The Bastard

Chapter 2 of 5

by H. Jekyll

* * * * *

Chapter Two: Conquest

The new life was Elizabeth, but I didn’t know it yet.

“He hated me.” It was lamentable, her meeting with Robb. That was good for me.

This was the next time I saw her, in a coffee shop just around the corner from her place, with a kosher bakery and sidewalk tables. Picture her face, wind-chapped cheekbones, a wool peasant sweater, the sky only partly cloudy, a beret pulled far down while she sipped cappuccino. I was happy because women who need you are vulnerable.

“I can’t believe that. Tell me what happened.”

“You know him. I don’t. I just want to know what I did wrong.”

“So?”

“Well, he was there with two other people. I started to play but he stopped me after a few bars and began correcting me!” She looked half humiliated and half angry. She shook her head. “I had to play the same passage over and over and he kept pointing out things. One of the others, the woman, asked me why I held the bow like I do, and suggested I change it. Edward, I hold it the way you’re supposed to! It’s not something idiosyncratic about me!”

She sighed and looked away. I waited.

“Then Mr. Rennick brought out sheet music and made me work on that. He never let me finish anything! Finally he said they didn’t have any openings. He gave me the name of a teacher and told me to see him.”

She stopped again.

“And?”

“Well what was I doing there? Am I that bad? They could have told me straight off they didn’t want me, but they let me think I might have a chance!” I shook my head, sympathetically. “It was the worst experience in my life!”

It’s dicey, Ed. Be careful how you handle this. She might be wrong. Or she could have blown it. She’s feeling rejected, not thinking the experience through. Don’t answer right away. Talk her through it. Get the details. Get the whole picture, so you can be her hero, her confidant, the man she thinks about in the evening. Ready? Go.

“How much time did they give you?” That much?

“And who else was in the room?” It’s what I thought.

“ And who did Robb send you to for lessons?” I know of him. It’s okay. Almost certainly. Let her know. Yes. This will score big with her. You’re on your way in, Ed Hyde.

“Okay. Okay. I see. Elizabeth, I think they liked you.”

“You weren’t there, Edward! He hated me!”

“Have you ever seen ‘A Chorus Line’?”

“This isn’t Broadway.”

“It’s still show biz, schweetheart. People can be cold.”

“He hated me!”

“Look, I can find out. Do you mind if I call him?”

“No! I couldn’t stand that.”

“Just to check. He doesn’t know we’re having this conversation. I’ll bring it up in the middle of something, an off-the-cuff question.”

“What if he really did hate me?”

“Don’t you want to find out?”

She paused. “I don’t know.”

In the end I sent Robb an email. “Do I get lunch? The divine Ms. Peabody thinks you hated her. Ed.”

He answered that evening. “you get lettuce wraps and peanut sauce, ed -- a few months working with georgie s. and she’ll be good to go -- and tell your friend this business ain’t for sissies.”

* * * * *

So now there was movement. You could feel it. Immense power. Momentum. Unstoppable. Panzers moving across the countryside, though I have no idea of the significance of that particular image. I got an enormous hug when I gave Elizabeth the news, and I parlayed it into a series of little kisses. And the rush continued. In the end, getting to fuck Elizabeth Peabody was far easier—and quicker—than I had expected.

I took her to Salem. That’s ‘witch-haunted Salem’ for the tourist trade, and she was a complete tourist. I couldn’t believe she had never been there. It’s so her kind of place. Of course she was happy to go with me. It was sunny when we left Boston but there were clouds to the West and the breeze was starting to kick up, so it was going to have the right atmosphere. It was already chilly by the time we arrived.

I was careful. We didn’t hold hands on the way up, or in the kitschy museums or the restaurant where we had lunch. I didn’t push anything. She liked the little shops, especially the witchy and New Age ones. “If you like these, what about Nathaniel Hawthorne’s house?”

“That’s here?”

“Are you sure you’re from New England? I bet you’ve never seen the Miskatonic River either.” She got that joke. “We’d best hurry. It might rain.” I checked the tourist map.

The house was perfect for her, as old as lust and full of shadows, especially so with the clouds now coming in low on the wind and the air turning cold. You could imagine witchcraft and demons about the place, and curses, and timeless romance. You could imagine anything. I could imagine Elizabeth sighing while I played with her body in a 17th-century attic. The sky fell just before I took a photo of her under the moss-covered roof at one of the doors, so her hair flew and she had to shiver against the wind. I told her how exotic and lovely she was there, how other-worldly. I showed her the pic so she could see it was true.

“You haven’t read The House of the Seven Gables?” Again I had a hard time believing it. “You belong in a story like that, full of mystery and romance and ghosts.”

