Ira switched off the lamp and stretched his legs out under the covers with soft gasps. His arthritis nibbled at him. Outside, rain droned against the roof, washed their wooded acres in a gray blanket. He thought abstractly of what he would do tomorrow. The garden, maybe.

“Good night, love,” he murmured to his wife. He finished settling in, working out a few last creaks of his bones. Helen lay on her back beside him, staring at the ceiling. A small smile played on her lips. 

A moment after he closed his eyes, she spoke. “I was unfaithful to you, Ira.” His heart at once picked up bass, a hollow drum in a shrunken cage. He opened his eyes and let a long rain-whispered moment pass before he turned his head to the right. A crow’s foot spread from a piercing blue eye toward her still-dark fall of hair, like an etching in marble. Her beauty clung to her at seventy-five. The slight curve of a smile stayed on her mouth.       

Dazed, he stared into the corner farthest from the bed. In the deep dimness he saw a lump of shadow nestled there, down by the floor.  

“There’s something over there in the corner.” His voice wavered with a rising pang. He found himself pushing all his attention toward that dark shape, away from what his wife had just said. 

“It’s just a coat that fell.” Still she gazed up at the ceiling. “The first time was in ’52.”

His skin tightened at the word first. “Before we were even married. When was the last?”

“Last month, the night after your birthday.” Her smile sharpened into a grin. “Age has slowed me down.” 

He lay there paralyzed, staring into the corner. They hadn’t made love in six years; he’d thought they were just at that time. The only pride of his life had been this vivid woman, his rock through all their many hardships. Shock began to prickle his skin like bee stings. His mind opened into black and he reeled. His Helen! “How many?” he whispered. His tongue was thick and parched.

“Oh, I lost count long ago. Many were in groups so I’ve never really known.”

“Don’t say these things,” he nearly barked, turning onto his side, away from her. A sour groan welled in his throat.  

She carried on in her calm, level voice. “I gave a lot of your money to men who fucked me. Money I said I spent on shopping trips. I cooked you meals and lied about what was in them. You don’t want to know. When you found your bloodhound Winnie run over in the road, it was because I put her body there.”

He turned back to face her, astounded, fighting to keep the panic from his voice. “Helen, you couldn’t have hidden all this from me. You don’t mean it.” He reached out beneath the comforter and picked up her hand. It was very hot. 

“In 1985, I think it was, when you, Mueller, George, and those two young things you’d taken on at the firm had the hunting party… Yes, it was ’85, when you shot that beast that’s on the wall in the den. I let all four of them have me that night while you slept. I’ve spent my life pumped full of filth, Ira.”

He let go of her hand. Its warmth unnerved him. “But why?”

Her eyes wandered the ceiling. “Because I’m always hungry. There was a time when I could walk through stores in town and give a blowjob in the back room of every last one.”

“Helen, stop it.”

“Patricia didn’t die of crib death, dear.”         

His eyes clenched shut and hot tears squeezed through. Dread bloomed in his chest with hot, charring petals.

“Andrew didn’t break his neck falling out of a tree.” 

“You killed our children?” The words were blurs; he’d begun to sob, his insides opened up. He thought he saw movement on the floor and gazed blearily at the shape that lay there.  

“A man who cries is very unattractive, Ira. But God, every tear you’ve ever shed has nourished me. I did it because they were there. And because taking what you hold dear has always brought me the most joy. Whether it’s blood or jizz.”

“Helen, please.”

 “You’re such a kind man. That’s why keeping you around has been such a lovely thing.” 

He looked over at the soft repose of her face and could say nothing.

“Don’t try to understand. Just go to sleep.”

His chest hitched as he waited to calm down enough to speak. In the corner of the room, he saw a column of shadow slide up the wall. It rasped against the paint.

“It’s my time, dear,” Helen said. “You might wish I hadn’t told you these things, but I wanted to taste it again. I’ve been saving up for this last meal.” And she chuckled to herself, deep and in her throat. “Now go to sleep, unless you’d like to watch.”

The shadow swelled in the corner. The covers jerked as Helen rubbed between her legs. Her back arched. Her tongue crept from her mouth and swiped at her lips. Ira shrank in horror as he felt himself aroused. With a keening noise in his mouth, he turned away to face the wall.

The bed creaked and settled as though a weight had crawled onto it. Something writhed at his back. The box springs began to whine in a slow rhythm with a counterpoint of wet smacks. Helen’s moans funneled into a distant gurgle. Ira buried his head beneath the pillow and shut out the world.

The rain had stopped when he reemerged. The silence was absolute. He lay there on his side and felt the gulf behind him. The black lump was in the corner. It did look very much like a coat. He wanted to lift his arm and twist the lamp on. Instead he reached back and clasped Helen’s stiff cold hand.

—

(originally published in When the Veil Drops, 2012, West Pigeon Press)