.

The voices were close now, just outside the door.

'Do you have your picture?'

'Of course.'

We ducked.

I heard them enter the shed. Their voices were silent now,  I but their shuffling feet were loud. It sounded like there were a lot more than two of them.

I peeked over the rim of the box, my curiosity getting the better of me. There were more than two of them. The num­ber was closer to fifteen or twenty. There were the two girls I'd heard talking, both of whom were around sixteen or seventeen, and a bunch of other girls in their late teens. They were accompanied by four or five women in their mid-thirties.

I quickly ducked back down before anyone spotted me.

There were whisperings and shuffling noises, and a few nervous coughs and throat-clearings. One of the middle-aged women spoke up. 'You know what to do?'

'My mother explained everything to me,' one of the teenagers replied.

'You are a virgin?'

'Yes.'

'Good. When you are through, you may place your photo next to that of your mother.'

Her mother?

Jesus.

The room grew quiet. Too quiet. I could hear Mart's deep breathing in the box next to mine, and my own breathing sounded impossibly amplified. I was terrified that we would be found out, though I could not say why the prospect of dis­covery frightened me so badly.

There was the sound of a belt being unfastened, the sound of a zipper. Something dropped onto the dirt, some­thing soft, and it was followed by a low rustling noise. Someone walked into the middle of the shed.

Then there was silence again.

All of a sudden I heard a sharp gasp. A small moan of pain and an exhalation of air. Another gasp.

I had to know what was going on. Once again, I hazarded a peek over the rim of my box.

And immediately crouched back down.

One of the young girls, the prettiest one, was lowering herself onto the tire iron. She was squatting over the stone, completely naked, the rounded end of the lug wrench al­ready inside her. Her face was contorted, physical pain co­existing with what looked like an underlying spiritual rapture.

The other girls and women were crouched on the ground before her, in a similar squatting position, intently watching her every move.

What the hell was going on here? I stared at the faded brown cardboard of my box, breathing deeply. Were these women part of a fanatic James Dean fan club or was this some sort of bizarre cult?

And what about Julie?

The girl gasped loudly, then moaned.

It was not a moan of pain.

The moans intensified, coming loudly and freely, the girl's breath audible in short heavy pants.

I thought of the photos on the walls, the thousands of photos. Had all of those women done this? They must have.

The girl had said that her mother told her what to do. How had the rest of them found out about it? From their mothers?

How many women knew about this shack?

All of the women in Southern California?

Goose bumps rose on my arms and neck. This was wrong, this was unnatural, and though I should have been aroused, I was frightened. I did not understand what was happening, and I did not want to understand.

Julie.

I found myself thinking of those secret societies of old, of horror movies and novels about the eternal mysteries of women and the secrets they could never share with men. I recalled-

Stephanie

-how, invariably, the men who did attempt to penetrate those mysteries were killed.

If Julie knows, Stephanie knows. They're best friends.

The thought burst into my consciousness. I had been as­suming that Stephanie was not involved in all this, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe she was. Maybe her picture was here, too, somewhere. Or maybe her mother's was. Both she and her mother had been born in Los Angeles.

But she was religious. She was a Christian. And a virgin.

The girl on the stone had been a virgin, too. Apparently, it was a requirement.

Julie had probably been a virgin when she'd come here.

I crouched lower in the box.

On the stone, the girl gasped her last. I heard her jump onto the ground, and then the shed was filled with the sounds of talking and laughing as the girl was congratulated.

'How do you feel?'

'I'll never forget when it happened to me. Greatest mo­ment of my life.'

'Wasn't it wonderful?' 'Could you feel His presence?'

The girl signed her photo with great fanfare and hung it somewhere on one of the walls.

Finally, after another twenty minutes or so, everyone left.

I stayed crouched in the box for another five minutes, just to be on the safe side, then slowly, painfully, stood. I reached over and hit Matt's box. 'Come on,' I said. 'Let's get the fuck out of here.'

I glanced over at the tire iron. Even in the diffused light of the shed, it glistened wetly.

I wondered where the girl had put her picture. Matt stepped silently out of his box. Carrying his shov­els, he walked out the door. I stood for a moment alone, glancing around the room at the overlapping layers of pho­tos. Was Stephanie's here somewhere?

Had she fucked James Dean's lug wrench? The chill returned, and I was suddenly acutely conscious of being alone in the small building. I hurried outside.

We walked back to the car in silence. I opened the trunk when we reached the parking lot, and Matt threw the shov­els inside. We did not speak on the drive home.

I saw Steph the next day, and debated whether or not to ask her about the shed. The question of whether or not she knew of the place was torturing me; my mind had conjured up all sorts of perverse and gruesome scenes. But in the end, I said nothing. I decided I didn't really want to know. A week later, I found the nude Polaroid in her dresser drawer.

She was in the bathroom, getting ready for our date, and I, as usual, was snooping. The photo was lying on top of a pile of panties, and I gingerly picked it up. I had never seen her completely naked, although only a few days before I had finally managed to get her top off in the backseat of my car, and I examined the picture carefully. She was seated, her legs in front of her, knees up, and the pink lips of her vagina were clearly visible.

She was shaved.

I heard the door to the bathroom open, and for a brief sec­ond, I considered confronting her with the photo. Who had taken it? Had she taken it herself with a self-timing camera? Had some guy taken it? Had