Clara's Bedroom


In Clara's Bedroom, Clara, a widow of six months, makes a vital decision that will determine the life she wishes to lead. Using her overpowering sexuality and her superior knowledge of her victim's weaknesses, she sets out to capture the only man who can possibly fulfill her plans of revenge and pleasure – a man of a different intellectual level from herself and her deceased husband - until her illusion of her own intelligence traps her.


Excerpt :

ALFRED:

You know, sometimes I don't get myself. Action's what I like. But when something gets caught in my noggin, the action stops. Like a busted machine. Like last night like. After I got used to that creepy bedroom, I couldn't get Charles out of my head. I kept seeing him on the bed right next to Clara. Every time I looked down, there he was. Not real like, not even moving. Sort of like a ghost. Like he'd crept out of his urn. That's what worried me.
There I was, me, Charles' buddy, ready to take over. I know! I know! Taking over a buddy's woman ain't right. But, after a few minutes next to Clara and feeling the heat oozing out of her and listening to whatever the hell she was talking about, and me getting the hots myself, I thinks to myself, 'But the poor guy's dead, ain't he?' Yea! And just when I start thinking of getting off my butt and taking that nookie she's tossing around, I start thinking about Clara. But in the wrong way. I'm thinking maybe the bitch is just playing with me, humiliating me like. Like her baiting me with that tender love shit when we were sitting in the living room. Tearing at my heart just for kicks. Now tearing at my balls for a few more kicks. So, I end up not knowing what the hell to do while she's coming on like a rocket. So, all the action stops because I'm thinking too much.

CLARA:

I was a virgin when I married Charles, not by choice but a virgin nonetheless, a virgin whose long isolation had nurtured a strong imagination. And all the images that I had formed were kept tightly guarded within my head. I shared them only with myself. They matured in untilled but fertile soil.

Sitting in my living room as close to Charles as I can possibly be, and pondering my plans of arousing Alfred's interest this evening, my eye is distracted by the miniature but mischievous waves of heat rising from Charles' lighted candle. How beautifully buoyant they are wafting upward from the flame, swelling forth like the expectations of a lover's dreams. Yet, how insignificant these currents seem, their life so short. Away from their source of being they quickly lose their force and vanish, leaving the air from which they came as still and lifeless as it had been.
Leaning closer to the flame to learn what more these waves might have to offer, I look into their center at the point where flame joins air.
As if I were a wave myself I see much more. There to my left, distorted by the candle light, the solid door to Charles' office, the door that I have both loved and hated, undulates in the rush of heat like a desert mirage crumbling and exposing all the riches that it holds.
And to my right, the front door to my house dissolving in a sea of warm air, becoming as transparent as its wavering panel of glass, glass through which I soon shall welcome Alfred and lead him politely to my living room.
Two doors crucial to my life. Yet unseen and untouched by flame but as branded in my mind as its V-shaped crack and its agonizing memories, I recall another door, the cold, long-ago door to my room in my parents' house.
Doors, mere mimes to the flick of a wrist yet their swings as defining as a yes or no. As expressive as a come or go. Doors, rejecting or inviting.
So here before me, I have three doors and all of them are mine, each in its turn opening a new vista and closing on another. First, my formative years, then my dear, dear years with Charles, and now my future years with Alfred. Three doors that tell me where I am and what I am. And with the keys that I now possess, assuring me the liberty to do what I know I should.

CLARA AND ALFRED:

