Love, and other Deadly Sins

Someone invented romantic love. Probably a woman. I hope she contracted syphilis and was drawn and quartered for her sins.

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“Well, it’s ugly and depressing and oppressive,” Talia said, touching a countertop and then wiping the dust from her fingers.

“It has some good qualities, dear.” Layla drifted through the old country house, pausing beside a window and looking out.

“Those were the good qualities, Lay.” Talia grimaced at the picture hanging in the living area. A richly-colored, fat bull gazed indifferently forward. The background was the countryside, muted and blurred to force the eye to focus on the animal.

The women exited the house after their cursory inspection and made their way to the main barn. Old milking machines were hoarding dust and bird droppings, reposing comfortably in the dull afternoon light and not giving a damn about their shabby appearance. Hay was scattered about the earthen floor, mixed with dried cow dung and dead flies. Every small sound echoed in the unnatural silence; ghosts were present, assuming a wait-and-see attitude.

“Ughh. Five minutes in this place and I want to slit my wrists.”

“It wasn’t always like this, Tal. When it was milking time, my uncle and my four cousins were busy as bees. After the milking was done, the girls cleaned the milking machines and the boys cleaned out the barn. Cows shit a lot when they’re milked.”

“Doesn’t make it better, dear.”

“Dairy farmers keep Mother Nature sanitized for profit, Tal. That milk you drink doesn’t start out in cartons.”

“I drink soy milk.”

“Of course you do. I’d expect nothing less.”

“What’s your point?” Tal was close to being defensive about her choice of alternatives to cow’s milk.

“No point, Tal. Just observation.”

Tal made her way outside; the sunshine, she thought, would surely restore her flagging spirits. Layla followed her out, albeit at a slower, more thoughtful pace.

“I think I’ll turn this into my writing space. Knock out parts of the walls on the east and west sides, add some large windows. Lay down a floating wood floor. White pine, I think. Keep it light. A few throw rugs, a couple of…”

“Seriously? You’re thinking about leaving Taos for…this?” Talia waved her arms around the property.

“I am.”

“But…why?”

Layla turned to her friend and smiled. Talia was taken aback; it was the best, most genuine smile she had seen on Layla’s face in a decade.

“Cedric is having an affair.”

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I think men understand the secret to life. Take my husband, for example. His wants are simple: food (quality is not an issue for him), a roof over his head (again, quality is not a priority), golfing with his buddies (whenever the mood strikes him), and a refrigerator full of beer (domestic, imported, craft – whatever). He highly esteems two things and two things only: forbidden sex, and a mobile quarterback who can throw the deep out. Existentialism doesn’t find a way between his ears. The human condition will not visit his soul. He lives life and he never overthinks anything. I may have married an asshole, but his philosophy on life is genius.

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The pastures were bright green. Absurdly so, thought Layla. The kind of green that belied the darkness that had visited this family.

All of Layla’s uncle’s kids had died young. The two boys committed suicide. The two girls succumbed to the tender mercies of a drunk driver. The aunt had fallen foul of the laws of force and gravity; blunt-force trauma to the head and a tumble down a hillside did her in.

“Why you?”

It was a good question. It deserved a plausible response, though the response Layla gave was part truth, part lie.

“June bugs.”

Talia shook her head slightly and frowned.

“Uh…”

“When I was just a little girl, about five years old, I would stand out here. Right where we are now, as a matter of fact. I would watch the June bugs dive-bomb their way to the ground, entranced by their actions. It was quite a sight. The air was filled with these green flying things. I called them mini-dragons. They were little kamikaze insects, shooting straight for the ground. I found it terribly romantic, figuring that they were killing themselves because of unrequited love. I told my uncle my thoughts on the matter, and he laughed at what I told him. He told my parents that I was the brightest, sweetest little girl he had ever met.”

“So he gave you this property because you were a romantic?”

“Yes. There was no one else, you see. His kids were dead. He didn’t much care for his other nieces and nephews. Called them dullards and trollops.”

Layla picked a blade of prairie grass from the ground and studied it before tossing it carelessly to the ground. She led Talia out to the middle of the near pasture and sat down among the tall vegetation.

“That’s quite a statement. Your uncle knew those words? Dullards and trollops?”

“I think he learned them in church. The church here is big on that kind of thing.”

“Hmmm.” Talia lay back and considered this. She soon sat back up because the prairie grass made her skin itch.

“You know, I never figured Cedric for infidelity. I guess I can see why you want to get away from him. And here I always thought you had the perfect life. Best-selling author…” Talia said, deciding to broach the subject that had to be painful to Layla.

“Compounding my sin of being in love with writing about being in love.”

“…scads of money…”

“With which we buy things, only to have those things own us.”

“…two beautiful kids…”

“Organic tethers with a long shelf life.”

“…a bangin’ bod…”

“That would be more bangin’ if I hadn’t pushed out two cracker snatchers.”

“…and a beautiful house.”

“Which is nothing more than a well-stocked mausoleum.”

