(I)

“It’s Brazilian rosewood,” Paul said with pride. The dining table shined with such luster it nearly seemed possessed of some dark inner light.

“I’ll bet it cost a fortune,” Cristina said.

“Sure, but we’re successful, remember?”

“You’ve really done a spectacular job,” she complimented, still dazzled by the visual impact of the foyer and dining room. “And look at these banisters!”

“That’s knurled mahogany, honey.” He ran his hand around the wood’s corkscrew configuration at the end. “It’s one piece of wood, believe it or not. They steam the wood so they can shape it to match the curvature of the stairs.”

Cristina looked up the steps, marveling at the plush, black-red carpet. “These are the most beautiful stairs I’ve ever seen in a home, Paul.”

“Yeah? And now it’s our home.”

When she turned, she was jolted by the stunning reflection of the stairwell’s banister in a great circular mirror hanging in a quaint niche.

Paul’s tie hung loosened, his jacket off, as he sipped a small scotch. Cristina could tell how excited he was to finally be unveiling the house to her. He did all this for me, she knew. And it’s beautiful.

“Unfortunately, for now,” he added, “these are the stairs to nowhere.”

Cristina agreed with the tactic. “There’s no reason to fix the whole place up right away.”

“I’m going to do it a floor at a time, and I don’t even have a timetable. This floor is more than we need anyway.” He took her hand. “Now it’s time for you to see the rest.”

Each room waylaid her. Cristina wasn’t much of a materialist but even she had to admit how much she loved what he’d done. She tended to like new things that looked old, and this nailed the sentiment. The barrel-vaulted ceiling in the living room lent a neoclassical air with its arched transoms and mosaic wainscoting. A fireplace as high as she stood graced one wall, faux logs burning gently. Tuscan pilasters formed a colonnade across the foyer—highlighting the pointed, double-paneled entry door—the end of which was dedicated to a mirrored wet bar.

“You want a drink for the rest of the tour?” he asked, freshening his own.

“No! I’m too excited!”

Dark hardwood floor segments alternated with shining slate the color of jade. Another room functioned as a lanai leading to a tiny but meticulous garden arranged on the balcony. I’ll be able to brainstorm out here! Next came the den, which Paul informed was actually the “sitting room”: cupolas full of bookshelves, a simple silver chandelier, and darkly upholstered armchairs—the feel of an exclusive club. Furniture, sconces, and shelving all resonated old-world craftsmanship, which continued along a butter-cream wall of arch-topped windows and exotic maroon drapes. In the kitchen, peacock-green African marble topped an expansive island counter.

“Get ready,” he said. “Here’s the master suite…”

More maroon and gold tones accentuated the cozy room where they’d be sleeping. A great, veiled poster bed, more dark old-world furniture, and angled into the corner was the bathroom and vanity, complete with a spa appointed by more decorative columns. Cristina felt winded, taking it all in.

“The interior decorator called it neo-Baroque,” he said.

“I love it,” she whispered.

When she snuck a peek at him, she could tell that he loved it too, but what he loved more was her approval. What kind of guy would do all of this just to make a woman happy? she had to ask herself. He cares more about what I think than anything else. It made her feel more special than she’d ever felt.

“I knew you’d like the style. The guest room’s similar but I didn’t do much to your work room, which is right in here,” he said and opened two more double-paneled doors.

He obviously had the windows expanded to provide more light, and kept the style pretty basic.

“I know how artists are about their work space,” he went on. “You’ll want to tune it up your own way.”

He was quite right about the “work space” thing; creative types had their own eccentricities regarding the work environment. They went back to the bedroom. “It’ll be perfect,” she said and hugged him. A tear slipped from her eye. “You did all this for me—”

“Well, you moved here for me,” he said, tightening his embrace.

“It’s for both of us.” The sudden surge of excitement left her feeling hot, even prickly. What’s this all about? she tested herself. Her nipples pressed against his chest seemed to spark.

When was the last time she’d felt such a sensation?

