Cory

Chapter. 8

Cory lay

(i am not afraid not afraid of her)

on his bed with an arm thrown over his eyes. It was Saturday night. If he was to make the suit he had in mind, he would have to start tomorrow at the

(i'm not afraid momma)

latest. He had already bought the material at John's in Westover. The heavy, crumpled velvet richness of it frightened him. The price had also frightened him, and he had been intimidated by the size of the place, the chic ladies wandering here and here in their light spring dresses, examining bolts of cloth. There was an echoing strangeness in the atmosphere and it was worlds from the Chamberlain Woolworth's where he usually bought his material.

He was intimidated but not stopped. Because, if he wanted to, he could send them all screaming into the streets. Mannequins toppling over, light fixtures failing, bolts of cloth shooting through the air in unwinding shelters. Like Samson in the temple, she could rain destruction on their heads if she so desired.

(i am not afraid)

The package was now hidden on a dry shelf in the cellar, and she was going to bring it up. Tonight.

He opened her eyes.

Flex.

The bureau rose into the air, trembled for a moment and then rose until it nearly touched the ceiling. He lowered it. Lifted it. Lowered it. Now the bed, complete with his weight. Up. Down. Up. Down. Just like an elevator.

He was hardly tired at all. Well, a little. Not much. The ability, almost lost two weeks ago, was in full flower. It had progressed at a speed that was

Well, almost terrifying.

And now, seemingly unbidden - like the knowledge of erections- a score of memories had come, as if some mental dam had been knocked down so that strange waters could gush forth. They were cloudy, distorted little-boy memories, but very real for all that. Making the pictures dance on the walls; turning on the water faucets from across the room; Momma asking her

(cory shut the windows it's going to rain)

to do something and windows suddenly banging down all over the house; giving Miss Macaferty four flat tyres all at once by unscrewing the valves in the tyres of her Volkswagen; the stones

(!!!!! no no no no no !!!!!!)

-but now there was no denying the memory, no more than there could be a denying of the monthly flow, and that memory was not cloudy, no, not that one; it was harsh and brilliant, like jagged strokes of lightning: the little boy

(momma stop momma can't i can't breathe o my throat o momma i'm sorry i looked momma o my tongue blood in my mouth)

the poor little boy

(screaming: little slut o i know how it is with you i see what has to be done)

the poor little boy lying half in the closet and half out of it, swing black stars dancing in front of everything, a sweet, faraway buzzing, swollen tongue lolling between his lips, throat circled with a bracelet of puffed, abraded flesh where Momma had throttled him and then Momma coming back, coming for him, Momma holding Daddy Ralph's long butcher knife

(cut it out i have to cut out the evil the nastiness sins of the flesh o i know about that the eyes cut out your eyes)

in her right hand, Momma's face twisted and working, drool on her thin, holding Daddy Ralph's Bible in her other hand

(you'll never look at that naked wickedness again)

and something flexed, not flex but FLEX, something huge and unformed and titanic, a wellspring of power that was not his now and never would be again and then something fell on the roof and Momma screamed and dropped Daddy Ralph's Bible and that was good, and then more bumps and thumps and then the house began to throw its furnishings around and Momma dropped the knife and got on her knees and began to pray, holding up her hands and swaying on her knees while chairs whistled down the hall and the beds upstairs fell over and the dining room table tried to jam itself through a window and then momma's eyes growing huge and crazed, bulging, her finger pointing at the little boy

(it's you it's you devilspawn witch imp of the devil it's you doing it)

and then the stones and Momma had fainted as their roof cracked and thumped as if with the footfalls of God and then...

Then he had fainted himself. And after that there were no more memories. Momma did not speak of it. The butcher knife was back in its drawer. Momma dressed the huge black and blue bruises on her neck and Cory thought she could remember asking Momma how he had gotten them and Momma tightening her lips and saying nothing. Little by little it was forgotten. The eye of memory opened only in dreams. The pictures no longer danced on the walls. The windows did not shut themselves. Cory did not remember a time when things had been different. Not until now.