“Well, once upon a time there was a black castle in the woods—”
He had his audience immediately. A castle was a darn nice thing to start with. It wasn’t a bad story he had in mind, and he would have told it all the way through, taking fifteen minutes or more to hang it out on a line in the dark bedroom air. But Vivian’s fingers were like an impatient spider inside his palm, and as the story progressed he became more aware of her than of the story people.
“—an old witch lived in this black castle—”
Vivian’s lips kissed him on the cheek. It was like all her kisses. It was like kisses before bodies were invented. Bodies are invented around about the age of twelve or thirteen. Before that there are only sweet lips and sweet kisses. There is a sweet something about such kisses you never find again after someone puts a body under your head.
Chris didn’t have a body yet. Just his face. And, like every time Vivian had ever kissed him, he responded. After all, it was fun and it was as good as eating and sleeping and playing all kinds of games. Her lips were like a subtle sugar, and nothing else. For the past four years since he was eight, every time he met Vivian and that was usually once every month, because she lived on the far side of town, there would be ghost stories and kisses and subtle sugar.
“—well, this witch in this castle—”
She kissed him on the lips, momentarily crumbling the castle. About ten seconds later he had to build it up again.
“—this witch in this castle had a beautiful young daughter named Helga. Helga lived in a dungeon and was treated very poorly by her evil old mother. She was very pretty and—”
The lips returned. This time for a longer stay.
“Go on with the story,” said Leo.
“Yeah, hurry up,” said Shirley, perturbed.
“—Ah,” said Chris, breaking away a little, his breath a bit funny. “—One day the girl escaped from the dungeon and ran out into the woods, and the witch shouted after her—”
From there on the story got slower and slower, and wandered off in aimless, vague, and blundering directions. Vivian pressed close to him, kissing and breathing on his cheek as he told the halting tale. Then, very slowly, and with an architect’s wonderful ability, she began to build his body for him! The Lord said ribs and there were ribs. The Lord said stomach and there was stomach! The Lord said legs and there were legs! The Lord said something else and there was something else!
It was funny finding his body under him so suddenly. For twelve years it had never been there. It was a pendulum under a clock, that body, and now Vivian was setting it in motion, touching, urging, rocking it to and fro, until it swung in dizzy warm arcs under the machinery of the head. The clock was now running. A clock cannot run until the pendulum moves. The clock can be whole, ready, and intact and healthy, but until that pendulum is thrust into motion there is nothing but machinery without use.
“—and the girl ran out into the woods—”
“Hurry up, hurry up, Chris!” criticized Leo.
It was like the story of the thing coming up the stairs, one by one, one by one. This whole evening, here, now, in the dark. But—different.
Vivian’s fingers deftly plucked at the belt buckle and drew the metal tongue out, loosening it open.
Now she’s at the first button.
Now she’s at the second button.
So like that old story. But this was a real story.
“—so this girl ran into the woods—”
“You said that before, Chris,” said Leo.
Now she’s at the third button.
Now she’s moved down to the fourth button, oh God, and now to the fifth button, and now—
The same words that ended that other story, the very same two words, but this time shouted passionately, inside, silently, silently, to yourself!
The two words!
The same two words used at the end of the story about the thing coming up the stairs. The same two words at the end!
Chris’ voice didn’t belong to him anymore:
“—and she ran into something, there was something, there was, well, anyway, this, she … well, she tried … er, someone chased her … or … well, she ran, anyway, and she came, down she went and she ran and then, and then, she—”
Vivian moved against him. Her lips sealed up that story inside him and wouldn’t let it out. The castle fell thundering for the last time into ruin, in a burst of blazing flame, and there was nothing in the world but this newly invented body of his and the fact that a girl’s body is not so much land, like the hills of Wisconsin, pretty to look at. Here was all the beauty and singing and firelight and warmth in the world. Here was the meaning of all change and all movement and all adjustment.
Far away in the dim hushed lands below a phone rang. It was so faint it was like one of those voices crying in a forgotten dungeon. A phone rang and Chris could hear nothing.
It seemed there was a faint, halfhearted criticism from Leo and Shirley, and then a few minutes later, Chris realized that Leo and Shirley were clumsily kissing one another, and nothing else, just clumsily adjusting faces to one another. The room was silent. The stories were told and all of space engulfed the room.
It was so strange. Chris could only lie there and let Vivian tell him all of it with this dark, unbelievable pantomime. You are not told all of your life of things like this, he thought. You are not told at all. Maybe it is too good to tell, too strange and wonderful to give words about.
Footsteps came up the stairs. Very slow, very sad footsteps this time. Very slow and soft.
“Quick!” whispered Vivian. She pulled away, smoothing her dress. Like a blind man, fingerless, Chris fumbled with his belt buckle and buttons. “Quick!” whispered Vivian.
She flicked the light on and the world shocked Chris with its unreality. Blank walls staring, wide and senseless after the dark; lovely, soft, moving, and secretive dark. And as the footsteps advanced up the stairs, the four of them were once again solemn ramrods against the wall, and Vivian was retelling her story:
“—now he’s at the top stair—”
The door opened. Auntie stood there, tears on her face. That was enough in itself to tell, to give the message.
“We just received a call from the hospital,” she said. “Your Uncle Lester passed away a few minutes ago.”
They sat there.
“You’d better come downstairs,” said Auntie.
They arose slowly. Chris felt drunk and unsteady and warm. He waited for Auntie to go out and the others to follow. He came last of all, down into the hushed land of weeping and solemn tightened faces.
As he descended the last step he couldn’t