She tried to distract herself. “You must’ve spent so much redoing these rooms,” she said, but kept hugging him. Suddenly the feel of his chest pressing her breasts began to spread.

“Honey, you probably could’ve swung it on what you made last year. Remember, we’re both successful now, not just me.”

“I know, but—”

But what? Why did she feel so pleasantly strange now?

His hot words blew against her ear. “You have no idea how happy I am that you like the place.”

Her hand slipped around the back of his neck and pulled. The kiss was so sudden and desperate she couldn’t figure it. She slipped her tongue in his mouth and pressed against him even harder.

“Yeah, I guess you really like the place,” he remarked when the kiss broke.

“No, I love it, and I love you…”

He took her hand. “Come on, you haven’t seen the game room yet. I’ve got a fifty-inch plasma that lowers out of the ceiling, and twelve speakers hidden in the walls. All that classical stuff you listen to? Wait’ll you hear it on this system.”

But his words sounded far away. Instead of following him out, she was backing away until her hands came away from his.

“Paul…”

He turned, eyes narrowed. “Don’t you want to see—”

Cristina kept back-stepping, then slid her rump up on the vanity’s marble top.

“Honey?”

Her voice suddenly sounded parched. “Come here…”

She reached out to him as he approached, then wrapped her legs around him, to seize his groin against hers. It was almost rough the way she grabbed his collar and pulled him down again to kiss her, this time more ravenously. It was a wild heat, like steam, that seemed to spiral inside of her, from her breasts, to her belly, to her sex. She could tell Paul didn’t know what to make of this but she didn’t even give him time to contemplate; she kept her mouth locked to his, nearly whining.

“Paul, I’m so sorry,” she managed to pant, then frantically undid the top buttons of her blouse.

“Sorry for what?”

“You know.” And then, frustrated, she yanked her blouse out of her jeans, and pushed one of his hands up against her skin.

He was so taken aback, he chuckled.

“Baby, I don’t know. You’re kind of throwing me for a loop but…I like it.”

She locked her ankles behind his back, vising him harder. She felt in a low frenzy when she blurted, “I’m sorry I haven’t been very sexual for a while. I haven’t considered your needs at all.”

“Honey, that’s not true—”

“Yes, it is!” she panted. “I’ve been nervous about the new line and about moving and being in New York and—”

“Cristina! I haven’t exactly been Mr. Stud for a while myself, not with all that’s been going on at the office with Jess…”

She kept trying to sort her thoughts against the rising gust of lust. “For most of the last year you probably thought I lost my sex drive, that I wasn’t attracted to you, but I need you to know that I am. I’ve always been so hot for you I can’t stand it—I just don’t show it a lot—”

His hands slid up her blouse even as he weighed his own perplexion. “Cris—”

“I want us to do it right here,” she breathed. Finally she tore open the rest of her blouse and flipped her bra up over her breasts so his hands could find them. “Right now…I need you in me right now …” And as she made the unbidden plea, she cupped his crotch and rubbed, then ran her hand against her own crotch. She could feel her own heat building beneath the denim, and suddenly she thought she’d scream if she didn’t have her pants off.

“Baby, you’re really a trip today.”

She unsnapped her waist button, pulled his hands off her breasts and put them on her waist. “Take these off.” She kicked her shoes across the room, then lifted her butt up to help him.

She didn’t even think about it while he was pulling her jeans off her legs: she caressed her own breasts and moaned out loud…

They both flinched at a loud, even pounding on the door. Her eyes darted to his.

“Don’t answer it—”

He paused, then continued peeling her jeans off.

More knocking, louder, and also the doorbell.

“Damn it!” Paul looked crestfallen. “It’s the movers with more of our stuff.”

“Shit!”

“Baby, believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to keep going here but if I don’t get that, they’ll probably leave…”

Cristina crumpled back against the vanity wall. “I know.” And then she laughed, looking at herself. “That’s what I call getting caught with my pants down…”

Paul stood her on her feet and pulled her jeans back up. “We’ll pick up where we left off once they leave.” Then he laughed at her buttonless blouse. “Maybe you better get something else on.”

