by Dave Edelman
( page 3 )
by Dave Edelman
( page 3 )
"c" word, busting the gates to the castle open for their mystical journey into the wilderness.
Shelly turned and delivered a few stern gestures in Teddy's direction, after which the child sullenly left the kitchen to join the others, pudding pop dripping lazily onto his chubby hand. The absence of children in the room and the faint puff of Lawrence's breath over the line reminded her oddly of childhood, of the nighttime flights into fancy her father evoked with his whimsical bedtime stories, all about puckish elves and hidden cauldrons of gold and ordinary princesses propelled into adventure by simply keeping an ear open for the possibilities. Had the circumstances been propitious -- the hour a little later, Robert safely schmoozing with other Jungian therapists out of state rather than simply consulting down at the university....
Shelly would be wrapped loosely in a flannel blanket on the sofa with two shuddering hands buried between her thighs. Lawrence's voice, low and scratchy and lispy like jazz, would conduct her strumming fingers to a gloriously wicked climax, while she did all she could to mute her plaintive cry for the children's sake.
Lawrence never engaged himself while on the phone.
"I know what you're thinking," said Lawrence.
"What's that?"
"You're thinking, 'Damn these kids. Damn Robert. Damn these part-time magazine jobs.' You're thinking 'Damn it that the only way I can please myself is by listening to a man I don't even know, talking about my cunt on the phone.'"
How well he reads me, thought Shelly; although it occurred to her that his words were not so much prophetic as motivational.
Karen and Teddy were now fighting over a box of Crayolas, the former insisting on heightened crayon privileges because she was older. "Let your brother have some crayons, Karen," said Shelly. It was the mildest, wettest reprimand she had ever given.
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