The Quality of Her Tears

I remember how I almost squirted over my frigging fingers as I looked down from the mezzanine, waiting for the gun to blast the bastard's head off. I remember hissing that he should kill him. Kill him! I guess I lost my mind then – finally turning into the animal they trained me to be. It has become hard to think back past my time at the mansion. I suppose it will soon be impossible to think at all.

But who cares, anyway?

I sit in the kitchen of the tiny cottage Carl must have rented. The view is lovely – green and rural. I see hills and fields stretching to the horizon, recently stripped of their crops. Cows are grazing; slow tractors frustrate car drivers who want to pass. I see the steeple of a far away church and the white smoke of an invisible factory. Incidental flocks of cyclists dot the rolling landscape with their garishly colored outfits. I guess it couldn't get more French.

Sitting at the window, nursing a huge bowl of white coffee, I wonder what is going on. It is a silly, useless thought of course: my wondering won't change a thing, will it? All I really do is wait, not even knowing what for. The simple blue cotton dress tightens over my belly. It smells freshly laundered. My hair is still damp from the shower; my face has no make up. I struggle to relax, bombarding my head with the mantra that all is well, all is well.

All isn't well, of course. I am not where I belong. I am not with whom I should be. I am a lost and forgotten pregnant whale, cast upon an empty shore. The despicable little man has made a deal over me to safe his own futile life – swapping one inconsequential existence for another. It makes me feel dirty. It also makes me feel disappointed that Jean-Luc would even consider such a deal.

I try to empty my mind like I am trained to. I know it is none of my business to even think about my fate. My time is the now; my life is another's property – the facts have been printed into my body and soul. I mustn't get in the way of things I don't understand – and there are many things I don't understand.

I sigh, rubbing the thin cotton that covers my belly. Suddenly I feel a kick to my hand; then another. It takes me seconds to realize it is the... the situation inside me. It totally confuses me. Another bump hits my palm. I see little ripples in the tight fabric. Jumping to my feet, I hold the balloon that used to be my flat, tight belly.

Tears spring to my eyes. Soon I'll be one of the disgusting mommy-monsters. My beautiful body will be eaten away from the inside by a blind, squirming creature. I'll swell up even more and move around like a waddling hippopotamus. Then, one awful day, the little monster will fight its way out, tearing me up in the process. It'll scream and wriggle in a pool of blood between my thighs. I'll be its slave. It'll suck me dry until my lovely tits dangle like empty teabags. My waist will be gone forever, replaced by stretched slabs of skin that are riddled with stretch marks. My vagina will be a gaping hole, torn and frayed. No man will want me anymore; Jean-Luc will dump me. I'll be a drone in an endless pageant of mommy-flesh.

But he most stunning thing is that I love it.

Each kick sends a thrill through my body. I close my eyes and moan, focusing every ounce of my consciousness on a feeling that takes over my world. It flushes out every other thought I might have, making all my fears and complaints irrelevant. Life has interfered: there is a child in me, not a thing but a human being, and it is mine, all mine – to bring up, to protect... to love and be loved by.

I have been wrong all my life. Wrong about me and the others, about love and Jean-Luc, about what is important and what isn't. All I have been is a selfish creature – scared and lonely... so very lonely.

I cry anew and that is how Carl finds me.

"Miss your whoremaster?" he asks, throwing his jacket on a chair. His face has a sneer that has always been there, lately. His voice sounds raw. It doesn't sound right with him. I don't answer.

"Get me a beer," he goes on, slumping next to the jacket. I rise and get him one. He grabs my wrist, pulling me down to my knees. The dress rides up, tightening uncomfortably around my waist. He looks down into my eyes.

"We have a meeting with Maynard in ten minutes. A car will pick us up." I guess I should feel a thrill when he mentions the name. There isn't.

"Suck my cock," he says. That also sounds wrong, coming from him, but I undo his belt and take out his cock. He grabs my hair, pulling me closer. Then he pushes me away and rises.