“Yeah. What would the movers think?”

“Come out whenever you’re ready. I’ll let them in now,” he said, straightening himself up. “I think they’ve got my office stuff and law books, and most of your work stuff. That’s pretty much all that’s left.”

She kissed him one more time, hard, as the doorbell rang again. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Paul smiled, wiped his brow, and left.

Jeez, what’s getting into me? she thought. I feel absolutely slutty—I practically raped him! She supposed everyone was subject to their moods, but this was uncanny. It must mean that all my worries about moving here are over—just like Britt said earlier. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so sexually charged. And it’s still there, she realized, that lusty heat still spiraling. She took a moment to splash her face with cool water from the sink, catching her breath. The temptation was so great, she actually cosseted herself again through the jeans, then contemplated searching for her vibrator. But most of the moving boxes were still unpacked. It would take me forever to find it, she thought, and then winced when she realized how outrageous the idea was in the first place. The movers would probably walk in… I’m sure Paul would love that. “That’s some girlfriend you got there, buddy.” Instead she simmered herself down and put on a different blouse.

But, still, her ponderings continued. Maybe this is the NEW me, she hoped. She’d always felt that her sexual self had been shortchanged, stifled by her past and buried further by her introversion as an artist. It made her feel awful at times, because she knew that her own romantic moods were so few and far between that Paul must be left so unsatisfied as to wonder if their relationship was even right. But he’s hung in there for three years now, she reminded herself. I hope I feel like this every day, so I can really make it up to him …

She hoped she wasn’t still flushed when she finally ventured to the foyer. Blank-faced movers nodded to her as they hand-carted in more boxes. When none of them were looking, Paul silently mouthed I love you to her.

Just you wait, she mouthed back, then mockingly cleared her throat and said, “Is it okay for me to look around the upper floors? I mean, is it safe?”

“Oh, sure, everything’s up to code if that’s what you mean.” He seemed to turn toward the bar, then thought better of it, which pleased Cristina. She wouldn’t exactly say that he drank too much, but she felt much better when he refrained. “Third and fourth floors aren’t even Sheetrocked yet, but the second floor is, and it’s all wired. Go ahead and check it out if you want. You might get some ideas about how we should refurbish the rest.”

“Okay,” she said and skipped up the dark-scarlet carpet. From the landing she could see unfinished doors standing open, filling the hall with fading daylight. She browsed around each empty room amid the scent of newly cut Sheetrock, but instead of thinking about redecorating she found her mind locked on her new line. Evil Church Creepies, she mused. The Noxious Nun …

Would she have the same dream to night?

It didn’t matter how bizarre the dream might be, nor how disturbed she was by it. I used it to my creative advantage, she knew. Now I just need it to sell—BETTER than Cadaverettes. Bruno von Blanc, the owner of the development company, assured her that Evil Church Creepies would outsell everything else on the market. “Your creative visions are right on the pulse of the marketplace, Cristina,” he’d insisted. “You thought we were taking a chance on Cadaverettes, remember? You thought they’d been branded as derivative. But I knew before we even signed you up that they were exactly what the market had been waiting for. Everything else is derivative, Cristina. Cadaverettes are the only original figurines coming out now, because they mix the old with the new. And Evil Church Creepies isn’t just an extension of that; it’s a new avenue. The preorders alone will be through the roof.”

Cristina hoped so, and it had nothing to do with the money. If anything, she still couldn’t relate to that part of it. She’d made a phenomenal amount off the last line, yet most of it was stuck in the bank, somehow defying her awareness of it. She merely needed her creations to perpetuate, to be enjoyed by others—preferably lots of others.

Semi-immortality, she thought, and wandered into more rooms.

The front room. What looked immediately back at her from the great bow window was another window: a great wheel-window of stained glass, accented by intricate traceries. The church across the street, she recalled. So far she’d scarcely noticed it but now, from this higher vantage point, it appeared quite grandiose, almost a mini Notre Dame, with buttresses, pointed iron crockets, even a belfry. It looked drab, though, unused. Cristina understood that the house in which she and Paul now lived was originally some sort of an annex building for the same church.