Climbing the stairs, the bulk of Alfred's muscles swelling through his T-shirt and the solidity of his buttocks held Clara's gaze. A look of pleasure crossed her face. As attractive as those sentiments that her questions just exposed. Yes. Beneath Alfred's brawny coat of armor lurked a sensitivity, a tenderness that would be easy for her to handle - and enjoy as well.
"The door to your left, Alfred. Open it, please."
Leaping the length of the room, the intensified brilliance of the setting sun struck Alfred like a blow. He stopped, his mouth wide open. Mirrors! My God! Mirrors everywhere! His own frightened face glowering back at him. Not one face. But his face and his face and his face!
And behind him, Clara gloating in every reflection that he saw.
Clara nudged him. "Go on. Keep going."
A few cautious steps. Alfred's bewildered eyes stalking his every move. Nausea mounting in his guts. It ain't real. It can't be. He wanted to get out of here.
Leaning against the bed, Alfred closed his eyes.
"Jesus Christ!" he groaned. "I thought I seen everything." Suddenly he spun towards Clara, his face pleading for help, demanding an explanation. "What's this all about?" he screamed.
"My bedroom. That's what."
"Bedroom! You call this a bedroom? Yours?"
"Yes."
"Why did you bring me here. I thought . . . ."
"You thought what?"
"I thought you were taking me to see mementos of Dr. Clifton. That's what. What kind of mementos do you call these?"
"The most important kind. Mine."
Alfred looked again at the mirrors, at Clara standing next to him, her face close to his, her silver chain glistening on her pale skin.
"I don't get it. What you trying to do to me?" He backed away. "You wear an old iron key around your neck to remember your husband. Then you have me put it on you. Like I was him. And you talk to me about love and all that shit. Then spring a show like this. It’s kinkier here than in a whore house. It scares the fuck out of me."
Alfred moved another step away from Clara, from her defiant face and her upraised head. "This ain't decent," he said.
"Decent!" Clara laughed. "You, the famous Alfred, talks about being decent? The Alfred everyone knows and whispers about behind his back? God! Don’t be a hypocrite."
"Don't you call me no names. Do you hear? Somebody who sleeps in a place like this! Look at it. Sick, that's what it is. Me? Sure. I ain't no angel. But whatever I do is natural. See. Follow my urges. Not make a sick show of them, like you."
"Well, Nature Boy. Tell me. What's so sick about mirrors? Don't you think some things are worth looking at?"
"Not looking at yourself like this. Somebody else maybe."
"Then look at me. You've been looking at me enough the last couple of days out of the corner of your eye. So look straight at me now. What do you see? Would you like to see more? It'd be easy. Three buttons."
"Let me tell you, Mam. Anybody who dresses like you do, asks for it. . . . And if you want to know what I think . . ."
"I asked what you see. Not your opinion."
"I see Dr. Clifton's wife, and I'm surprised at a lady like you taking me to her bedroom. Especially one like this."
"Lady? Am I? Is that what you think? No. I'm a female, Alfred. You ought to be able to figure that one out. You know the dump I come from. And you know my mother and my father. My father pretty well, don't you? Drinking buddies. Right?"
"Yes, Mam."
"So don't you call me a lady. I try to act like a lady, but I know exactly what I am. Yes, I was Dr. Clifton's wife. But Dr. Clifton is dead. And you and I are here."
Clara held the collar of her gown tight to her neck. The gold of her wedding ring caught the light from the window.
Alfred was quiet for a moment. He looked down at the fresh green color of Clara's house coat muddied by the reddish rays of the dying sun.
"So what the Christ does that mean?"
"I'll tell you what the Christ it means. It means us, Alfred. You and me. Don't forget. You and I are the same. We come from the same place. And we speak the same language. And we're after the same thing. You get yours where you like. I get mine here."
"You can talk like that? And after the grilling you just gave me about love?"
"Love?" she mocked. "What a word! Go ahead, Alfred. Explain love if you can. But, do you know what? You can't. I had to drag love out of you downstairs. And do you know why? Because love is as mixed up as you and me and every one else in this world. It's how you feel. Sure - in your heart - in your soul. A spiritual bond, if you want. But it's also what you need . . . and when you need it. A burning, driving necessity. A necessity of another body close to you. A body you can hold. A body you can cling to. A body you can use. A body . . . you can depend upon. It's like breathing, Alfred. Like eating. Surviving."
"So. What do you want me to do? Throw you on the bed and fuck the hell out of you?"
"Would you like to? Like Dr. Clifton used to? Yes! Right here in this room of mirrors. You should have seen him."
Alfred moved close to Clara, his face twisted, the sound of his breath clinging to his teeth. He felt the heat from her body, the texture of her housecoat gliding smoothly against him. He took Clara by the shoulders, her head raised to his, her arms hanging at her sides, daring him with her eyes.
As their bodies pressed together and he felt her flesh yielding to his strength . . . suddenly Alfred's force diminished. For a moment he was motionless, his eyes glaring through Clara . . . seeing himself. Slowly, his fingers collapsed and his head dropped. He turned and walked to the nearest window.
Pale blue blending into gray hovered in the distant sky. The light was almost gone. Only a dot or two of orange showed between the trees like warning signals seen low on the horizon at the end of day.
They were quiet for a long while. A long, long while. Only their breaths could be heard mingling with the stir of leaves from the open window. Gradually, the orange in the sky disappeared.

© 2003 Alfred Kessler - recently finished unpublished novel


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