We have a saying in the mortuary business: beauty is a widow.
It sounds mysterious and philosophical, but its real meaning is a bit more prosaic. A woman is never so beautiful as when she is bereaved.
Certainly, this woman illustrates the proverb. She is exquisite, with her hair as black as her tailored garments, her face pale with longing, her eyes sparkling from her weeping. She sits quietly by the casket, tears streaming like Niobe's, long white fingers twisting her handkerchief. Every now and again she looks at me, standing in the corner in my stiff hot suit, my collar nearly strangling me. She does not smile, but I attempt a reassuring smile in response to her glance. Professional demeanor, detached yet sympathetic.
Let me explain. I am not the undertaker. I simply work for Mr. Graves, as I have since my junior year in high school, trying to earn money for college. I began at State last fall, and now I work weekends, plus full-time in the summer. I help with the embalming, lug the coffins around, answer the phone, whatever needs to be done. I do a good job. But it's only a job.
Mr. Graves confides in me. He would like me to take over the business. Since his partner Mr. Stone passed on, he becomes more frail each season. But I know my destiny is elsewhere.
I plan to become a writer. I will follow in the footsteps of Jack Kerouac and Hunter Thompson. I will chronicle the road of my life, each encounter and each revelation. At the suggestion of my senior English teacher, I keep a journal, recording whatever scenes, sensations and insights catch my attention. I practice my craft.
I wish I had my journal now. I would love to describe Mrs. Harrington's delicate features, so at odds with her voluptuous figure. I need to purge myself, through writing, of the desires she wakens in me.
Suddenly, she breaks down into a noisy fit of crying. I find myself by her side, my arm around her shoulders in what I hope is a comforting, non-threatening gesture.
"Mrs. Harrington," I say, trying not to swoon from her perfume. "You must get hold of yourself. Your tears will not bring him back."
"No," she says, sniffling, "but I am responsible for his death."
"Please, Mrs. Harrington. Your husband died of heart failure. You are in no way responsible."
"My innocent boy," she says, smiling at me for the first time. "You have no idea."
I am innocent, I cannot deny it. I've done a lot of reading, but my actual experience is pretty limited. Suzie has made sure of that. I've asked her to marry me, and she's accepted. She lets me fondle her breasts and French kiss her, but that's about all. When I graduate from college, I know we'll be together. In the meantime, all I have are my books and my trusty hand.
I do not reply to Mrs. Harrington's comment, but simply don my attentive listener look, and after a moment, she continues.
"My Roger was a man of amorous temperament and considerable skill in matters of the flesh. Over the last few years, though, his ability to perform - in a sexual manner, I mean - declined considerably. We employed a variety of stratagems to try to deal with the problem, some more successful than others. We tried handcuffs and blindfolds, threesomes with nubile co-eds, swingers clubs, the whole gamut."
My eyes widen as I try to picture this sophisticated and elegant lady in such sordid circumstances. I must look slightly shocked, because she gives a little laugh and pats my shoulder.
"When you are young, and constantly flooded with lust, you cannot imagine the lengths that one will travel to excite desire." She sighs as if her heart will break. "The night Roger died, I had given him some Spanish Fly. Do you know what that is?"
I nod my head dumbly.
"It was with his knowledge and permission, of course. But, with his cardiac history, I should have known better."
"The aphrodisiac was far more effective than we had expected. Roger had a mighty erection. He mounted me and plowed me like a raging stallion. It was absolutely divine, the best sex we had in years. At the moment of crisis, though, his heart gave out. He died pumping his seed into me."
I can see that she is on the verge of breaking down again. Meanwhile, her strange story has quite a different effect on me. My own member swells and begins to throb at the description of her husband's tumescence. Her nearness is not helping matters.
It's a hot July afternoon, and I'm dying in my dark wool suit. Meanwhile, I can just catch a musky whiff of her sweat, underneath her gardenia fragrance. Her fitted black jacket and skirt look as confining and uncomfortable as my own clothes. She probably doesn't notice, though, overcome as she is with grief.