Staring at it now reminded her that she hadn’t been to church in over ten years.

She left the room in a rush, electing not to confront the subtle guilt.

Oh, wow. Now this is something …She’d drifted into the rearmost room, as wall-patched and unfinished as the others, but found herself spellbound. High lancet windows made the room appear galleryish, and let in radiant blocks of late-afternoon light. This room is it, she knew at once, and in her mind she already envisioned how it would be painted, carpeted, and arranged. I doubt that Paul will be hurt that I like this room better than the studio. It was the feel of the room, even in its denuded state, that instantly appealed to her artist’s perceptions. The view looking down wasn’t much—just the boring alley—but it was the way the windows let in all that light that made her fall in love with the room.

My new studio, she thought.

It was exciting just to think about, but after some undefinable moments, her thoughts had drifted elsewhere and she wasn’t sure why. Suddenly she felt flushed again, prickly with desire. God …A warm, delicious flash broke her out in gooseflesh as she imagined Paul’s hands on her skin, sculpting the contours of her body. Her eyes closed by themselves as further images poured into her head. She stood boldly naked before him, in this same room, before this same window, her nudity displayed to the sun as he knelt at her feet and—

It’s been so long since he’s done THAT, her thoughts slurred. But even longer since she’d done much of anything for him. That all changes tonight, she felt certain.

The fantasy doubled then. She closed her eyes harder to see it more clearly, and to feel it. Paul was on his knees, his mouth tending to her sex. The sensations rushed. Soon she’d actually opened her blouse for real, to let the sun pour on her breasts as her own hands caressed them…Yes, if she only had the vibrator; that would really send her off. One hand eventually opened her jeans and slipped down. The hand was now Paul’s mouth, working the delicate flesh to a hot, pulsing craze. Did she moan out loud? Her belly sucked in and her thighs quivered as her first climax in over a month broke and nearly brought her to the floor. Her fingers teased out the last sensations as her upper teeth crimped her lip…

I can’t believe I just did that …She let her breath come back, let the tensions lift off from her muscles; then she opened her eyes.

Oh my—

She brought her hand to her mouth to keep from shrieking in embarrassment. Her heart seemed to swell twice its size—

Because when she’d opened her eyes, her head had been bowed down toward the window, and a woman was standing there on the alley street looking right back up at her.

Grinning.

Cristina stepped back in the corner, shivering. She re-buttoned her blouse so fast she’d lined it up wrong. This is so embarrassing! What if I see that woman again?

But—

Something occurred to her. Cristina was fairly certain she’d seen the woman before, on the street. One of the homeless waifs that loitered around 67^th Street and vicinity, panhandling.

But she had to be sure.

She inched forward along the wall. As the edge slowly crossed her line of sight, she inched even more slowly, peeping down. Eventually the entire alley street came into view and there, for just a second, she thought she could make out the woman’s features: holey jeans, barefoot, a baggy, stained T-shirt full of holes and hair hanging down like an oily mop. The woman—or girl—was walking away and a second later was out of the window frame completely.

Yeah, one of those homeless girls. Thank God. Who could she tell? And had she even been able to seen Cristina’s face clearly enough to recognize her later?

I doubt it …

She sighed out the rest of the shock and buttoned her blouse up right this time. But something compelled her to take one last look at the girl as she was walking away.

Ever so careful, Cristina took off a window latch and angled the window open enough for her to stick her head out.

The girl wasn’t to be seen.

Must’ve been walking really fast to be on the street by now …But before Cristina pulled her head back in, she stopped to squint.

Wait …

A figure stood at the end of the alley but it certainly wasn’t the same girl. In fact, the figure looked almost like a nun.

(II)

They were whittling.

scritch scritch scritch scritch scritch …

The sound filled the dirty, brick-walled room like rats skittering—a sound they were well accustomed to. Empty cans had been heaped to the farthest corner—the garbage corner, where they sometimes went to the bathroom, too, and old empty boxes for makeshift walls. A dead Sylvania television sat askew in another corner; they watched it a lot, and sometimes even saw things. There were four of them tonight; others came and went but it was mostly just these four: Francy, Sandrine, Scab, and Stutty. Shoplifted candles burned to give them light. It was Stutty who’d just crawled in through the hole that was almost too small for them to squeeze into.

