Stone Junction (19 page)

Aunt Charmaine was a moderately tall woman in her early forties, thin, hazel-eyed. Daniel enjoyed just watching her move – each gesture was economical and precise, imbued with an elegant certainty. She wasn’t Mott’s aunt as he’d first assumed, nor anybody’s as near as he could tell. She was often absent from the ranch, sometimes for weeks at a stretch, but when she was there she spent most of her time in her lab. Daniel was curious what she did in there, but the extent of her explanation was that she was a research chemist. She gracefully deflected further questions until he understood her research was not a topic of discussion. She was friendly but distant. Daniel was fascinated by her, and not the least because Mott treated her with almost intimidated deference, actually calling her ‘ma’am.’

When Daniel questioned him, Mott said, ‘I don’t hardly know a thing about her, and she’s been here for three years. I don’t have a clue what she works on in that lab. I’ve never been invited inside, and you mighta noticed she don’t exactly jabber. Tell you the truth, that woman’s a little spooky. You get the sense she knows exactly what is going on and just what to do about it if anything needs doing. Like, one time we were having a little harvest party in the house and she came up to have a polite glass of wine before she trucked on back to the lab. When she was there, this big ol’ fly got in a jug of wine. People were all trying to figure how the fuck to get it out when Charmaine calmly gets a chopstick outa a drawer, pokes it down the bottle, and that wine-soaked fly hops right on the chopstick and she takes it outside where it buzzes away. People are going, you know, “Wow, that was slick,” and she sort of looked puzzled and said, “Nothing wants to die.” And I got this really
weird
feeling that the fly had told her what to do. It’s your call, Dan, but I know in my bones that if you got outa line with her, she’d line you right back up, and maybe line your ass right
out
, if you get my lean.’

Daniel still meditated morning and evening, but dropped the dream meditation because he thought it might be the cause of his continued dreamlessness. He hunted and fished, occasionally with Mott but usually alone. He read omnivorously, stocking up on library books on the monthly trip to town. Some evenings he smoked dope with Mott and listened to Mott’s plaster-cracking sound system, driven by banks of solar panels that would dwarf the average drive-in movie screen. Daniel learned to cook, out of necessity. He chopped wood. He went swimming. And when Mott wasn’t around, he snuck into the greenhouse and whispered endearments to the chiles.

The weekly descent of Mommy’s Commies added saturnalia to the routine. Mommy’s Commies was a commune of thirty-two young women and one old woman who lived on the Godfrey Ranch seventy miles east. The old woman was a Sorceress of the White Fury and the most brilliant teacher of its arts. When the women were at the ranch, Mommy, as she was called, expected them to pay undivided attention to the lessons at hand. When they were away she encouraged them to play, and especially to explore – with proper precaution – their particular sexual energies. Though not formally affiliated with AMO, Mommy’s Commies had helped distribute their contraband for fifteen years. Mommy felt a little danger and a chance to be bad were essential for fledgling sorceresses, and the money was good, too.

Eight women arrived every Thursday evening to make the pickup, and left the next morning to four different cities. Daniel never had a chance. Mott didn’t want one.

After Mott had greeted them, taking all eight in his arms at once and bellowing some endearment like, ‘If God didn’t want me to eat pussy, why’d he make it look like a taco?’ they gathered in what Mott referred to as the pleasure dome, the outside of which looked like a melting cube, for a brief business meeting and a long party. The inside of the dome featured padded walls, a thick carpet, Mott’s membrane-shredding sound system, and a bar that served Mott’s homemade whiskey and absinthe, and any drug you could name. Occasionally, the synergistic effects of multiple drug ingestion would cause what was then known in hip circles as a bummer and among young sorceresses as a learning experience. But despite the occasional psychic cave-in, the party mood usually prevailed.

After the ritual exchange of dope and money, the stash was divided into four, and then each woman cut a small portion for the party, most of which went to Mott as sort of a king’s tariff to protect their shares through the evening. Mott’s notion of a party was to take all available drugs and liquor, listen to some loud sounds, get naked, form a pile, and screw till you passed out. It never happened that way, but as the night burned on Mott usually convinced one or a few to repair to his place. Daniel, shyly, would ask one of those remaining if she would like to go to his cabin and talk awhile. After an hour of nervous chatter he would try to seduce her. His high success rate was more a tribute to their understanding than his style.

