The Blood Orange Moon

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, the darkness again overtaking her.

* * * * *

The alarm went off like an explosion, the tiny clapper banging against the bells so loudly she feared the whole neighborhood would wake up.

Sliding out of bed, she padded to the restroom to pee. Her eyes didn't register the sink as she passed, but her brain did. When she pulled her panties down to her knees, she gasped.

She was bare, shaved totally bare down there, her pink lips exposed to her astonished eyes with nary a covering of hair.

Her eyes shot back to the sink. It was her razor. The one she'd used in the shower yesterday to shave her legs. It was lying inside the sink bowl alongside a small bottle of skin lotion and all amidst the damp remains of her pubic hairs.

Then she remembered her dream. She remembered Clint coming back to her again. Had she done this in her dream? She didn't remember it, that was for sure. Yet, she'd done strange things like this before.

She remembered way back all those years before, way back when Mom died and she'd first moved in with Grandpa. She'd had strange dreams, haunting dreams, for weeks. One night, she'd even cleaned out Mister Wiggles's litter box and put the crusty nuggets on the kitchen table. Grandpa woke her up during that one, terrifying her into shrieks and screams until she'd realized it was all a dream. Then she'd seen the poop on the table and the scoop in her hand. She wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't seen it. Still, the next morning it all seemed like a dream all over again, and Grandpa had never brought it up. Not even once. But she knew it hadn't been a dream.

Now she realized she'd done the same thing all over again. A whole mix of things had drawn her to it, the brandy, the new job, the strange, severe lady in this drafty old house, the conversation about Clint and sex and how long it had been since she had done it.

Amanda felt a wave of relief pass over her skin and through her limbs. Sure, that's all it was, just a silly old dream and some sleepwalking.

Then she looked back down at herself. With a tentative poke, she felt the smooth skin all around her nubbin. Looks kinda cute, she decided. Maybe I'll just stay with this for awhile longer.

She sat on the toilet to relieve herself, smiling at the wicked little thoughts dancing in her head.

CHAPTER THREE

Barbara was sitting on the sun patio, sipping her tea while reading the paper. The tea was good, brewed to the perfect strength.

"She's a fast learner," Barbara said to him, putting the tea cup down. "Maybe she'll be able to keep up with the household after all."

He chuckled. "I'll have her whistling while she works. Guaranteed."

"So there were no problems last night?"

"Not a bit. 'Cept he called her Mandy. Only her dear old grandpa called her Amanda."

"Well how was I supposed to find that out?" she said, perturbed at the tone in his voice.

"Just remember," he said, his voice lightening again already, "it's all in the details."

"But you enjoyed yourself?"

"For sure."

"And her?"

"Fell asleep. Still, what there was, she definitely enjoyed."

"Good."

"Just like that other bitch," he snapped. "She enjoyed it, too."

"Maybe I just didn't pay her enough. Maybe that's why she-- "

"Not that one. You know who I mean. Her. The bitch."

"Oh," Barbara said, sipping her coffee while he settled down.

"She wanted it. All along, just teasing it all right out there in front of me."

"I know."

"I didn't rape her, Mom," Stevie said.

"I know, dear," she purred.

"She wanted it. Really she did."

Barbara heard footsteps coming through the kitchen and shushed him.

"Yes, dear?" she said.

"There's a Mister Truelson here to see you, ma'am," Amanda said.

"Governor Truelson," Barbara corrected. "My goodness, child, don't you read the papers? Keep up with the news?"

She lowered her head. "Sorry, ma'am."

"I hope you were polite."

The girl said nothing, and Barbara stood and swept past her toward the foyer.

"Why Governor Truelson," she said upon rounding the corner.

"Barbara," he replied, holding his arms out toward her. "We go back way too far for you to be goin' all formal on me now."

She leaned in and gave him a light peck on the cheek. "Of course, Pat. It's wonderful to see you again."

He stammered, and then said, "David wanted me to call on you, Barb. See how you're holdin' up."

She fought to suppress her emotions. "I'm just fine, Pat." She turned, spotting Amanda hovering in the kitchen door. "Dear, would you bring Governor Truelson a cup of coffee and some of those rolls?"

The girl disappeared, and Barbara turned back to Truelson. "She wasn't frightfully rude I hope."

He smiled. "No, of course not. She was just fine."