“I think,” Talia said, brushing ants from her jeans, “you’re having a mid-life crisis. Like Cedric. Why don’t you have an affair? Get back at Cedric for his indiscretions. Hell, sleep with a woman. That’ll show him!”

Layla laughed at the suggestion.

“I think Cedric would see that as a win for himself. No man is good enough for me except him, so I resort to women.”

“Geez, really? Men think that way?”

“Count on it, Tal. Any way to twist the truth in order to make themselves look good. It’s kind of comforting to know how simple they really are.”

“Mmm. I guess.”

“So.”

“So. I guess you’re gonna start wearing denim and plaid out here.”

“Probably.”

“And grannie panties.”

“Assuredly.”

“You’ll eschew the bra.”

“Absolutely. Set the twins free and see where they take me.”

“South is where they’ll take you, you crazy biatch.”

“And I figure that I’ll use organic deodorant.”

“Probably give up perfumes, colognes, and other pleasing scents for cow shit and mud.”

“That’s a given.”

Talia turned to her friend and stared at her.

“What about Paco?”

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When I got a little older, I revised my June bug story. I told my uncle that they were speeding to the earth out of sheer joy. The exhilaration of hitting the ground and flying back up to the heavens was in their little souls. They did what they did and found their bliss. My mother apologized for my ridiculous stories. Later, my uncle hugged me. A little too long and with his hand on my ass. I started to dislike adults around this time.

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Paco was Layla’s personal chef. He was gay and he was Brazilian, so Layla believed in his talents right away. Unfortunately, Paco had romance problems. Continual romance problems. He could catch a man, but he couldn’t keep him. This made for some rather dicey meals and random bouts of crying in the kitchen.

“He’ll have to make that choice.”

Talia looked around. Familiarity did not improve her judgment of the environs.

“He’ll never find a man out here. Hell, this is the kind of place where men go to family reunions to find a wife,” Talia spat out.

“And a place where the women say ‘yes,’ presumably.”

“Well, yeah. Take my word for it, Lay, one of these days you’ll spot a seven-foot tall man with three chins and two teeth. Inbreeding is real.”

“As is my decision.”

“Are you high? When was the last time you did some booger sugar?”

“That’s a crude way to describe the lovely white powder that we both enjoy from time to time,” Layla said.

“Answer the question.”

“Last Friday with you, Tal.”

“Hmm. You talk like you’re high.”

“No. Just…clear headed. My mid-life crisis already happened, well before Cedric’s affair. My path through life became…obscured. I didn’t know what to do. Cedric did me a favor by sleeping with Phyllidia Linton-Gore.”

“Phy what?”

“Yeah, it’s a mouthful. She’s about our age. Married with three kids. And,” Layla sat on the front porch and sparked up a joint, “she is uh. dor. uh. buhl.”

“Yeah. You’re high.”

“Not even, darling. Like Cedric, she enjoys a little bit of rumpy-bumpy outside the confines of the marriage bed. She also dresses modestly, doesn’t ask him to divorce me, and is a tiger in bed.”

Talia looked up sharply.

“How do you know that? You been stalking them…and being a voyeur?”

“Heavens no. I hired a professional stalker and voyeur. A private investigator.”

“Do they really exist? I thought you only found them in movies.”

“This one exists. Got a lot of candid photos of their adult activities. She prefers to be on top.”

“Damn!” Talia shook her head and took the proffered joint. A heroic toke ensued.

“Anyway, it’s all for the good. I need a place to write my memoirs and to do some serious writing.”

“Your memoirs? You’re only forty-seven, dearie.”

“Fair enough. I need to write my memoirs, part the first.”

“What are you gonna write about? Cedric’s affair?”

Layla stood up and retrieved a beer from the cooler. She opened it by placing the neck of the bottle snugly against the porch railing and giving it a sharp rap. The cap flew off. Talia was impressed.

“No. I’m gonna write about June bugs.”

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Possible titles for my memoirs:

1. I Know Why the Caged Bird Does Cocaine

2. Of Myself and Menopause

3. Fifty Shades of Fuck My Life

4. Murder on the Disoriented Express

5. The “Oh My Lord!” of the Rings

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“Paco won’t come out here,” Talia said. The joint was gone, but plenty of beer remained.

“Probably not,” Layla said.

“So what are you gonna eat?”

Layla hadn’t considered that.

“I suppose I’ll have to get Paco to teach me how to cook.”

Talia laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh.

“Good luck with that. You’d have more luck getting pigs to perform The Nutcracker Suite.”

“There are some talented pigs out there, Tal. Don’t sell them short.”

“I imagine there’ll be all sorts of pigs out here. Of the four-legged and two-legged variety.”

“Well, I like bacon, but I doubt I’ll ever get involved with a man again.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll partake of the four-legged creatures’ bounties but not the two-legged creatures’…uh…gifts.”

“Ah. Well, you gotta eat.”

“I can have food delivered.”

“Out here?”

“Maybe.”