“I just saw the lady in the house,” she said, “and she was playin’ with herself.”

“She was not,” Francy scowled.

“She was too! In a window upstairs, and she saw me-saw me-saw me-saw—”

“Be quiet!” Francy yelled. Most of Francy’s teeth were missing, and her pink glasses always slid down her nose. Her breasts sagged in an orange halter she stole from a store, and she wore baggy men’s jeans and flip-flops. “We’re working, we’re whittling. You could be helping, Stutty, but we can’t find the fourth knife we stole last night.”

Stutty’s obsessive-compulsive mind stalled. Knife? She sat down in a corner on a plastic storage bin that read BANANA REPUBLIC. She put her feet up on the old kerosene heater they found in the garbage last year that still worked, and watched the other three continue whittling. Stutty wished she could whittle too because it looked like fun. Stutty’s breasts itched beneath the stained white T-shirt that said THE DAMNED on it, and it had a blue picture of a woman with a crown of thorns; she’d taken it off of a dead crackhead in the Meatpacking District. The color of her hair was indeterminate due to dirt and head oil, but it didn’t really matter what color it was. She rarely wore shoes, often leaving black footprints.

The knife? she thought again, then said, “Oh, I know where it is!” and she pulled it out of her back pocket. It was a simple whittling knife.

“So you took it,” Sandrine said, smirking in her stained, pink sweatpants, and white T-shirt. Her black-spaghetti hair hung over most of her face. “Is that…blood on it?”

All the girls looked. Stutty turned the knife and touched the smudged blade. “Oh, yeah! I got money—I got five dollars-five dollars-five—”

“Be quiet!” Francy yelled.

“Stutty got a trick,” Scab said, as if jealous. She was the most quiet of the bunch, and probably the least mentally defected. Her large, dirty breasts swayed in the kind of sleeveless T-shirt that people called a wifebeater, and she wore cutoff army pants. Very short black hair covered her head, but she had lots of bald spots and scabs from some disease or hair blight. She wanted to grow her hair out long like the other girls but it just never grew. “But that was a shitty trick if all you got was five dollars.”

“Why ya think the knife’s got blood on it?” Stutty retorted with a wisp of pride in her voice. “Some fat guy in a little car, said he’d pay twenty but only gave five.”

“Did ya kill him?” Sandrine asked, looking up from her whittling.

“No, but I stuck him right in the bag. Twice.” Stutty laughed. “He had a wedding ring on!”

“Good,” Francy approved. “Let the fucker go home to his wife and explain why he’s got two knife holes in his nut-sack.”

The four girls burst into a round of giggling.

“Oh, and I got some sardines, too,” Stutty added.

The other three looked up with expectation in their eyes as Stutty took the narrow cans out of her pocket and gave them one each.

“King Oscar, I hope,” Scab said, but then she frowned at the can.

“These are anchovies, not sardines!” Francy complained.

Sandrine cranked open her can and first drank the oil out of it. “But anchovies are better, they’re easier to steal, and they’re salty, and I don’t even like sardines ’cos they remind me of my fucked-up childhood.”

“Sardines?” Scab questioned, picking a narrow fillet from the can.

“Because my name’s Sandrine so when I was a kid the other kids called me Sardine.”

“Oh,” someone said.

Stutty’s eyes popped open. “And look at this real expensive eye shadow I stole!” She reached down the front of her pants and withdrew a small jar with a gold lid. “It cost five hundred dollars, the sign said.”

“Huh?” Francy, Sandrine, and Scab said in unison.

“Yeah. It’s the best. I reached around and stole it when the guy wasn’t looking. They had red ones and white ones, too, but I think the black looks better.”

“Gimme that!” Francy said and snatched the little jar. She opened it and smeared some over her eyelids, but then winced. “This stuff stinks! You sure this is eye shadow?”