Then his eyes went over her shoulder and his head tilted.

"What is it, dear?" she asked, but he didn't reply. Instead, his eyes stayed on the doorway and, when Barbara heard footsteps, she saw his eyes widen.

"My God," he said.

"What?"

He looked down at her as if for the first time, then his eyes cleared, and he gave a brief shake to his head. A wide smile split his face, the smile Barbara knew by heart. That politician's smile that said 'trust me' when it was really saying 'you poor, dumb sap.'

"Really," Barbara insisted. "What is it?"

"Just thought I recognized her is all," he said.

"From where?"

"Probably just a waitress or something at one of the hundreds of shindigs I'm constantly attending. You know how it is. We have to keep our memory for faces fresh and all. Politician's best friend."

She knew he was lying, and she knew what he saw. She'd warned him before that this wasn't smart, but he'd insisted and she'd gone along.

"Well, why don't you come out to the sun porch with me?" she said, hooking her arm in his.

"Of course," he replied, walking with her.

Twenty minutes--and two sweet rolls--later, Truelson was gone. Barbara stood on the front porch waving as he departed in his black, chauffeured limousine.

She needed to restrict her visitors, but wasn't sure how to go about it. This one could be the one, she knew, and she needed the time to finish reeling Amanda in.

Still, staying in her home and cutting off everyone else would only raise the red flags higher, and she couldn't afford that now, either.

Not after he'd finally come back to her for good.

* * * * *

David Roberts made his way to the Avis counter, his mind in turmoil. As he waited in line, eager to get on the interstate and out to see his grandson, he activated his cell phone for the first time in four hours. He had two messages, both from Pat Truelson. Both were the same: Call him. Immediately, if not sooner.

"Pat, it's David."

"Jesus, David, where you been?"

"Decided to take off a day early and fly out to visit my grandson."

Truelson hesitated, and when he spoke his voice was softer, hesitant. "You think you'll get a chance to see her? Sandy? To talk to her like you said?"

"I'm gonna try. Really, I promise."

"Call when you do," Truelson said. "Either way, just call."

"I will."

Truelson was silent, and Roberts had to prompt him back. "You said to call."

"Oh yeah," he said, snapping back and his voice getting edgy. "I visited her this morning like I said I would. Barbara. I dropped in unannounced and visited with her."

"And?"

"She's edgy, that's for sure. Like she couldn't wait to get rid of me."

"Yeah. That's how she's been with me, too. Except she's been angry, too. Real angry."

"I didn't get any of that. She was fine, all pleasant and what have you. But also in a hurry, like she couldn't wait for me to leave."

"Was there someone else there?"

"That's the weird part, David," he said. "The really weird part."

"What?"

"She's hired another girl. Another maid, a live in."

"I think she wants that now. Someone to keep her company."

"Weirder than that, man."

"How so?"

"I didn't really notice it with the first two, but with this one I noticed it big time. Then I remembered back to the other two that she's had in the past year and . . . well, it's definitely strange."

"What did you notice?" David asked, drawing the words out and afraid to hear the answer.

"They all bear more than just a passing resemblance to Sandy," he said. "Not exactly--not like sisters or anything--but they're all the same look, short, blonde, sort of perky looking in that high school cheerleader sorta way. And all right about the same age--or at least lookin' the same age--as Sandy was when Stevie died."

David tried to process this, stepping out of line to do so. He made his way to a quiet corner of the terminal, trying to remember what the maid had looked like the last time he'd been home. He'd only met one of them, and he wasn't even aware Barbara was now on her third maid in the past year. Barbara had been apparently keeping everything from him, and he'd been more than happy to leave it at that.

"You still there?" Truelson queried.

"Still here," he said. "When did the second one leave?"

"I'm not sure. I met the first one maybe six months ago, then the second one about four months ago, that time we dropped by and you were in town."

"Have there been others?"

"Not a clue. Still, you've gotta admit: It's pretty weird."

"Yeah. To say the least, I think."

"Anyway," Truelson said, and then let it hang there.

Roberts sighed. "I'll call you as soon as I know something up here. I think it's more important now than ever that I sit down with Mark."

"You think he'll talk to you?"

"I can only pray."

"Goes for both of us."

Roberts said nothing, and Truelson just disconnected after a few seconds.

