DOMINION by Bentley Little (best chinese ebook reader .txt) 📕

What was going on here?

“Don’t use any contraceptives,” Mother Felice said kindly.

Mother Margeaux and Mother Sheila nodded in agreement.

Mother Margeaux smiled. “Invite him over,” she said. “We want you to invite him over for dinner tomorrow. We haven’t really had a chance to meet him.”

She glanced from mother to mother, confused. One moment they were being totally crazy, the next they were behaving like typical concerned parents. She shook her head in disbelief. “Is this some kind of test or what?”

“Test?” Mother Margeaux laughed. “Heavens, no. And we don’t mean to put any pressure on you. But, as you know, we have brought you up in an atmosphere of complete honesty and openness, and we just want to state our position at the outset. I’m sure you will agree that acknowledgement of the reality of this situation is preferable to the clandestine deceit and denial practiced by most families. You are now a woman, faced with a woman’s choices, and we recognize that fact.”

“It’s big.” Mother Janine grinned. “His cock is big.”

“Janine!” Mother Margeaux shot her a withering glance which wiped the smile from her face. She turned back toward Penelope.

“Will you ask him to dinner?”

She nodded, still too stunned to know how to react. “I’ll ask him. I don’t know if he’ll say yes.”

“He will.”

They were all silent for a moment, looking at one another.

Penelope stood. “Is that all?”

“Yes. You may go to bed.”

She left the room and started up the stairs. Halfway up, she heard Mother Janine’s off-center giggle. A moment later, they were all laughing hysterically.

Even Mother Felice.

24

The house was dark when Horton arrived home. The bulb in the living room lamp attached to the timer had obviously burned out. He braille-scanned the metal contents of his key ring on the stoop of the unlit porch, feeling for the smooth roundness of the house key. He found it next to the blocky squareness of the key to his long-discarded Thunderbird, and he used it to open the door, automatically flipping on the light switch as he walked inside.

The house smelled old and closed, of dust and dirty clothes, of previous meals. He walked across the dark shag carpet of the living room. Though the light was on, there was still a dimness about the room, a yellowed hint of shadow which stubbornly fended off all attempts at cheerfulness.

It looked, he thought, like what it was. The home of a bachelor. Despite the fact that the rooms had been decorated by his ex-wife, that initial woman’s touch had not been updated, refreshed or renewed, and an air of lonely maleness hung over the house. Last night’s can of Coors sat in a dried ring of condensation on the crowded coffee table next to a pile of newspapers, a stack of half opened junk mail, and an empty potato chip bag. Yesterday’s socks were balled up at the foot of the couch. The only sound in the house was the muted hum of the electric clock on the cluttered knickknack shelf above the hi-fi, and he quickly turned on the television, grateful for the noise and companionship it offered. His gaze fell upon the framed family photograph atop the TV, and as always his eyes scanned over it without looking.

He walked into the kitchen. Taking a frozen burrito out of the freezer, he slit the plastic wrapping and popped it into the microwave. He grabbed a beer from the fridge.

Sometimes he wished he didn’t have to eat or sleep. Sometimes he wished he could work nonstop. He hated his job, but truth be told, he hated his time off even more. At least when he was working his mind was kept busy, he had something to think about besides his own life.

He downed the beer in three quick swallows, but he found that it wasn’t enough. He needed something stronger.

The microwave timer rang, and he took out his burrito, dropping it on a plate and pulling off the wrapper. He opened the cupboard above the refrigerator alcove and withdrew a bottle of scotch. He thought of getting out a glass, but decided against it. He didn’t need another glass to wash.

He sat down, ate a bite of burrito, drank a swig of scotch.

The burrito and the bottle were finished at almost the same time.

25

In the light of morning, with an all-news station reciting a litany of last night’s events on the radio, with the smell of fresh coffee permeating the kitchen, the idea that his mom could have been involved in someone’s death seemed not only far-fetched but ludicrous. He stood in the doorway, watching for a moment as his mom, her back to him, stood at the counter, spreading cream cheese on toast. If she had killed that man, he realized, she would have had to have done so between two o’clock, the time he’d met the man in the hall, and six o’clock, the time she’d come down for breakfast. She would have had to have done so without making a noise, and to have disposed of the body just as silently.

He was thankful that his suspicions had faded. If he had still suspected his mom, he would not have known what to do. Would he have turned her in? Told the police anonymously? Confronted her? Done nothing? He did not know.

His mom either heard him or sensed his presence, for she turned around.

There were dark hangover circles around her eyes. She tried to smile at him but only partially succeeded. “I’m sorry about last night,” she said. She would not meet his eyes.

He nodded silently, equally embarrassed, and busied himself looking through the refrigerator for orange juice.

“I went out with Margaret and Janine and a few other friends after work, and I guess I had more to drink than I thought.”

He frowned. Hadn’t she seen the newspaper? He glanced over at her. She appeared chastened, ashamed, but not to the extent that he would have expected. He cleared his throat. “That