"No time," he says. His limp penis sways before he puts it away.

"Get on something warmer; a vest. And clean your messy cry-face." I retreat to the tiny bathroom. My eyes are red and swollen. I wash and add some make up. 'Maynard,' he'd said. Jean-Luc? Why am I not I excited? Another ripple touches my belly. I find a long woolen vest. The cab is on time. I ball up in a far corner. Carl gets a phone call.

"Yes," he says. And two more 'yesses."

I study his face. His eyes stare at me as he listens. They don't see me.

"We'll be there in half an hour," he says, closing the connection and putting the phone away. Now his eyes seem to see me; he blinks.

"What?" he asks. It sounds cold.

"We are all the same," I say, sitting up straighter. He doesn't get it.

"Who all?" he asks.

"You, me," I say. "and this." My hands cup the roundness of my belly. He shakes his head. Darkness gathers around his eyes.

"Fuck off, whore," he says with his wrong voice, looking away. "You are a slut and the thing in your guts is a slut's reward. Leave me out of this."

I smile. I don't know why I smile as I caress my belly. I do know it pisses him off.

"You, me, and it," I say, "we are all losers."

The address the cab takes us to is a chateau at the end of a white, dusty driveway. It takes us through a large vineyard. The leaves are reddish brown; the grapes have been picked. Has Carl been here while he was away from the cottage the last two days?

The car stops and we get out. Chalky grit crunches under my sneakers. The breeze feels balmy for an autumn-day. Inside the house the air is cool; I wrap my vest tighter. We enter a vaulted hall with sandstone walls and a slate floor. There is heavy furniture under a huge metal chandelier. Two men sit at the central table. One is Papa; the other man I've seen at the mansion – quite often. I've sucked his cock. He has pissed on me.

Papa rises and waves us closer.

"Ma pute et son eunuque," he says, knowing Carl's French is good enough to understand. "Soyez la bienvenue." He introduces the second man.

"This is Julien Lagrange," he says. "I understand you two know each other." I see Carl's face whiten. He freezes for a second; then he jumps forward, grabbing the man by his lapels. His face is only inches away.

"You... you rat!" he cries. "You corrupt, backstabbing swindler, you!" Papa pulls at both men to separate them, laughing all the time. I have no idea what's going on.

"Now, now," Papa says finally. "Let's keep this businesslike. Things are complicated enough as they are. Sit down, both of you." He turns to me. "Et toi, p'tite pute, assis-toi aussi." He smiles. It doesn't thrill me as before; it makes me feel dirty. I sit down next to Carl, across from the two men.

Carl is seething. The man called Lagrange rearranges his tie, looking indignant in the time-honored Gallic way.

Papa pushes a piece of paper across the table until it rests in front of Carl. It looks official. Papa puts his hand out. It holds an expensive fountain pen.

"Let's do this," he says. "The money will be transferred this afternoon."

Carl doesn't move. He looks from Papa to the other man and back.

"It's off," he then says. "You've fooled and cheated me like the stupid idiot I am, but no more." The silence is intense. Papa and the Frenchman look at each other; they seem at a loss of words.

"But you can't... ," Papa starts. Carl cuts him off.

"I can and I will," he says. "Shoot me, kill me, whatever. You don't need me anyway. Just fake my signature as you've done before." He turns to me.

"You married me to help them ruin me, didn't you, Mia? How often? Every time I was away, I guess."

To my surprise my face flushes. I murmur a sorry.

"And you," Carl goes on, turning to Lagrange. "My friend." He stretches the word. "The Alma-Tadema was a hoax, wasn't it? Nobody found out about the forgeries. You had to help a bit, so an unknown amount of possible forgeries would hang over my head, preparing me for this. You hadn't made enough yet. You just had to milk me for a bit more money. "

He turns to Papa again.

"Let's stop this," he says. "You made your money and you had your fun with me and my phony marriage. Enough is enough. Kill me or let me go."