Whoa! That’s romance-novel dialogue. Unless she’s a complete innocent she’ll laugh at it.

But she didn’t. That should have told me something.

I pulled her away from the house, out into the sky. Of course her hand was cold and she was glad for me to take it. We walked into legitimately old places, away from the tourists, away from the main streets, down lanes where people still live in houses built in the 1600s, across alleyways, got lost, somehow looped by the bay where the water was choppy and there were whitecaps, and finally wound up back in the tourist district, near the statue of the Puritan that people mistake for a witch.

We held hands almost the entire time. From time to time, really heavy gusts would hit us, and Elizabeth would hug her arms to her front and huddle against them. During the second one I gave her a bear hug and blocked the wind with my body, and she leaned into me until it passed. We did it again. She laughed during it. She sounded childlike, joyful, while we stood firm against the spirits of the wind. The next time I gave her a sneak-attack kiss to surprise her. The time after that, she waited for the kiss. After that we walked with our arms around each other between gusts.

On the way home she fell asleep. I could tell she was nodding off. “That’s okay,” I told her. “I’ll wake you if we ever we get back to town.” She smiled and said “No, I’m okay,” but a few minutes later she was out, her cheeks red from the wind, her legs splayed open, her knees and inches of her thighs teasing me. I thought I could slide my hand up between them, but I wasn’t stupid enough to let it take control right then.

* * * * *

“Wake up, Elizabeth.” It was already dark because of the overcast, so dark the street lights had come on, but the clouds broke at the horizon and red light poured over us.

“I’m awake. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Mm-hmm. Would you like to stop for a bite?”

“Let’s go to my apartment. I can fix us a quick meal.” So I was being invited in. “Is that okay?” She sounded like she was afraid she had offended me.

“I’m honored.”

She lives in an old, completely ordinary apartment building. The hall floors are covered by those tiny hexagonal tiles you see in almost all such buildings, and there are the plaster walls covered with seventy-two layers of ivory-colored paint. Her apartment, though, is something else. It is an Emily’s home, tiny and chill, with dark oak floors and wainscoting. She had added wall-hangings, cloth carpets, small nineteenth-century prints, candlestick holders, and dark wood furniture to match the floors.

The first thing I noticed was her cello. It was resting on a stand with the bow hanging behind it, in front of a little gas-log fireplace that she lit, in a living room that was hardly an antechamber. She went around the place lighting candles everywhere. I couldn’t be sure—not yet—If she was making it romantic for me, or if she always kept it like that, like an Emily would. I went to use the bathroom while she began preparing dinner. It shouldn’t have surprised me to find two candles burning in front of the mirror. They made me want to leave the lights off entirely.

Back in the living room I brushed my fingers along the body of the cello. The finish was so old it was textured instead of perfectly smooth, and the fire shone only dimly on it, reddish, dark gold, in auras that shifted with the flame. When my arm touched the bow it swung back and forth.

Elizabeth had arranged her music in a little shrine—the cello, the chair, and the sheet music stand placed around the fireplace. It fit the rest of the apartment, the whole thing being archaic and isolated. She could come home, I thought, and close the door on the horns and sirens, the stores and the people, the T, the noises of the city, to her own little magical place. Was it the arrangement of someone who didn’t want to notice how alone she was, or who wanted to imagine she was part of some enchanted world where she wasn’t alone? Had it ever been shared with outsiders? It affected my imagination. I could see her playing the cello before the fire, practicing a tender melody to hold off her loneliness and—for the moment—being content.

“Edward…” She stuck her face through the doorway. “Will you open the wine? The tilapia’s almost ready.”

At the table she held a tiny bit of fish on her fork, a few inches above her plate, and watched me take my first taste. “Is it okay?”

“Yes. It’s wonderful.”

“Is it spicy enough for you? Sometimes I don’t use enough.”

“It’s fantastic.” Now I couldn’t add salt.

“I hope it’s not too bland.”

“Elizabeth, the heavens will tremble to the taste of your tilapia, and stars will sigh in sorrow because I get to sup.”

She smiled and looked down at her plate. “You’re teasing me.”

“Uh-huh. But it really is good eats.” She had fresh cut pears, and had made a small salad of greens and sliced almonds and canned tangerines, and had prepared a wild rice dish. It was very good, even the wine, but she only picked at hers. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Oh, I’m ravished.”

When she realized what she’d said looked down again.

My, my! Is that on your mind? Time to change the subject, to let you off the hook for now, to let you get comfortable with the idea.

“How old were you when you first knew you had it?”

“What? Had what?”

“It. Talent. On the cello. The hands. The feel for it. When did you know you were so good at it?”