“Well, yeah, I think-I think-I think-I—”

“Be quiet!”

Scab took the bottle; she could read better than the others.

“Only thing was weird is they had it in a refrigerator,” Stutty remembered.

“Eye shadow?” Sandrine said.

Scab read the tiny words on the lid, chuckling, “Product of the Ukraine. Beluga caviar—”

“You didn’t steal eye shadow, you dick! You stole fish eggs!” Francy grimaced, wiping her eyes. Scab shook her head and threw the $500-per-half-ounce jar against the wall.

Stutty liked to talk, so she kept talking, “Oh-oh-ohoh—”

“Be quiet!” Francy yelled.

“I saw the hooker from last night—in a car,” Stutty finally said.

“Who?”

“You know, that ho who saw us run out of the hardware store last night-last night-last—” But then she pinched her lips shut.

“So what?” Sandrine huffed. “We got away with it, and the New Mother’ll be happy with us.”

But Francy seemed concerned. She picked at a scab on her foot. “You saw her…in a car? Was it…a police car?”

“I think it was. It was unmarked but the two guys in it looked like plainclothes cops, and they were all looking around, like the ho was telling them to.”

Francy smelled like fish eggs now. Her eyes locked on Stutty. “Did they see you?”

“Nope-nope-nope-nope—–”

“Be quiet!”

“They didn’t see me ’cos I hid behind the newsstand.”

“Good.”

“And then I saw the New Mother—”

“You did not!” Sandrine insisted.

“The New Mother only comes out at night,” Scab corrected in a singsong voice.

“I only saw her for a second, in a shadow!” Stutty challenged this affront to her credulity. “She can do that, she told us she could!”

“Sub…cuh-poor,” Francy began, her lips struggling. “Subcor—Shit! I can never pronounce the word!”

“Subcorporeal,” Scab said. “So Stutty really did see her.”

Stutty fumed, “Then don’t call me a liar-a liar-a—”

Francy pointed a finger at her.

Stutty calmed down again, but kept talking. “I saw her right after I saw the hooker with those cops, and right after that, that’s when I saw the woman in the house friggin’ herself in the window.”

“She gave me hot dog money today,” Sandrine said. “She seemed nice.”

“Then where’s the hot dogs?” Francy complained.

“I…ate ’em…”

“Shit-wad!”

Scuffing could be heard. The four girls’ eyes widened in the candlelight as they all turned their heads toward the hole.

“It’s the New Mother,” someone whispered.

“Aw, no it ain’t!” Francy griped. “It’s just Virginia…”

“Hi,” the dirty-elbowed girl peeped when she crawled in and sat up. She had one ear cut off from a crack dealer who didn’t like her, and wore cutoff sweatpants and a Yankees shirt. She switched from crack to smack, depending on availability but more often than not—and like a lot of them—the one component in her existence that was even less available than drugs was money. Her looks were far too gone now to get many tricks. “Ya got any food?”

“Sardines,” Stutty said.

“Anchovies!” Francy yelled. “You think anchovies are sardines and fish eggs are fuckin’ eye shadow!”

Scab and Sandrine laughed.

“I do not-do not-do-do—”

“Be quiet!” Francy yelled so loud her glasses flew off.

“You’re not one of us, Virginia,” Scab said, “so we can’t give you our food—”

—but then they all froze as a shadow like smoke seemed to sift around them. Soon they could see something standing near the candles.

And the voice flowed, Virginia is welcome in our convent, girls. All are welcome, and just as our generous lord shared with honest peasants, we too follow his example. We share with our sisters, don’t we?

Stutty gave Virginia a can of anchovies.

Let my love be upon you, the sweet voice fluttered, hovering. The girls all looked up in awe…

Such a righteous flock …

Then the voice, and the shadow, was gone.

“Give Virginia your knife,” Francy ordered Stutty. “She’s one of us now.”

The girls all looked at each other and smiled, and then—

scritch scritch scritch scritch scritch—

—continued to whittle.