* * * * *

Barbara was pacing from room to room, her anxiety building. When the dull, brass knocker droned through the hallways, it was all she could do to keep from answering the door herself. Her body a bundle of nerves, she made her way to the sun room and sat, her hands gripping the chair.

A moment later, Amanda appeared and said, "A Mister Truscott to see you, ma'am."

Barbara's body sagged in relief, but she raised herself stiff again. "You may show him here."

The girl disappeared and a moment later reappeared with Charles Truscott in tow.

"Charles," she said, standing and craning her neck.

He gave a broad, too wide smile, kissed her cheek a moment longer than was tasteful, and said, "Barbara, my dear. Sorry I'm so late."

She put on a fake pout to hide her anger and impatience, and then said, "And I thought you'd forgotten your promise."

"Never," he said, holding two shopping bags toward her with a raised eyebrow. As Barbara took the packages from him, she saw his head turn and follow Amanda as she left the room. When he turned back, the leer was only beginning to disappear.

"She's very beautiful," he observed.

"Oh," said Barbara, looking through the apparel in the bags, "I hadn't noticed."

"Really."

She could hear the amusement in his voice and gave him a stern stare. "I have no idea what thoughts are racing through that mind of yours Charles, but I can assure you I only want the young lady to be properly attired and comfortable."

"Of course," he agreed. Yet, his face made it clear he was intrigued by the prospects of his little trips for her.

"Excuse me a moment," she said, walking past him toward the main hall. "Amanda, come here please."

The girl appeared seconds later. "Yes, ma'am."

"Here," she said, holding the bags out toward Amanda. "Take these and put them into your room. And change into a pair while you're up there. They're all matching sets."

Amanda looked confused as she took the bags and gave a tentative look inside. When she saw what she was holding, her eyes got large. She looked back to Barbara and stammered, "Y-y-yes, ma'am."

"But first," Barbara commanded, "you need to go to the sun room and thank Mister Truscott for picking them up for you."

The girl's cheeks blushed a deep red at that. Unable to find words, she nodded and walked toward the sun room to do as she was told.

* * * * *

Amanda had the undergarments spread out before her on the bed. There were eight pairs in all colors, all matching, and all silky and skimpy and lacy and like nothing Amanda had ever worn before.

Running her fingers over a bright red bra and panties, she tried to figure out what this was about. Sure, her underwear had been old and worn, but this was . . . it was . . . kinky. Strange. Completely unforeseen.

She unbuttoned her blouse and undid her graying bra, sliding it off her shoulders and putting on the yellow bra. It felt nice, exquisite even. Like nothing she'd ever felt before except maybe for Clint's soft licks and feather kisses there. She tried to banish these thoughts from her mind as her nipples enlarged. Quickly shucking her pants, she replaced her underwear with the matching yellow silk bikini.

Walking to the mirror, she looked at her image. Her eyes went wide at the sight of her tiny bottom now clad in the sexy underwear, at her breasts encased in the deliciously lewd bra.

If only Clint could see me now, she thought. He'd be so turned on.

Without thinking, her fingertips brushed over her mound. Her bare skin below rubbed against the silk panties and felt so . . . so . . . .

The sharp rap on the door brought her back to the present and she scrambled to step away from the mirror and button her blouse as Barbara Roberts walked in. By the look on her face--the arched eyebrows and slight sly smile--Amanda knew her employer had seen through her.

"So you like them," she said.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

"I'm glad."

Amanda said nothing, just looked down for her gray slacks to put them back on.

"Charles noted that you are a very beautiful young lady, Amanda," Barbara said. "I agree with him."

Amanda hazarded a look at the woman as she pulled on her slacks. Barbara's expression was inscrutable; it could have been read so many different ways. Yet, there was a hunger there that Amanda had seen before, and she shivered at what the woman was thinking.

"Anyway," Barbara continued, the sly smile returning, "Charles has insisted that I have dinner with him this evening. The price I have to pay for him to pick these up for you."

"Yes, ma'am," Amanda managed.

"Still, I will be home by eight so we can have our tea in the library."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And this should give you plenty of time to get the rest of the furniture polished, as well."

"I will."

"I know you will," Barbara said, her face softening for a moment before it again froze in a mask.

Without another word, she turned and left.

Amanda paused, watching her go. After a moment, she zipped up her slacks and went back to her duties, her thoughts a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and questions.

