Succubi

and the world’s growing list of STDs. But never Ann. Ann was always “working.” Ann was “too busy.” It was fear, she knew, fear of acknowledging something that she didn’t want to acknowledge. She absolutely could not imagine her daughter in a sexual situation. The image distressed her, and the punky looking leather and Goth button clad creeps Melanie hung around with amplified the image to one of utter terror. It all made her mind feel jammed. Too much to deal with, she thought, and whined. Just like Harold’s other inferences. Lesbianism. Religious voids. Did Dr. Harold really think she had lesbian tendencies because the nightmare involved women touching her?

God, she thought.

The bedroom’s darkness seemed particulate, grainy. It distilled her discomfort. Martin’s breathing sounded strangely loud, and her own heartbeat could’ve been someone kicking a wall. The room’s only light oozed similarly through the window, from the moon.

The moon, Ann, clicked the riven voice in her mind. Do you remember?

Remember what?

Look at the moon tonight.

Carefully, she got up. She walked naked to the blinds and peeked out. Boats rocked gently along endless docks. Moonlight rippled on the water. It seemed pink.

Her gaze rose. The moon hung low on the horizon. An egg moon, her mother would say—it was lopsided, not quite full.

Look at the moon tonight.

All right, I’m looking. It did look funny, its inordinate size and the queer pinkish hue. She’d been hearing about it on the news the last few days, some rare astronomical occurrence. The first day of spring was just days away; apparently, the moon’s position in conjunction with this caused an atmospheric anomaly that pinkened its light at certain times.

Big deal, she thought.

But the more steadily she stared…

It’s pink, she thought. It’s bloated.

Like her belly in the dream. Pink. Bloated.

But that was stupid. She was letting too much get to her. Everything reminded her of the dream. Her own belly felt bloated as she backed away from the window and padded to the bathroom.

She closed the door and turned on the lights. The mirror’s brightness shocked her, and the sharp clarity of her nakedness. She still looked good—for thirty seven. Her skin was tight, bereft of stretch marks. Could use some sun, though, she realized. When was the last time she’d actually lain out in the sun? Years. Her skin was very white, creamy, which contrasted intensely with her very dark brown eyes and ashen brown hair. Her nipples, too, were more brownish than pink, and large. She’d had little to compare herself to. There’d been occasions in college—phys ed electives—when she’d showered with other girls. Her body had always seemed more robust, her nipples larger and darker, her skin tighter and white. It pleased her to see how little her body had changed. At the firm there was a junior partner named Louise who was the same age as Ann. Once they’d shared a hotel room in Detroit during prelim litigation for an air wreck, and they’d changed together. Louise’s thighs looked like bags of cottage cheese. Her breasts depended, and her belly sagged. “I’ll loan you my best dress if you loan me your body,” she’d said with a sullen laugh.

Ann pinched her thighs. No signs of dreaded cellulite. She pinched her tummy and came up with almost nothing in the way of excess. Maybe it was her hair that made her look younger, too. It hung thick and plainly straight to her shoulders, the way she’d always worn it. The full plot of pubic hair, the same color as her hair, seemed to shine.

But suddenly, she felt adrift before the bright mirror. Mirror, she thought. The sensation of portent returned for no reason. Her nakedness. Her brown nipples and white skin. She closed her eyes and saw the spraddled, sweating body, the spread legs, the tight bloated belly pushing…

She thought of the emblem, the bizarre double circle engraved upon the dream’s chalice and suspended upon the wall.

When the phone rang in the bedroom, she nearly shrieked. For a moment she could only stand there staring at the vivid image of herself in the mirror, as the phone shrilled on. Not him again, she pleaded. Not the caller

Martin was answering it just as she opened the door. The bright bathroom light threw a block into the bedroom.

“It’s…it’s for you,” Martin said. Sleep roughened his voice. “It’s your mother.”

Ann sat down on the bed’s edge and took the phone.

“Mom?”

Her mother’s voice sounded curt, businesslike. It sounded…stoic. “Ann, there’s been a…”

“What, Mom?”

“Your father,” the voice hesitated.

Oh, no. Please, no, Ann’s thoughts dripped.

“Your father’s had a stroke. It’s bad. Dr. Heyd says he might not last the week.”

As the words sank in, Ann could only stare. Through the minute slats in the window blinds, she could see the pinkened, pregnant moon.

«« — »»

In another place, two girls sat side by side in the grove. They were young. They were naked and holding hands. Wistfully, they peered up into crystal black sky.

“Heofan,” one whispered.

“Give lof,” whispered the other.

They had. They could taste it in their mouths, salty sweet blood.

“The wifmunuc will be happy.”

“I’m happy too!”

The old pickup truck sat in darkness down the grove. So stupid the helots were. Like animals. The girls had only had to hang around the parking lot for a few minutes before they’d been approached. “Whatchoo two purdy thangs doin’ standin’ round here all by yerselfs?” the fat one had asked. “Our boyfriends left us,” one of the girls had replied. “Can you guys give us a ride home?” “Why, shore!” offered the tall one. “Cain’t have two purdy thangs like yawl hitchhikin’ these dark roads all by yerselfs.”

The two girls had grinned.

All four squeezed into the big bench seat. The tall one drove. He was nice looking, long black hair, nice boots, nice smile. He cranked up Led Zeppelin. The fat one looked…fat. Long hair too, sideburns, flannel shirt. He looked like a redneck Meat Loaf. “We alls from Crick City,” he said. “Where yawl from?”

“Lockwood,” answered the young dohtor.

“This here’s Gary, I’m Lee,” the fat one said.

Then Gary said, “Still a bit early, though. And Lee an’ me was fixin’ on partyin’ a little more.”

Lee’s chubby face grinned. “Yawl like ta join us awhile?”

“Sure,” said the younger.

“The night is young,” said the older.

They both grinned again in the darkness.

“We know a place we can go. Nice and quiet.”

“Just lead me the way, sweetheart,” Gary enthused, and cranked the Led Zep up a little more, “Houses of the Holy.” Lee cracked open beers for all of them, Iron City. “Best brew ya can buy, an’ only a buck ninety nine a six!”

It had been a glorious fulluht; the girls had learned well. The younger had reveled in the look on Lee’s face in the moonlight. She’d had to push his tremendous beer belly up to get on him right, though. It hadn’t been