Thirteen Crucifixions, 70

“Spank me, Mommy.”

            “No.”

            “Spank me, Mommy.”

            “No.”

            “Mommy.  Spank me.”

            “No.”

            “Spank me, Mommy.”

            “No.”

            “Please, Mommy.  Spank me.”

            “No.”

            “Please.”

            “Please what?”

            “Spank me.”

            “Please who?”

            “Mommy.”

            “Then say it correctly.”

            “Please.  Mommy.  Spank me.”

            “Again.”

            “Please, Mommy, spank me.”

            “Again.”

            “Please, Mommy.  Spank me.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I’ve been naughty.”

            “I’ve been naughty who?”

            “I’ve been naughty, Mommy.”

            “And?”

            “Please, spank me.”

            “And?”

            “Please, spank me, Mommy.  I’ve been naughty.”

            “Maybe.”

            “Please Mommy.”

            “If you’re good.”

            “Oh, I’ll be good, Mommy, I promise, I promise.”

            “If you’re good to me.”

            “I promise, Mommy.”

            “I’ll spank you if you promise to be good from now on.”

            “Oh, thank you, Mommy, thank you.”

            “Now show me that sweet pink bum of yours.  That’s it, bend over, over on my knee.”

            Carol whacked Derek, hard, with the palm of her hand.

            “More, Mommy.”

            Again she whacked Derek’s bottom.

            “More, Mommy.  Oh, you’re so mean to me, Mommy, you’re such a mean, mean, Mommy.”

            “Do you want me to tie you up, after?”

            “Are you going to tie me up, Mommy?”

            “Maybe, after your spanking.”

            “Ooh, you’re a mean Mommy, you’re a mean, mean Mommy.”

            “Hold still, you little fucker.”

            “Then spank harder.”

            “No.”

            “Harder, Mommy!”

            “My hand is starting to hurt.”

            “Mommy, harder!”

            “I’m pregnant Derek.”

            “Harder, Mommy.”

            “With your child.”

            “Harder, Mommy.  Don’t stop.  Why did you stop?”

            “Derek, put on your pants and sit down, please.”

            “What?”

            “Derek, this is serious.  I am not playing.  I’ve just been to the doctor.  I’m pregnant.”

            “But—”

            “I haven’t been with anyone else.  The tests all came out positive.  We are going to have a baby.  I am pregnant.  We are going to be parents.  You, Derek, are going to be a father.”

            “You’re not serious.”

            “This is it.”

            “You are serious.”

            “So whatcha gonna do about it?”

            “What are you going to do about it.”

            “What would you like me to do?”

            “End it.”

            “Maybe.  Maybe not.”

            “Carol.”

            “I might enjoy being pregnant.”

            “Don’t do this to me.”

            “Well, I’m not getting any younger.  I’m thirty-two for pity sake.”

            “You actually want this?”

            “Why not?”

            “But—“

            “But what?”

            “But what about me?”

            “Well, what about you?  I don’t suppose, on your part, that it’s ever been about us.”

            “But, how could you go and get pregnant?”

            “Figure it out, Sherlock.”

            “So, you’re going to—”
            “—have it?  Maybe.  I want to think it over.  I still have a few weeks.”

            “And then what?”

            “The doctor says I’m just three weeks gone.  He figures that I should make up my mind within two months.”

            “Two months?”

            “What—you’re putting on your shoes?  Are you going?”

            “I might be back in two months.  And maybe not.”

            “Well, thanks Derek, it’s been interesting.”

            “My pleasure.”

            As soon as Derek was gone, Carol got up to put the kettle on.  She kept her back to the windows, purposefully keeping her back to the windows, refusing, resisting the temptation to look out for Derek leaving the house.  She heard the slam of the front door. She did not watch for the sight of his car leaving, though she heard the car door slam and the ignition grind and the final whisper of rubber turning and departing over the asphalt.  She sat on her bed and stared up at her poster of Gandhi, whose sleek eyes focussed on her like those of an inquiring cat.  Several times Carol had nearly removed it, seldom could she look at it, especially while Derek was visiting.  She had scarcely spoken to Doris, who she was sure hadn’t judged her, and would perhaps find amusement in her having inherited Derek from Alice.  She thought of phoning her but to what purpose, since they hadn’t spoken to each other in nearly two months?  And now it was nearly September.  Carol had almost completely forgotten the peace movement, the cause,  her raison d’etre.  Something in her had fallen asleep, had gone dormant.  Margery had gone with her to the clinic the other day.  She had just lied to Derek.  She was no longer pregnant.  Gandhi stared down at her, not entirely benignly.  She should phone Doris?  Too soon.  Perhaps it was finished.  Carol and the peace movement.  She reached for the phone and dialed Margery.  Dwight answered.

            “Hi, it’s Carol.”

            “Would you like to speak to Margery?”

            “I just broke up with Derek.”

            “In that case, would you like to come over?”

            “No, I want to stay home.  Why don’t you both come over here?”

            “I’ll ask Margery… Is nine too late?”

            “Not at all.  See you.”

            She couldn’t say that she wanted to spend the evening alone.  But her friends were duty-bound to spend time with her, to give her consolation, whether she needed any or not, and Carol was similarly bound by these unwritten laws of courtesy to accept her friends’ ministrations.  She passed her hand through her luxuriant tawny hair, which she always wore down and free now, ever since getting involved with Derek.  This had been her season of glamour, of appearing all sleekness and elegance in tight black everything, make-up, stiletto heels and ravaged-looking fashionability.  She’d shed more weight, a little too much and was looking a bit haggard and wan and fashionably damaged.  Like an alluring junky she had hung on her man’s nimble arm in concert halls and threatres and only in the most elite dining and drinking establishments.  They had even been mentioned in the local gossip column, though Carol said very little when out with Derek, restraining her characteristic volubility, giving nothing away but the mystery that shone darkly through her Ray-Bans.  With Derek she had played a role—dominatrix lover and fashion victim—she had maintained a mysterious allure, was much observed, discussed and remarked upon.  No one, it appeared, had recognized her from all the news footage that had featured her during and before the Walk for Peace.  And all because of her hair, which she no longer held in a constricted bun.  It had naturally altered her appearance.  The woman’s glory was in her hair.  With Derek she had acted a role.  And with Doris, with her fight for peace and justice?  Was this also Carol?  And which Carol?  A backwoods preacher’s daughter in high rebellion?  Against her father?  Against Doris?  Against Gandhi?  And now?

            She was no longer pregnant.  She avoided touching her stomach, as though to negate that anything had ever been growing inside her.  She chose not to think about it.  Margery was kind, she was infinitely kind, holding within whatever personal pain and loss she still carried, while waiting for Carol inside the clinic.  She had taken her home making them tea—Carol had no appetite—and staying with her till she curled up on her bed and fell asleep.  This was two days ago.  She still hadn’t wept.  And now Derek was gone.  Why didn’t she rejoice?  Why did she try to avoid facing this emptiness that was already beginning to fill her?  She sat on her bed, stared up at Gandhi and instinctively stroked her beautiful hair, her waste-long hair that, once Margery had gone home with Dwight, Carol would cut off till she was completely bald.