The women called them Boy Poet and the Grizzly Bear. A tawny blond half in love with Daniel caught the essential difference – ‘Mott loves us equally, all at once. Daniel loves us specifically, one by one.’

But, unfortunately, once only, for as Daniel soon discovered, after a single orgasm with a woman, he was impotent with her thereafter. Try as he (and they) would, which was considerably, he couldn’t get it up for any of them twice. The women were confused and understanding. Daniel was just confused. By the end of summer he was depressed, and at harvest, when all the Commies had arrived to help pick, dry, clip, and bag the powerful sinsemilla, the drying sheds were so erotically charged with the fragrance of ripe females – plant and animal – that Daniel could hardly bear it. Though he feared Mott might react with laughter or disgust, Daniel turned to him for help.

Mott listened to Daniel’s hesitant description of the problem and simply nodded. ‘Thought you’d been looking puny lately. Wondered what was going on.’

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Daniel said glumly.

Mott said, ‘This is going to take some massive thinking, and that means hitting the special reserves.’

They were in the main room of Mott’s house, the trapezoidal interior hung with animal skulls suspended from the ceiling on delicate silver wires. Mott jerked hard on a wolverine skull and Daniel heard a latch open behind him. Intrigued, he watched as Mott lifted a four-by-eight panel from the wall, revealing a storage space containing shelves of guns, ammo, grenades, and four gallon-jars of a greenish-tinged liquid. Mott took down one of the jars, rummaged in a box till he came up with a large, clear-plastic meat baster with a bright red bulb, and set them on the table in front of Daniel.

‘What’s that?’

Mott unscrewed the cap and bent over to savor the bouquet. ‘Something special I had Charmaine brew up in her spare time. Call it Ol’ Wolverine.’

‘Is it like your chili?’

‘Better.’ Mott dipped the baster in the jar and drew up a few inches of liquid. ‘It’s whole extract of coca leaf, peyote buttons, and poppy heads, then she centrifuges ’em or some damn thing to get the essence, and after that she makes a ten percent solution.’ Mott tilted his head, stuck the narrow tip of the baster in his nostril, and squeezed the bulb. ‘Razoooolllii!’ he cried, swaying slightly. He wiped the tears and handed Daniel the baster. Daniel, cautious, half-filled the tip. The effect of Ol’ Wolverine on the sinuses was much like that of Mott’s chili on the palate.

Thus fortified, Mott addressed Daniel’s problem. ‘What ya got,’ he explained, ‘is a weird case of Shrivel Dick. Nobody’s sure what causes it. Some docs think it’s physical, some mental. In your case, having taken some shrapnel to the brain, I gotta think that’s the reason. Don’t matter if it wasa
sliver
of metal, cause even if you blow a speck of fly shit through a bowl of jello, it’s gonna have
some
effect, right? And I’m assuming you actually
do
want to diddle these girls, and don’t suffer from some sorta unnatural pussy aversion.’

‘No, I’m sure,’ Daniel said.

‘So the message is gettin’ from your heart to your brain, but it ain’t making it from your brain to your dick – that’s the problem right there.’

‘It does
once
.’

‘Maybe the switch is weak, and one blast of desire fries it shut?’

‘Maybe so.’

‘What you’ve gotta do, Dan, is take the
scientific
approach. Do a fucking experiment. Get three or four of the Commies, blindfold yourself so you don’t know who’s who, then have ’em take turns on ya.’

Dolefully, Daniel shook his head. ‘I tried it two weeks ago with Helen, Jade, and Annie. Once each.’

‘Yeah? Is Jade that one with the tits that’d make your heart stand still?’

‘I guess.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’ta used the blindfold.’

‘Maybe not.’

Responding to Daniel’s glum tone, Mott said with sudden brightness, ‘But hey – what the hell? Women are
awful hard
critters to please.’ Long with always wanting everything to fit their mood at the moment, they want you to pay attention to ’em and be nice and give ’em credit cards. Once could be plenty. Blessin’ in disguise.’

‘Right now it feels like a curse.’

‘Well, short of
brain surgery
, you’re gonna have to live with it, and since you’d be stark motherfucking crazy to let someone cut on your brain, that leaves living with it – and you might as well start now. So what say, pardner, we take a moonlight ride up on Bleeker Ridge? Nothing in the world Pissgums hates worse than a night ride.’

