Lovers

A Story by Ron Sanders

Alcoholism is such an ugly, such a harsh and unforgiving word. And even a masochist is sobered by rejection.

Lovers

Even as a child little Celia was obsessed with self-mutilation.

The first time April found her daughter semiconscious and frothing, Celia’s eyes were rolled back, her limbs and face lacerated by every sharp object within reach. Naturally mother went right into hysterics, and, once the vital crisis had been surmounted, drove Celia from the hospital straight to the therapist’s. April was informed that there was no known cause, and that Cilia would certainly recover emotionally as well as physically.

The second episode resulted in April herself seeking psychiatric treatment, and in Celia’s home confinement in a customized body glove. In time it appeared the storm had passed, yet April still blamed herself, her genetics, her upbringing--while still refusing to address her genuine demons.

But the third shock, to a hard woman perpetually battling guilt and self-loathing, triggered something far deeper than a healthy maternal reaction. From the moment she smashed that last bottle on the counter, April’s response was anything but natural.

Mother and daughter were to live in a home devoid of edges and points.

April’s small clapboard house, situated on a lonely tract of poorly-lit land, could be modified without the inquiries of authorities or neighbors. Panes were removed, windows boarded over. A carpenter was contracted to construct grilled apertures for light bulbs, and to fit all cupboards and drawers with miniature combination locks.

Then April got busy.

The resulting décor could best be described as blunt, as fastidiously smooth, and as relentlessly contoured, for April Waters, clad in overalls and bandanna, had methodically filed, sanded, and hammered flush every protrusion in her abusive ex-husband’s seized home.

Yet there were additional gruesome episodes.

April, focused only on that which openly met the critical eye, understandably ignored some pretty obvious potential hazards--simply because their projections were concealed by contours. Thus evils such as car keys and fountain pens were overlooked due to the roundness of their secreting handbag, and the oblong, peaked prongs protruding from the plugs of electric cords were neglected--not only because they were hidden in the parallel recesses of wall outlets, but because the plugs themselves were innocently smooth in appearance.

Now, April very deeply loved Celia. But there was a strong neurotic thread running through her affection, showing initially in a kind of overbearing momminess, and eventually in outright monomania. Because of this biochemical barrage, April faulted herself, exclusively and unjustly, both for Celia’s affliction and for the brutal alcoholic father’s violent departure. Still, the woman was immensely strong, weathering Celia’s desperate years of seizures and unforeseeable flesh savageries with uncommon courage and resolution. She grappled with depression by spending afternoons on the front porch, balancing pathos and palette while Celia slept locked away. During these imaginary sittings April painted her daughter in every setting she could concoct, with one proviso--the girl had to be smiling. April would have died to see just one of those painted smiles come alive. Her canvases were hung throughout the house, in obvious spots and in places marred by stubborn blood stains or bashed drywall. But especially in Celia’s room, facing the door. It was April’s prime delight to open than door with her daughter’s image smiling right back.

These little hanging squares of artificial happiness became more important, and more strained, as Celia approached puberty. But April’s pluck was amazing. For instance, during Celia’s biting phase, mother had, after days of heroic soul-searching, resorted to having the girl’s mouth wired shut, and still managed to abstain from gin and tonic until Celia discovered the exquisite tortures of manipulating stainless steel on freckled forearms and white, yearning wrists. Once the wires were removed, Celia became ferocious and unmanageable. It was with profound anxiety that April enlisted a most callous dental surgeon to, in strictest confidence, nearly dispatch the girl with anesthesia, that he might grimly extract her front uppers and lowers, leaving only those teeth adapted for grinding, rather than tearing. Little Celia, thus mutilated by another party, withdrew completely, and for a time immediately went into seizure at her mother’s approach. The sweetly smiling portraits were now too upsetting for the toothless girl. Again showing her mettle, April overcame her horror daily as she painted out teeth, canvas by canvas, solely for her disturbed daughter’s sake.

Alcoholism is such an ugly, such a harsh and unforgiving word. Yet in April’s case it was tantamount to emotional salvation. Through regular and liberal self-medication, she was able to remain all-giving mother first, self-indulgent masochist second. Strange that strength and weakness should cohabit with such balance. April throve on stresses that would crush a less-determined individual…even during those many long drunken nights with her ex, before he’d blacked her eyes and sent her gushing and convulsing to the emergency room, she had indulged in a form of liquor abuse-gratification common to women of low self-esteem: The b*****d beat her. He ripped her off, he raped her. He used her in ways that are incomprehensible to even the shallowest student of ethics. But…damn it, at least he was there.

April fought down these horrors courageously, so that now the past was just a binge; one long, perilously survived stupor. The present was all that mattered. And the present was Celia. For April, loving Celia was the purest form of giving, because Celia didn’t--Celia couldn’t--take. And even a masochist is sobered by rejection.