In fact, she suddenly wails and throws herself across the coffin, trying to embrace the rigid corpse. "Oh, Roger, forgive me! I miss you so much! I wouldn't care if we never screwed again, if only I could have you back."
"Please, Mrs. Harrington..." I try to pull her away, ridiculously concerned that she will spoil the cadaver's makeup. I worked for two hours to make him look full-cheeked and rosy instead of pinched and blue. I am rather proud of the results.
She throws me off, and continues to howl, tearing at her hair and her clothing like Hecuba on the ramparts of Troy. "Oh, Roger, Roger..." she blubbers, trailing off into hysterical incomprehensibility. There's nothing I can do except stand there stiffly like a dummy, a futile consoling hand on her shoulder, murmuring the platitudes for which this occupation is famous.
Finally, she cries herself out. She sits down again, gasping for breath, her eyes inflamed and her hair in complete disarray. I offer her my dry handkerchief. (Hers is drenched.) She accepts gratefully. Once more she graces me with her smile.
"Thank you, young man. I'm better now. I apologize for my lack of self-control. I appreciate your kindness and your tolerance."
"Not at all, Mrs. Harrington."
"Please, call me Lydia."
"Oh, I couldn't do that, Mrs. Harrington. It would not be proper."
"As you wish," she shrugs. She looked at me carefully, possibly really seeing me for the first time. "What is your name?"
"Howard Marsh," I reply. "Howard Michael Marsh."
I'm not crazy about my first name; it does not sound very literary to me. But "H.M. Marsh" has a rather nice ring to it. "The Lure of the Unattainable, by H.M. Marsh."
"Well, Howard, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. I really don't know what I would have done, had I been here alone."
"I'm only doing my job, ma'am."
"Well, you are very good at your job. Come over here, sit down, and tell me more about yourself. It will distract me from thinking about Roger."
Part of me is drawn to her like a moth to flame. Part of me is reluctant to get any closer. Already my penis is straining, trapped inside my boxers like Hercules in the dungeons of King Augeus. To sit beside her would be torture. She will surely notice the growing bulge in my trousers. I hesitate, blushing, wondering how Hemingway would handle this.
She senses my resistance. "Howard," she says with hint of sternness. "I need you. Do not disappoint me." She grabs my hand and actually pulls me down onto the straight-backed chair beside hers.
When she touches me, there's a surge of something like electricity. My breath catches in my throat. My cock gives a little jump. She does not relinquish her hold on my hand. The heaviness in my groin grows more oppressive.
"Now, Howard, tell me all."
And for some reason, I do tell her, about my family, my job, my literary ambitions, even about Suzie. Now that she has calmed down, she is a good listener. Meanwhile, I find that disheveled and undone she is even more appealing than she was tailored and neat. Her hands are folded calmly in her lap. She leans forward, as if eager to catch my every word.
As I talk on, I notice that in the course of her frenzied weeping, she apparently popped off one of the buttons on her blouse. When she inclines her body toward me, the garment gaps open. I catch a glimpse of black lace and white skin. Now I am not thinking at all of what I am saying, but still somehow, I ramble on, my eyes riveted on that provocative aperture.
In the midst of explaining Suzie's views on premarital sex, I notice something else. Mrs. Harrington's sober and conservative skirt is gradually getting shorter. First her knees are revealed, smooth and delightfully round. When I look again, I find the hem has settled at mid-thigh, exposing her glistening silk hosiery. A few minutes later, her garters are peeking out from under the somber fabric, jet against her creamy flesh.
I stop in mid-sentence, my mouth half open. She has pulled her skirt practically to her waist. The view paralyzes me as surely as if I had looked upon Medusa.
I can see the shadowy cleft between her thighs. I can see glossy curls framing a pink mystery that takes my breath away. I can see that, though she is clearly in mourning, Mrs. Harrington has chosen to forego wearing underwear.
She smiles at me sweetly. "Do you like me, Howard?" she asks. Obviously, this is a rhetorical question, for my penis is rearing up like Mount Olympus. "Let me make you more comfortable," she says, and the next thing I know, she unzips my trousers and sets me free.