“Oh, I’m not that good.”

“Shit.” She started.

Be a little more careful, Ed. Try again.

“Excuse me, but you know that’s not true. You have it.”

She stared at me a moment.

“Well. I was about fifteen. The school strings program needed a cellist, and I was only second violin, so I volunteered. I loved it from the very first time. It feels different—the position and heft of it, and it has such a wonderful timbre. For the first few months I used the school’s old cello, and I even loved it.”

Bingo! She changed right in front of me—her face, her voice, everything about her. There wasn’t time enough in the day for her to tell me about her instrument. We cleared the table while she told me how she’d finally mastered vibrato, how it had come to her over a weekend. While I washed and she dried, she told me how much trouble she’d had developing calluses, how she’d broken a blister and bled during a school concert, and how she has this thing for Yo-Yo Ma.

Hell, I have this thing for Yo-Yo Ma! We all do. Miss Elizabeth Peabody, you are a complete music geek. Can we talk about sex, instead? Will you take it up the ass for me?

When she stopped for a breath I asked her,

“Play something for me.”

She froze. “Oh, you don’t want to hear that.” The air came out of that balloon quickly enough.

“Yes I do. Come on.” I took her hand and pulled her into the living room.

“No.”

“It’s waiting for you.”

“No, Edward.”

“Play.”

“Play what?”

“Anything. Some solo.”

“Well, I guess.” She sat on the cello chair and adjusted it, took the bow, tightened and rosined it, took the cello from the stand. I stood next to the fire, leaning against the mantle. She was looking around. “I know! Bach’s First Suite for Cello. The Prelude is wonderful.” She looked for the music. Once she found it she futzed with the tuning, doing this and that, and I found myself cocking my head at her and raising my palms in a question shrug. Finally, she started. But she made a mistake. She started over and made another mistake. I was certain I had her. Second date!

“You think that’s gonna get you off the hook?”

She began again, and yes, it was as good as the other night. It was better. She played the same way, her left hand moving up and down, her fingers almost ectoplasmic. So maybe I could like a ghostly woman. Elizabeth would glance at the sheet music and then half close her eyes, but she really didn’t need to look. Like the other night, I could feel it. She was right about the timbre. The cello is warmer than the violin, but its solos are so damn somber. They sound as though they’re waiting for all the other instruments to come back and cheer them up.

After the first few notes I recognized the music. The Bach ‘Prelude’ is an Emily sort of piece, rich and sad, with the performer alone in the world, waiting for something, offering the barest hint of a promise of something. Or a hope. A hope of what? Of love?

It was time.

I leaned away from the wall and walked around her to where I could see the sheet music, as if that interested me. She played through this, but the moment I put a hand on her shoulder she stopped. I had barely touched her.

“Keep playing.”

She started at the place she’d stopped, but now she stared at the sheet music. Or at least she stared toward it, away from me, as though trying not to show she was aware of what I was doing. I moved my hand to her cheek. She concentrated on the music. Playing. Concentrating. Playing. There was color in her cheeks. I moved both hands to her shoulders, right at her neck, and she kept on, showing no notice whatsoever. I leaned down and touched my mouth to the top of her head and held myself there. The only way I could tell she felt this was from the way her shoulders went tight.

It was when I bent over further and kissed her ear that she stopped again. She was panting. I kissed her cheek. I moved a hand under her chin and raised her face upward, and twisted around to kiss her mouth. She kissed me back. Her breathing was uneven. I stepped around in front to kiss her better.

“Wait.” She gasped it. “I can’t.”

“Can’t?” Could I have miscalculated?

“Not like this. Wait.” She broke away from me so that she was leaning toward the stand and she placed the cello on it. She was careful. She loosened the bow and hung it and then finally turned back toward me and stood up. “Okay.” Only then was I able to kiss her properly.

* * * * *

I didn’t touch her body, not for the longest time. We kissed in front of the little fire, changing the pressure and the suction and the motion while we did it, touching the tips of our tongues, then sliding cheeks across each other. I pulled her to me with my right arm and used my left hand to touch her cheek, eyelids, her neck, her mouth. At one point we pulled back and I trailed my middle finger across her lips and she sucked it in. I let her suck it for a minute, pushing it in and then pulling it part way out. Her eyes never left my face. I let her fellate my finger, or was I finger-fucking her mouth? It doesn’t matter. It was to let her know I liked how it felt and liked what it represented. Now I could take the next step.

I pulled my finger out and placed my hands on her breasts, over her blouse. I just touched the tips. Her breasts are oval and soft, all natural, what there is of them. I grasped the tips and squeezed a little, and she closed her eyes.