‘No thanks, Mott, but I appreciate your asking.’

‘Think about it, Dan. Sitting up there on Bleeker Ridge watching the snow fall in the moonlight.’

Perplexed, Daniel said, ‘It’s not snowing.’

Mott seemed startled by the information, then smiled. ‘Well, maybe it’ll start.’

‘Thanks anyway, Mott,’ Daniel said, rising from the table, ‘but I think I’ll go watch it from the river. You and Pissgums have a good time.’

Daniel sat by the river, dejected by the one thing he hadn’t mentioned, the fear that his condition made love impossible. He hadn’t felt like discussing that with Mott. Mott was friendly enough, but never let friendliness cross the line into intimacy. Wild Bill was like that. Aunt Charmaine, too. All these AMO people with their guarded, friendly openness. Volta wasn’t even that friendly.

He caught a flash of light downstream, then heard the distinctive growl of Charmaine’s Chevy panel truck gearing down for the bridge. His mother had always claimed that old women knew everything important. He wondered if he would have been able to talk to his mother about his problem; it cheered him to feel certain he could have. He decided to consult Charmaine. As an older woman, she might have some insight. As a chemist, maybe she could make him a potion. When he stood up he felt a faint twist of nausea. Daniel took a moment to connect it with mescaline, and about the time he recalled that Mott’s Ol’ Wolverine contained peyote, he realized he was ripped.

Charmaine was in the kitchen, reading the paper and eating toast. Daniel, aided by the coca-mesc-opium combo, liked the way she held her toast.

‘Daniel,’ she said pleasantly putting down the paper. ‘How are you?’

‘I have a problem.’

‘Yes?’ There was neither apprehension nor cajolery in her voice, just the usual open neutrality.

‘It’s a sexual problem. I talked to Mott, but I wanted to ask your advice, too.’

‘You’re loaded,’ Charmaine said, looking at him intently, toast still poised in her hand.

‘Being loaded and talking to Mott are the same thing. He was riding Pissgums in the snow.’ Daniel paused, his train of thought derailed, then added awkwardly, ‘But I want to talk to you independent of being loaded.’

She gestured with her toast. ‘Sit down and talk.’

Daniel sat at the table and began to explain, absently turning a jar of marmalade between his hands. Charmaine reached over and lifted it from his grasp. Daniel stumbled, embarrassed. She listened with a calm focus that unsettled him.

When he’d concluded, Charmaine said, ‘So it’s not a problem of having one orgasm a night, but of being limited to one orgasm per partner, whether that night or next month?’

‘Yes ma’am, that’s it.’

‘Can you masturbate twice?’

Daniel nodded, stunned. He hadn’t even thought about that.

‘If you can make love with yourself twice but not anyone else, I doubt the problem is physiological.’ She stood, delicately brushed toast crumbs from her fingers, and started for the back door.

Daniel watched her go as if she were falling, either away from him or toward him, he couldn’t tell. He blurted, ‘I’d like to sleep with you. I think I could do it with you twice.’

Charmaine stopped and turned around, a hint of warmth in her smile. ‘I’m absolutely flattered, Daniel, but I’m just as absolutely not interested. I’m in the middle of some very demanding work, first of all. More important, I’m not the solution to your problem.’

‘Well, since I’ve already made a fool of myself, I might as well ask you something I’ve been wondering about. Whose aunt are you, anyway?’

Charmaine replied easily, ‘Nobody’s really. It’s a name Mommy’s Commies gave me years ago. It’s not widely known – and I’ll trust you to keep it that way – but I’m Polly McCloud’s daughter.’

‘Mommy of Mommy’s Commies is your mother?’

‘Yes. Though it doesn’t make me an aunt to the girls, clearly.’

‘Why don’t you ever visit your
mother?
’

‘I do.’

‘Oh,’ Daniel said. She acted as if he should have known, but how could he if nobody ever told him anything and were evasive if you asked?

Before Daniel could think of anything to say, Charmaine concluded, ‘I have work to do, and you have company waiting. Good night.’

Since he half expected Volta would be waiting for him in his cabin, he was mildly discombobulated to see a stocky woman with snow-white hair standing at his door. For an instant he thought it might be Polly McCloud, but then he recognized her – and was as shocked to see her as he had been the first time.

‘Goddammit, you
better
remember,’ she threatened.