Three hours later, she had still found no answers.

* * * * *

Clarice Talbott answered her door, surprised.

"I didn't expect you this weekend."

"I know. Sorry. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing."

She gave a wan smile before stepping aside.

"He's over at a friend's house," she said.

"Suspected as much."

She tilted her head, her eyes questioning, then said, "It's her, isn't it. Your . . . Barbara."

The nod was barely perceptible. "I think she's having a total breakdown. If she hasn't had one already, that is."

"When's the last time you saw her?"

"Couple months back."

"You can't keep hiding from her. You know that, right? You've got to deal with this sooner or later, and it's only going to get worse."

"I think I've made some decisions," he said.

She waved him to the chair. At first, he fidgeted. Then he sat.

"You can talk to me," she said, settling into the love seat across from him.

"I don't really want to get you involved in this any more. You don't need this."

She smiled. A warm smile; a smile that put him at ease. "I'm doing a lot better now, Senator. Thanks to you. And to Mark and Sandy, too. None of this was your fault--what Stevie did to me--but you've all stepped to the plate in a pretty big way. It means a lot to Schuyler. He's a whole lot happier now than he's ever been, and I've been . . . well, that counselor you got me into has helped a lot. So if you need someone to talk to--and I'm pretty sure you do--then I want to help, okay?"

He nodded and then sagged with the burden of it all. "It's all pretty much pop psychology on my part. Mostly guesses and suppositions."

"So what do you think is going on?"

He looked at her, hesitated as he thought about how to put this softly, then just went ahead and said it. "I think she's regressing back to when Ste-- " he started, then caught himself and went on, "back to when our son was killed. I think she snapped and can't admit it ever really happened. That's why she did everything she could to get back at you. I'm sorry, but I think she blamed you at first, and then did everything to put you out of her thoughts because it was just a reminder that he was gone."

Clarice's lips tightened in anger when he mentioned Barbara blaming Stevie's death on her, and he could see her struggling to maintain her calm.

"I didn't say it was logical," Roberts said. "It's not. None of it. I'm just saying that I think that's what's going on here."

Then his eyes narrowed as he noticed Clarice, as if for the first time. After speaking with Truelson, it all suddenly made sense, and none of it made sense.

"Your hair," he said.

She looked perplexed. "It's . . . I've started letting it grow out. Robbie, my counselor, says I need to move on and get my life back."

"And you've put on a few pounds."

She smiled. "It's not polite to discuss my weight."

He shook his head. "It's not that. Yeah, you needed it. To put on a few pounds, that is. No, it's what you look like now."

"And what's that?"

"Sandy," he said.

Then he spent the next ten minutes telling her in detail about his conversation with Truelson and his recent history with his wife.

When he was finished, Clarice could only say, "She's fucking nuts. Totally. Fucking. Nuts."

Roberts flinched, having never heard such words pass Clarice's lips. Then he could only nod, agreeing with her, but pondering the new thoughts now tumbling into his brain.

Was Barbara hiring maids who reminded her of Sandy, so she could pretend it had all never happened and Sandy was still a part of their lives?

Worse, the one that made him shudder in fear, he wondered if Barbara was hiring girls who looked like Clarice and was thus using them as surrogates to punish in place of Clarice, the poor girl on whom she laid all of the blame for Stevie's death?

"I've got to talk to Mark," he said, his lips tight.

Clarice's lips tightened. "I'm still not too sure he's ready to have any meaningful contact, David."

"You've got to try," he begged her. "Please."

She bit her lip, then stood and disappeared into the kitchen. He heard her talking on the phone, but couldn't make out the words. When she came back into the room, her face betrayed nothing.

"He's not home yet. Sandy said she'd try to get back to me."

"Will she talk to me? Sandy?"

Clarice shook her head. "She doesn't want to do anything that will betray Mark. Not even remotely."

Seeing the look of panic on his face, she came over and kneeled next to him, putting her hand on his forearm. "You need to understand how tough it's been on them," she said, her eyes begging with him to understand. "Both of them. It hasn't been all sunshine and roses. They've had some real rocky patches since she came up here. They're settling down now, especially since she got pregnant, but there are still times when it's difficult."

"How so?"

She looked at him, her face full of conflict on how much to say. "I can only say that there are still some real issues there. Sandy has to tread real carefully or Mark can fly off the handle."