The sun was starting to kiss the horizon, tossing out colors that promenaded across the sky. Yellow, orange, magenta, and pink all vied for attention. The eastern sky had turned to pastel blue; soon, it would have the hue of gunmetal gray. A lizard crawled by, stopped and peered at the two giants on the porch, and then proceeded on its way, looking for a final meal before darkness set in. The breeze was soothing in its coolness and determined not to let up. The landscape was peppered with wildflowers, all standing sentinel and nodding to each other as the wind directed their movements. June bugs stopped their crazy flights and settled in for the night.

“Time to get back, Lay. I’m not staying out here after dark. Some lunatic with murder on their inbred mind might chance to wander into your house.”

“You’ve seen too many horror movies, Tal.”

“Uh huh. It’s all fun and games until someone fires up the chainsaw.”

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I understand June bugs now. They don’t shoot to the ground in a crazed desire for death. They don’t dive-bomb the earth out of joy. No, they do it because they must. There is a need in them, a deep-seated instinct to find what they must have in order to survive. This is much more beautiful than it appears to be. It’s breathtaking.

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“I like what you’ve done with the place, Lay. It no longer looks like a movie set for the house of a serial killer.”

Layla looked around approvingly and nodded. The darkness that had claimed squatters’ rights in the house had been replaced by large windows and fake natural light. The milking barn, now devoid of milking machines and cow shit, housed a large desk, a sleek laptop, lots of chairs and a couple of sofas, a coffee machine from Italy, a wet bar, a refrigerator, a counter with a double sink, a pantry, and a stray cat.

“Thirteen months is all it took,” Layla said.

“Have you met any of your neighbors?”

“You bet. My nearest neighbors, the Wilsons, had me in for coffee and pie.”

“And?”

“The pie was great, though Mrs. Wilson probably used up half the sugar supply in New Mexico making it. The coffee was strong enough to float a horseshoe on. They had furniture that Goodwill would decline. Nice people, though. I leased out most of my land to them. He grows sorghum.”

“What the hell is sorghum?”

“It’s a grain, used mainly for cattle and chicken feed.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Not terribly romantic, no, but useful. Gotta feed the carnivores of America, you know.”

Talia plopped herself down on one of the many chairs in the writing studio. The oppressiveness of the barn no longer oppressed. She felt like she was in Layla’s studio back in Taos.

“And Cedric? How’s he doing after the divorce? I haven’t seen him around.”

“He’ still banging the woman with the long name. They have a good arrangement.”

“Hmm. Yeah, ok. And here you are, writing serious novels and dressing like you did it in the dark. Doesn’t seem like much of an upgrade, dear.”

“That’s what my publisher said. And then my latest novel sold 300,000 copies domestically and close to half a million worldwide. The paperback edition comes out soon, so that’ll bring in more coin for the realm.”

“What’s it called? I forget.”

“Talia dear, did you even read it?”

“I never read your books, darling Lay. But I do buy five copies and donate them to the library. I like to support my friends.”

“I’m your only friend. But thanks.”

“So what’s the title?”

“Fierce Invalids, Observed in the Wild. It reads like Jane Eyre but feels like Jude the Obscure.”

“Translate that for me.”

“Dark as hell, but hopeful. A very unromantic look at romance.”

“Great. Can we do some coke now?”

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Talia stayed for a week this time. Good timing on her part. I’m between novels and I need to rest my writing brain. We did a lot of nose candy, smoked a lot of God’s green bud, and drank an inordinate amount of wine while trading snarky comments with each other. I think we both needed that quality time together.

I’ll visit my uncle’s grave tomorrow. Just to gloat, mind you. Let him know how pleasurable it was to drug him and smother him with his own pillow. He didn’t struggle much, more’s the pity. Still, he’s dead.

He’s buried next to my aunt. I bet she gets a chuckle out of it when I do this. She made pies like Mrs. Wilson: full of cherries, sugar, and love. No wonder everyone out here is fat.

This is the end of my memoirs, part the first. I haven’t decided on a title yet. I’ll smoke a joint and let the cannabis decide for me. Sometimes I feel like such a fraud when I write. Just another in a litany of sins.

When I die, I hope someone finds it and sells it to some newspaper or true-crime writer. I would rather be immortalized for killing my lecherous, abusive uncle than for my novels, although both would be nice. I’m hoping for both fame and infamy.

My memoirs, part the second will have to wait a few years. Right now, I have a porch calling my name and a pitcher of iced tea to drink.

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The setting sun warmed the right side of Layla’s face. It was a pleasant warmth and not the killing heat that had visited the land for the past two months. Storm clouds were forming and gathering for an onslaught of the countryside. Layla hoped that it would reach her before giving out. The violence would sooth her.

June bugs and fireflies danced merrily in the near pasture, flying in random patterns that somehow seemed orchestrated. A gentle buzz permeated the landscape. Thunder rumbled softly in the distance. Layla stood up and went inside for the night, taking the empty pitcher and her pack of cigarettes with her.

The road leading to her house would be washed out tomorrow. The thought made Layla smile.

Roads? She addressed the pitcher as she washed it. We don’t need no stinkin’ roads.