I look at Carl's impassive face, amazed by its calm, cool strength. Then I look over to Lagrange. Yes, he is a rat; I can see it now. At the mansion he was like the others to me – cold, arrogant, insensitive. I'd learned to fear him for that – to admire him for that. Now I see he is just a weasel, a smalltime crook. I wonder what I would have thought of him yesterday, or even this morning.

The child kicks my belly. I turn to watch Papa. He looks old, I see now. He has fat jowls and there is sweat on his brow. 'Kill me or let me go,' Carl has said. Now who is the man?

I shake my head in confusion.

The gun gleams in Papa's meaty hand. I hadn't seen it before.

"Sign," he says. Carl just holds his eyes. Then he slowly shakes his head 'no.' The gunshot doesn't come. All three men are distracted by a door, opening. Jean-Luc enters.

"All set, gentlemen?" he asks. "Did we...?" He stops halfway his sentence.

That is when I feel a hard object strife my thigh, right below the table and out of sight. I turn my eyes to Carl. He looks straight ahead. Is it a gun? And did it touch my thigh? I just in time strangle a cry of surprise.

"Put away the gun, Papa," Jean-Luc says, walking over to his father.

"Don't," the old man starts saying, turning the weapon slightly away from Carl. A deafening explosion thunders through the vaulted room, echoing from the walls. The elder Maynard is blown backwards, his chair toppling. Jean-Luc ducks away behind Lagrange and down to the ground.

I sit frozen, my ears still pounding from the gunshot. Everything around me is numb and seems to move in slow motion. The acrid smell of gunpowder assaults me, as does the sight of Papa's twitching body, grotesquely draped over his fallen chair. His lower body turns dark from spreading blood. The French rat has disappeared, as has Jean-Luc. When I ever so slowly turn my head to where Carl has been, I feel a strong hand pulling me off the chair and to the ground. I don't feel myself hit the floor, but I am dragged over it; then pulled up. I realize someone is holding me against him. Something cold and hard touches my head. I know the feeling by now – a gun against my temple. An arm tightens around my chest. It hurts.

I see Carl getting up from the floor. He also holds a gun. A voice sounds close to my ear; a well-known voice.

"Drop that gun, fool," Jean-Luc says. His vice trembles. Carl smiles. I can't believe he smiles.

"You won't shoot her," he says, his voice slow, low, calm. "You love her, remember?" Jean-Luc doesn't respond. I feel his heavy breathing against my ear.

"I am the one supposed to hate her, remember?" Carl goes on. His smile has become a grin. "So I guess I'll just shoot."

The muzzle trembles against my head. I close my eyes. I recall the last time I felt this. Back then I didn't care. My life wasn't mine then. But things have changed. Tiny kicks have altered my life. Sure, it still isn't my life, but the owner has changed. I feel him in my belly, raging with energy. Yes, he owns me; I have no right to die. He won't allow it. Or she.

"Throw away both guns," I say, marveling at my steady voice. "This is useless. So Carl dies? I die? You die, Jean-Luc? Or maybe all of us die? What's the use?"

I know nothing I say will make a difference. Carl won't drop his gun, so Jean-Luc won't dare take the gun off my skull. But me talking may buy time – time to think, time to sober up. That's when a second shot tears through the room. Carl smashes aside. He must be hit. The sudden confusion causes the gun to leave my head. I jerk myself free and duck under the heavy oak table. A third shot resounds – and yet another. I make myself as small as possible.

Carl's face lays close by. His eyes are open. He is conscious and in pain. I see blood seep from his shoulder. His mouth moves. Then I hear feet run off and a door slam closed. I turn to look and stare squarely into Jean-Luc's face. There is an oozing hole in his brow. He lays very still, his hand still holding his gun.

Epilogue.

There had been police cars and ambulances, sirens, flashlights and stretchers. Papa died on his way to the hospital. Jean-Luc was already dead. Carl had been operated upon to remove the bullet. His shoulder would be all right. Lagrange only left a small trail of blood and two dark strips where his car tore away.