As to the growing girl’s security, April was inflexible. She would not admit visitors, period, unless they obeyed a single rule: at no time, under any circumstances, was a sharp object permitted indoors. Pockets were ordered emptied, with heartfelt apologies. Purses and suspicious personal articles were kept outside in a locked strongbox secured to the porch, and only then was adolescent Celia allowed to mingle with her mother’s genuinely supportive and sympathetic friends. For a time this method afforded April the semblance of a social life. Then, one Sunday morning, a fellow hospital receptionist unintentionally left behind a simple straight pin that had been lodged in the hidden seam of her recently altered pantsuit. The physical consequences of that single pin were devastating. April entertained no longer; she became a psychological as well as a physical recluse, and changed her work schedule to the graveyard shift to be near Celia during the teenager’s waking hours.

It was on this shift that she met Will, an easygoing security guard with an inexhaustible patter. In the wee hours, when it seemed they were the only creatures alive, the two would sit in the hard fluorescent light and chat, and flirt, and the dreary hours would not seem so long. They shared a love of pasta, a lifelong passion for jazz, and a real fondness for stargazing. And they had something else in common. One black morning, during April’s lunch break, Will came by to point out M31 in Andromeda. While so doing he nonchalantly draped his other arm over her shoulders, reached inside his fur-lined jacket, and slid forth a nearly full pint of Cream of Kentucky bourbon.

After that their working lives were inextricably entwined. They came to the hospital eagerly, and stole away at every opportunity. April now brought her gin and tonic in a plastic thermos, while Will carried a holstered flask of bourbon under his security bomber jacket. They weren’t stupid. They were never recklessly drunk, and they were never caught. Week by week the consummation of their passion neared.

The effect of alcohol on Will was to rouse an irrepressible satyr; a beast diametrically opposed to the sober, affable security guard April had fallen for. He couldn’t keep his hands off her; any excuse and no excuse were reasons enough to justify a grope here, a pinch there. For her part, April found it increasingly difficult to maintain her half-hearted parries. It had been so long. She giggled and blushed at his touch, and their façade of professionalism gradually crumbled, to the whispered amusement of janitors and orderlies. Alone together, they tore at their drinks.

One peaceful Saturday night there was an unexpected knock on April’s door. In the bulb’s sallow haze a half-tanked Will stood hunched like a punch-drunk fighter, his primer-gray pickup parked with one wheel on the curb. April hesitated; everything was wrong. This eager event should be taking place at a motel, on a back seat, in the park--anywhere but here. But Will hadn’t come to be turned away, and April was still prey to the alcoholic cycle: just the sight of Will drunk and weaving triggered an almost Pavlovian reaction. She experienced a kind of contact high, and her suddenly surging libido just as suddenly demanded she fix herself a drink. This she did, in nervous spurts, while talking to Will through the door; telling him to keep his voice down, asking him to be patient. She threw on a favorite album and gulped down half her drink. The liquor warmed her blood, the music took her mood. Excited, alive again, she peeked into the black womb of her daughter’s room. Celia was in her familiar sleeping posture; curled into a fetal position, eyelids fluttering, the orbs rolled back. April tiptoed in, readjusted the covers. Tiptoed out. Gently locked the door.

Will knew all about Celia from their chats at work. So, drunk though he was, he behaved; he was expectant, but compliant. He docilely placed his keys and all other loose objects in the strongbox, then proudly displayed the tall unbreakable Tupperware flask that held his liquor. April was brutally thorough in her physical search, much to Will’s delight, and at long last, after snapping shut the combination lock on the box, she ushered him inside.

Only April’s greater sobriety enabled her to keep Will at bay. For a while the man seemed indefatigable in his advances, but finally the bourbon began to work against him. He sagged, and allowed her to ease him onto the couch. April sauntered into the kitchen, returning a minute later with paper cups, a teak bowl full of ice, and a plastic pitcher filled with gin and tonic water. In the space of that minute Will had recovered completely, and was randy as ever. Their embrace was immediate. Will hauled her down on the couch, his greedy hands fumbling with her blouse and bra, his breath hot in her ear. Suffocating, April pushed him off, and they both leaned on the sanded-round coffee table with the sanded-round feet, gulping their drinks out of sheer nervousness.

She tried to forestall the inevitable--with chatter, with counter-maneuvers--but Will only grew bolder, scattering pillows and spilling drinks. April, capitalizing on the break, squirmed out of his embrace and made to replenish the pitcher. Will wobbled to his feet and blocked her way meaningfully. For half a minute April was terrified, but Will only grinned, stole a kiss, and staggered off to the bathroom. By the time he’d returned, April had wolfed down a stiff drink and forgotten both the pitcher and her anxiety. The two fell on the couch as the music’s final strains were replaced by the rhythmic hiss-ca-chuk of the record player’s stylus at the label’s paper perimeter. Behind this rhythm came a familiar scratch and rattle.