“Loosen your hair.” I didn’t let go of her nipples.

Elizabeth opened her eyes half way, to look up at me through her lashes, shyly. She raised both her arms to pull the pins out. She didn’t step back or try to break free, and I squeezed her nipples the entire time. When the pins were gone she shook her head and ran her hands through her hair to spread it and take out the tangles. That finally pulled one of her breasts free, so I had to catch it again, and while I hunted it Elizabeth’s hair fell below her shoulders and over my hands, dark, smooth hair, almost black in that room, but with reddish tints from the fire, all curls and waves from the braiding, making her look almost like another person. I released her breasts and grabbed her hair in my fists, close to her head, pulled her to me, and kissed her again.

“My God, you’re a lovely woman.”

It’s a wonderful line. Would Bill Hamilton ever think of it? And it’s true.

Elizabeth reached to take my hands from her hair. When she had them she turned, holding on to one, and without looking back led me into her bedroom. I thought it again: Second date!

* * * * *

A CD played in the background the entire time.

Elizabeth’s body fit her face, and the furniture, and the music. She has black, perfectly triangular pubic hair that I plunged my face into as soon as I could. I could tell right away she hadn’t experienced this before. She kept staring down at me, looking worried, moving her hands randomly at her side, just off the bed, as though she didn’t know what to do with them. But Edward Hyde isn’t easily dissuaded! I worked her hood and then her nub, and finally Elizabeth lay her head back on the pillow and began to pant again and move her hips. I think she had three little, rolling crests. I could feel her body change, especially her belly get hard and jerky, and she’d vocalize, making louder “O” sounds before going back to panting.

“Come here.” I’d crawled up to her face. She had that dreamy post-coital look, but she didn’t just lie there. Down she crawled, and sucked me right into her mouth. This was nice, but I wanted it right. I pushed her face off me and knelt up. “Do it this way.” Elizabeth rose to her knees and bent herself at the waist. She sucked me in. Her hair fell onto my penis, almost hiding what she doing, so I gathered it and held her by it. She began again, down and up. It was almost a bobbing, a slow bob. She wasn’t very good. She didn’t know how to suck or how to keep her teeth off me, but it didn’t make any difference. I was close anyway. I began moving my hips and hissing, whispering, “Yes. Like that. Like that.”

But she pulled back again, off me entirely. She pushed her hair back with her hands and looked down at my prick. “Do it all the way, Elizabeth.”

Push the point. Make the effort.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“I’ve never done it before. I’m sorry.”

“I’d like you to try. You feel wonderful.”

“I’m sorry.” She turned her face away. “Are you disappointed?”

“My God.” I pulled her up and kissed her. “In you? Elizabeth! I’ll take a little disappointment to be with you.”

Damn, I want it! Fuck it all! It was almost enough to make me push her too far. Instead I pushed her only a short distance, down, onto her back, and knelt between her legs, then lay on top of her and kissed her. She kissed back, and we were all lips and tongues for a moment before she broke the kiss off and panted up at me.

“I know men like it.”

She was back on fellatio.

Drop it, Elizabeth. Don’t bring it up if you’re not going down.

She panted some more and put a hand on my cheek. “I don’t want to disappoint you.” She hugged me as hard as she could and burrowed her face into my neck. “Maybe another time? I’ll work on it. Is that okay?”

It was hard to work free, she has holding me so tightly. “Here, Elizabeth. Here. Later is fine. We have world enough and time. Let’s do this.” I lifted off her a little and felt for her vagina. She was slippery. I took my penis and put the head to her opening and pushed. Ahh! The first contact, the flower being pushed open. The best contact. I watched her while I did it, and her eyes closed completely.

Elizabeth, you’re a delicate flower yourself, almost untouched by man. I’ll touch you and change you. I’ll enslave you.

Later, after we had dozed, I turned to see the clock. Elizabeth stroked my back. “Can you spend the night? I have an extra toothbrush.”

Sorry, Elizabeth. There will be bigger disappointments than your new lover departing after sex, leaving your bed empty. Much more profound ones. Please accept this tiny regret. “I can’t. I have an early appointment.” Of sorts. But then I never stay. Only if the party is going to continue.

“On Sunday morning?” She was playing with my hair, looking up at me. She still had hope.

“Yes.”

“Is it in a church?”

“Not nearly as much fun.” Not for the client. Much more for me. I dressed and left quickly. Yes, I gave her a good-night kiss and told her I would call. I drove to my apartment, got on line, and ordered a floral delivery. A single, long-stemmed, red rose would be perfect. The card would read:

“To Preludes. Yours, Edward.”

That should hold her for a few days.

End Of Chapter 2.