My cock springs up from my lap, plum-purple, straight toward the ceiling. Mrs. Harrington licks her lips. "Young man," she says, "I think I can help you." Then before I can stop her, she straddles my chair and settles herself upon my organ, burying me in the hot cavern of her sex.
I cry out, half in protest, half in ecstasy. Even while I think frantically about Suzie, I am bucking beneath Mrs. Harrington's weight, trying to embed my cock more deeply in her lubricious depths.
The sensations are like nothing that I could have imagined, reading "Hustler" and stroking away alone. The slickness, the heat, the pulsing of her muscles as she clamps down on me - oh, I wish that I had my notebook, and then realize that there is no way that I could ever describe this.
She continues to ride me, harder and faster, and I match her rhythm. Suddenly she squeals, and grinds her pelvis against me. I almost come then, but by chance I remember that I am in a funeral parlor. This is slightly sobering.
Mrs. Harrington is panting, her hair hanging down into her face. I am still huge inside her. She smiles that lovely smile of hers. "Howard, dear, you are a very talented young man. You are so kind to console a poor widow."
I grin, embarrassed, twitching with pleasure every time she shifts position slightly.
"I think," she continues, "that I would really enjoy having you on top. What do you think?"
Taking my silence for the acquiescence that it is, she looks around the room. "The floor would be dreadfully uncomfortable, I fear," she says. "But what about over there?"
Horrified, I realized that she is pointing to the demo casket over in the corner. I don't think that I explained that we are not in the official viewing room. This is just an antechamber, where we lay out the bodies in advance of the funeral. Tomorrow, Mr. Graves' nephew and I would have to wheel Mr. Harrington into the chapel for the memorial service. So, there is this spare coffin, sitting off to the side. As soon as she mentions it, I understand what she has in mind.
Before I can speak, she slips off of me, leaving me feeling lost and desperately horny. She raises the lid of the casket and trails her fingers approvingly over the silk lining. "Very nice," she murmurs. "Such a quality establishment." Then without any hesitation, she strips off her suit and blouse, and lays down in the mahogany box with her legs spread as wide as possible in those narrow confines.
I am frozen, caught between desire and disgust like Odysseus between Scylla and Charybdis. "Howard," she says, a bit impatiently. "I'm waiting."
Like a zombie, I walk over and look down at her, splayed out on the padded brocade. Her eyes sparkle with mischievous lust. Her hair is tangled into black ringlets. Her pale breasts beckon, barely hidden by her lacy brassiere. Mostly, though, I look at her sex, her vermilion lips pouting toward me, moist and inviting.
"Come on!" she says, and I can't help but obey. I shed my shoes, push my pants down to my ankles, and step out of them. Then I climb awkwardly into the casket, trying not to crush her. I really do not know how to proceed, but she takes control, grasping my rock-hard penis and positioning it at her entrance. "Now, thrust, Howard," she says. "Plow me with your beautiful young cock. Fuck me the way you have always wanted to fuck your little Suzie."
With the mention of Suzie's name, something snaps. I am suddenly frenzied and without thought. I plunge my cock into her, again and again, while she whimpers and cries and writhes beneath me. My knees are pressed hard against the casket walls. Her fingernails tear at the lining. I feel the seed rising in my stalk like Icarus flying toward the sun. The heat sears me, but it is too late to turn back. One massive, final thrust, and I dissolve inside her, then fall to earth.
It's overwhelming. I never dreamed that it would be like this. There are tears in my eyes, tears that Lydia kisses away with an enigmatic smile.
We climb stiffly out of the coffin and look around for our clothes. As we survey the room, we notice the anomaly at the same instant.
Mr. Harrington's face still looks rosy and content, a testimony to my undertaking skill. His limbs are still arranged as if he were relaxed and sleeping. However, his expensive worsted suit is tented at the groin, the bulge growing larger by the minute.
Lydia looks me in the eye and gives a little laugh. "Well, you know, Roger always did like to watch."