Celia’s door cracked open. The girl peeked out timidly.

In a heartbeat April was wholly mother again. She shoved Will away, swayed to her feet, and held out her arms while Celia shuffled over shyly, confused and vulnerable in her floral-print pajamas. The conflicting emotions could produce only one response: April quickly broke the mother-daughter embrace and made for the kitchen and more gin.

Celia was fascinated by Will; tugging at his clothes and hair while he glared. He sullenly pulled at his drink, his expression continuing to darken as April stumbled back to the couch, a fresh bowl of ice and half-full plastic tumbler quaking in her hands. She must have blacked out for a minute, must have tumbled backward onto the couch, for the next thing she knew Will was straddling her with his face buried in her chest. He pinned her like a butterfly. April whipped her head side to side in protest, and Will went right out of his mind with passion. When her head came to rest she was looking straight into Celia’s bright and wondering eyes. April cried out and tried to pull free, only inflaming Will further. He threw all his weight on her, and, so great was his demand, would probably have taken her then and there if not for a haymaker to the tip of his nose. April struggled to her feet and stood reeling in the middle of the room. Will blinked at her stupidly, his right hand gripping her rent and rumpled blouse. His other hand rose slowly, the fingers testing his hot bleeding nose. His eyes darkened.

April retained only vague impressions of the ensuing few minutes. She remembered watching Will lurch to his feet and trip headlong over the coffee table, waving his arms like a drowning man. She recalled seeing him hit the floor in a hail of scattered ice, oscillate and bob to his knees, flail and lurch to his feet.

In slow motion Will lunged, grabbed April by the hair with his left hand, hauled back his right arm, and smashed his fist flush in her face.

The blow sent April backpedaling into the kitchen. She glanced off a cabinet, slammed against the refrigerator, and slid to the floor. Through a veil of blood she watched Will stumbling back and forth in the doorway, moving like a ping pong ball jamb to jamb, sinking gradually, at last turning on Celia and dragging her kicking and screaming to the floor. Shrieking right along, April somehow pushed herself to her hands and knees; but that was all she could manage before the combined effects of nearly a fifth of gin and a broken nose sent her reeling into pitch.

April’s eyes opened around four in the morning. She rolled onto her stomach, crawled a few feet, and was violently sick. The house was inky dark, except for a narrow wedge of bare perceptibility created by streaming moonlight--and that one realization was so powerful it overwhelmed all April’s physical ills: the front door was ajar! Overturned shapes projected dimly in the living room. April, fighting for air, ricocheted off those shapes to the doorway, steadied herself, and thrust out her caked and swollen face.

Will lay spread-eagled on the lawn; face-down and unconscious. His truck’s passenger door hung open, its wing window smashed. A number of smallish, dully shining objects were scattered about the lawn, leading in a winding trail from Will’s body to the porch. A few of these articles showed far away, as though angrily tossed.

April’s puffy eyes followed the trail back to the porch. At her feet Will’s wide, flat toolbox lay upturned amidst a number of screwdrivers, spanners, and miscellaneous small parts. Chisels and a hammer lay atop the bashed and battered strongbox--the combination lock had been scored and defaced in a fit of drunken rage. She shook from head to toe.

Screwdrivers.

Chisels.

April turned back and the room turned right along with her. It kept on turning as she felt her way through the darkness, barking her shins on the jumbled unseen. The black maze became too much. Still drunk out of her mind, she pitched onto her face, striking her chin hard on the naked wood floor. Inches from her eyes, a number of half-melted ice cubes gleamed whitely. But it seemed odd, even in her muddled state, that the cubes hadn’t fully melted. April’s eyes burned with the strain. Unwilling to believe her heart over her mind, she picked up a cube and rolled it between her forefinger and thumb. It was cold, certainly, and slippery, but April knew, without the benefit of direct light, that she was holding one of Celia’s bloody severed toes. Jolted to her feet, she fell against her daughter’s door, kicked it open, and fumbled for the light switch.

Celia was seated on the floor with her back propped against the bed. Between her splayed legs lay several articles from Will’s tool box, including a small hatchet, a large awl, and a heavy-duty exacto-knife. The girl had chopped off her toes and fingertips with the hatchet, torn her limbs and torso to ribbons with the blade, and used the awl to make mushy pools of her eyes. Only her mouth was untouched. That same toothless grin that dominated the room’s facing canvas now smiled up at a failed mother in an alcoholic haze. Desperate for a drink, April fell screaming on the little corpse of her love.

Don’t miss my collection of poems

Out Of The Whirl

available on Amazon at:

Out Of The Whirl: Sanders, Ron: 9798671245547: Amazon.com: Books

My stories collection Wild Stuff is also available on Amazon, at:

Wild Stuff: The Collected Tales Of Ron Sanders - Kindle edition by Sanders, Ron. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

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