Mia didn't remember being taken to the hospital. She was in shock and they'd feared for the baby, but two days later she was declared healthy and ready to leave.

After another two days Carl was healed enough to leave too. He'd answered all questions the police could ask. Mia had confirmed his claim of self-defense. He'd asked where she was. They told him she stayed at the same hotel he'd have to stay, pending the investigation.

While he was in hospital, the French police raided three addresses, one being the mansion. They'd found nobody and nothing. Lagrange must have warned everybody and left the country too. An international hunt was being organized. He wondered if anything would ever come from it.

He'd been surprised when he met her again. There was a soft glow to her face; she just looked... gorgeous. The hollows of her face were filled out, her arms and fingers were less bony. Her belly seemed to have rounded out even more. And she smiled.

It was a smile he had never seen on her. Despite everything it urged him to mirror it. So he did.

"How are you, Mia?" That smile again.

"I am fine, Carl," she said. "You saved my life... our lives." Her hand caressed her belly. He raised a hand to wave away the praise.

"You did," she insisted. They stood in the lobby of the rather dreary hotel, locked in an uneasy silence.

"Please sit, Carl," she then said, reaching for his arm to lead him to a bench. They sat down. He moved his right arm until it rested comfortably in its sling.

"You may not ever believe me again," she started, plucking nervously at the sleeve of her vest. It was the same she had worn to the chateau. "But you must let me get this off my chest." She looked up. He nodded.

"I made your life hell, Carl. I lied and cheated, I took your money and helped ruining your career. Most of all I betrayed your love. I ridiculed you for your unselfishness, calling your generosity weakness and despising you for it."

"Yes," he said. "That you did." She smiled wanly.

"I am sorry for that," she whispered, touching his hand. "I'll regret it the rest of my life. But that is not the most important thing I had to tell you." There was another silence and some more plucking.

"I have changed, Carl," she then said, looking up. She obviously saw the skepticism on his face. "I really have. But I won't brag about it. You see..." She once more touched his hand. He pulled it back, making her wince just a bit before the smile returned.

"You see, it is the baby. I'll never know who the father is, but the baby is mine and it changed me. You asked me that day when you came to pick me up and take me to the chateau why I cried. You asked if the whore missed her whoremaster..." Now he looked away uncomfortable. She laughed.

"Right before you came I felt the baby kick me. It was the first time, Carl. It shocked me to the core. You see, I have never really cared about anyone in my life, maybe not even myself. Up till that moment I'd not even thought that the child in my belly was a real, living thing, let alone a living part of me. I guess what I felt was love – a kind of love I'd never felt before." Her eyes wandered away; then they returned.

"My love for Jean-Luc was the crush of a teenager," she said. "Then he turned it into a sick, conditioned perversity, not love at all. Not the kind of love where you care more about the other than for yourself – your kind of love, Carl; the love you had for me." Smiling wide she tried to find his eyes, but they kept escaping. She grabbed both his wrists now to get his attention.

"Listen, Carl," she insisted. "Listen just this one last time, even if I don't deserve it. I must ask you for one last thing. Will you listen, please? I'll never bother you again."

Her face was close. Her scent brought memories he tried to shake off. It spread a sweet nausea.

"Mia," he said, clearing his throat and trying to free his wrists. "I... I'd rather... "

"Please?" she begged, holding on to him. Her eyes were wide and blue, and very close. He slowly shrugged.

"Carl," she said. "Tell me. Do you believe I could change?"

How long can you stare into eyes you still love and say nothing? How long before your silence becomes hurtful? And how long until you pass the point of no return and everything you say can only be a lie?

He said nothing. He just watched how the lower rims of her eyes filled with a clear liquid. It balanced on her lashes until it rolled off her cheeks, leaving glistening traces.

He felt her hands lifting his and placing their palms on her warm, round belly. He felt a deep glow. Then a ripple kicked him.

"So you don't trust me," she said. "But he does."

The End.