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Beautiful Monster

Sam G. Martin

    The airmen in the barracks frequently fielded calls from strange girls. One would prove strange, indeed.
    “Joe’s pool parlor, Eightball speaking.”
    There was silence, then a laugh.
    “Is Jake there?”
    “Who?”
    “Jake Kraker.”
    He knew immediately she had a hidden agenda, but he only thought he knew what it was.
    “He ain’t here. But I am.”
    “Silly. I know you’re there.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Mercy-Grace. With a hyphen.”
    She neither laughed, nor reacted to his.
    “What’s yours?”
    “Sam.”
    “Ah. Samael.”
    “No. Samuel. Want to get together?”
    “You’re fast!”
    “Well, the telephone is a rapid means of communication.”
    This exchange, they both laughed, a little.
    “But it’s not the only one.” she countered. Her voice had grown soft and sleek.
    “Or the best one.” he added, to encourage that voice. But she didn’t respond.
    “Come on. Let’s get together.”
    “Tonight?”
    “Now who’s fast?”
    “Tonight?”
    “Sure. You bet.”
    “But, Sam. What if I’m a monster?”
    “I’ll bet you’re not. I’ll bet you’re beautiful.” He soon learned there was more than one kind of ugly.
    It was a cold Sunday evening, late enough to be dark in the Northwest, but early enough for the young and clueless, so he agreed to meet her at the snack bar just inside the main gate. He beat her there because his bus trip was shorter. He sat near a window so he could watch her exit her bus. She was wearing a long coat and a scarf, and for a moment he was apprehensive.
    I could pretend not to be here.
    But he went outside to meet her. As soon as she saw him, she pulled off her scarf, to reveal her beautiful face and blonde hair.
    “Wow!”
    “Wow, yourself.” The telephone hadn’t changed her voice, like he’d been told it did his.
    “You look as beautiful as you sounded.”
    “You, more. I mean, you, too.”
    Inside, she removed her coat and revealed a matching, nearly matchless figure. They took the next bus to the barracks. On the other side of the perimeter fence just outside the barracks building were tall trees, bare, with whitish bark, and he imagined he heard a howl from there, and saw shadows without substance.
    “Wolf?!”
    “You are?” Her smile showed sweetly wicked.
    “No.” He drew out the word.
    They slipped into his room near the hall end door. He had learned some sweet words and ways.
    “Wait. You have something on your cheek. Ooh! It was a kiss. I had to get it off there.”
    She looked pleased.
    “Oops! There’s another one [at the corner of her mouth].”
    He progressed slowly, but steadily, kissing and uncovering, until they both occupied the one-man cot. She looked even more beautiful naked. Her skin shone white, her hair was the blonde-step before white, her eyes were bright-light blue. She showed curves in places where other girls didn’t even have places.
    He didn’t forget the most loving words he knew (natural to a potential procreator). Just at the moment of sweet surrender, he whispered,
    “You’re beautiful.”
    “I’m ugly.”
    “No, you’re beautiful.”
    He won the argument—temporarily.
    Afterwards, they rushed to dress, then hurried out to the bus stop, and after she got on, and in front of the driver and passengers, she suddenly beseeched,
    “Oh, Sam! Come home with me!”
    “I c-c-can’t. I gotta go to work tomorrow!”
    The door closed, the bus pulled away, and he walked back to his room, experiencing the least-thrilling anti-climax in the History-of-Let-Down.
    He couldn’t wait for her to call him again. He sought her out. She had told him approximately where she lived, so he rode shotgun and his roommate, Buddy, drove, while they searched and asked. They ended up on a gravel hill that looked like it had migrated from the Appalachians (to the western slope of the Rockies). Atop the hill stood an unpainted shack, from under which he expected to be rushed by a pack of hounds. Instead, a sullen-looking teenage boy strode out on the porch, after shutting the door behind him.
    “Whadda you wont?”
    “Is Mercy home?”
    “No.”
    “I’m Sam. She told me to visit her.”
    “She ain’t here.”
    Sam didn’t believe him, but the boy appeared intractable, so he and Buddy slid into the car quickly, slammed the doors, and drove away. At the bottom of the hill, the car hesitated, even shuddered briefly, not from mechanical deficiency, but because Buddy jumped slightly when he heard the howl, or yowl, from the direction of the cabin.
    “What was that?”
    “I don’t know. Sounded like hell.”
    Buddy shot him a quick glance: “What in hell was that whole thing?”
    “I don’t know.” She sounded a little like that in my room.
    But the pull was strong, and when he discovered she’d left her number in his mind, he called her. When he asked for Mercy-Grace, a familiar voice said,
    “She ain’t here.”
    “Who are you?”
    Silence.
    “Are you her brother?”
    “No.”
    “Are you her husband?”
    “No.”
    “Are you her father?”
    “No.”
    “Are you her mother?”
    “No.” (No change in tone.)
    He had swallowed all the negativity he could stomach, so he hung up, and semi-forgot her, for a while.
    One morning, on break from the squadron, he detected a non-stop buzz in the cafeteria.
    “What’s ever’body talkin’ about?” he asked Angela, a civil servant he’d agreed to meet there.
    “You didn’t hear?”
    “Hear what?”
    “The police found one of our airmen dead in a shack near here.”
    “What happened? What’d he do?”
    “Nothing. The paper said two witches were fighting over him.”
    Crazy Ray leaned over from the next table, and said,
    “Must be nice. Two women fightin’ over your body.”
    Angela turned and looked at him and said,
    “They were fighting over his soul.”
    At that, Sam felt his own soul start to leave his body. He jumped up.
    “I gotta go!”
    His new girl friend looked puzzled, almost startled.
    The next spring, Angela invited Sam to Green Mountain Resort. After an amble down the hill from civilization, she sat on the bank, removed her shoes and stockings, and dangled her feet in the Green River.
    “Do you mind?” she asked.
    “No. As long as you wash the germs downstream.”
    She smiled.
    Just then, he heard a thrashing in the brush across the narrow stream. His first thought upon seeing the emerging object—a bear!
    Angela jumped up and grabbed him, then winced in pain from her bare feet on the sharp rocks. She pleaded, putting her hand in front of Sam’s mesmerized face,
    “Sam! Don’t look!”
    As he brushed Angela’s hand away, the “bear” exposed itself—Mercy-Grace!— in a black robe and hood she shed in one motion. She’s grown darker!
    “Samael! Samael! Samael!” she chanted—or pleaded.
    Angela screamed. “She’s invoking Satan!”
    Not me! Not me!
    Walking backwards slowly, she disappeared quickly.
    Her robe and hood!
    He considered crossing over, but declined to, fearing what he might not find.
    As they were ascending the hill, Sam related, confessed his part in the story Angela was already familiar with.
    She appeared pensive.
    “Okay?” he asked.
    “Sure.” She tried to smile again. “Dirt washes downstream, too.”

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