Lili of the Valley of the Shadow MP3
Read by Alex Greenhalgh - full podcast here.
The woman at the store assured him there was nothing to be ashamed of. He was almost fourteen and it was natural that he would be exploring these things. That she was dressed in a leather harness with studded choke collar didn’t prove as distracting as the pale curves and bulges of her barely covered skin. She wrapped his purchase in a black satin bag. It just fit in his backpack.
“Don’t worry about the sign. You can come anytime.” She patted him on the head and he was almost comforted. “No judgements here.” It was the glimpse of her nipple that sent him running for the door.
“Make sure to wash your hand when you’re done,” a smartass called after him, holding out one partially clenched fist as Exhibit A. More laughter from the room. He was glad they couldn’t see his face color from the innuendo. It wasn’t far from the truth.
*
The winter dusk was already approaching when he walked past St. Agnes’s on his way home. He paused beneath the stone sentinel that stood watch over the street. She looked so young; barely older than he was. The lamb she held in one arm had its nose nestled against her neck. The other arm was crossed over in protection. Her lips drew his attention. They were parted just wide enough to whisper. His body seized up and his mouth went dry. He was imagining other possibilities for those lips.
“Can I help you, son?”
The boy span around. A glance at the man’s collar identified him as a priest. He gestured to the steps that led up to the narthex of the church. “Would you like to come in and talk?”
It was warm inside and the boy followed in a daze. They walked past wooden pews with red cushioned seats. The light through the stained glass made him dizzy. They turned before they reached the altar and the body that hung on a cross. The boy was relieved.
He was seated in a chair that made him feel very small, in front of a desk that made the priest seem very big. The man was smiling patiently but the boy had no idea what to say.
“I haven’t seen you before,” the priest finally suggested.
He shook his head.
“Do you go to another church?”
Another head shake. His mother had tried a few times when he was younger but nothing ever stuck.
“But you had a question?”
He cleared his throat and tried to sit up straighter. “Yeah, well, I was just wondering ...”
The priest nodded his encouragement.
“I know, I mean, I’ve read that people in your, uh, profession, well, that you don’t, like, you know... sleep with women and stuff.”
To his credit, the priest’s eyes widened only slightly. “Yes, I’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”
“Okay,” he frowned with discomfort. “Well, I guess I was just wondering if you had any advice about, you know, the best way to keep a handle on that.”
“A handle?”
“Yeah, well, maybe any special ways you have to deal with...” His mind was performing acrobatics, trying to land on a clear but acceptable term. “With urges.”
The priest nodded his head as if to suggest he understood. “When my mind wants to take me to a place I know I shouldn’t be, that is when I pray the hardest.”
“And it works?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Always?”
The priest shifted in his seat. He spoke of absolution and grace for man’s fallen nature. He spoke of the one true love that existed through Christ’s sacrifice. To the boy the answers didn’t seem entirely related to the question. After another few awkward minutes he excused himself, but not before the priest invited him back anytime.
“No judgments here,” the man promised.
The boy arched his eyebrow.
“He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone.” The quote followed the boy down the sidewalk. He held onto it against the dark and the cold.
*
His mother was at the kitchen counter when he got home, preparing dinner. He went straight to his room, extracting the satin bag from his backpack and depositing it beneath the bed, before returning to seat himself at the kitchen table.
“Have a good day?” his mother asked. She looked more tired than usual.
“All right.”
“Cold out there, huh?”
He nodded.
She placed a baked potato in front of him. “Wanna talk about it?”
He shook his head. He stared at the potato. Split down the middle and dripping with cream, the food immediately piqued his imagination. His appetite fled and he asked to be excused.
“If you want,” his mother nodded, already starting on the dishes.
His back against his bedroom door, he held the handle half-closed to dull the sound of the lock clicking into place. The room’s only window faced a brick wall. He closed the curtains anyway. The lamp at his desk lent the space a subdued glow. He went down on his knees next to the bed and placed his elbows atop the Star Wars bedspread.
“I, uh, I’m not really sure how this is supposed to go.” He spoke cautiously, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Thy kingdom come and all that. I guess I’m just looking for some help keeping things together. I mean, I gotta think you made me this way for a reason, right?”
His eyes wandered as he awaited an answer. They found the image of Princess Leia on his blanket. She was dressed in Jabba the Hutt’s dungeon garb from Return of the Jedi; the ornate bronze swirls of the bikini top clutched her breasts. He closed his eyes.
“C’mon. Work with me here.” He tried to reposition himself and his knee jabbed into something under the bed. He plunged one hand under the mattress and felt satin. With a defeated sigh he brought the black bag out and placed it on the bed in front of him. “Damn it.”
He pulled off the satin to expose a folio sized book. He pressed the cloth against his lips and nose. It still had the musty sweetness of the store. The image on the cover was black and white. There was a striking woman caught in a spotlight, naked, with one long leg extended at an angle to the side. One arm crossed over to cover her breasts and the other held an oversized fan, strategically eclipsing an unseen limb and the space where her two legs spread apart. It was erotic but tasteful. The name of the book was printed in stylish white script across the blade of the fan: “Goddess of the Striptease: Lili St. Cyr”.
His finger traced the near perfect line of that leg. Starting from the neatly curled toes, he slid past the smooth glow of the shin, the symmetric taper of the knee, the confident flex of the thigh. He stopped just shy of that place left imagined, the promising area forbidden by the fan. Of all the books, toys, and magazines the woman had showed him, this was the one that had stuck.
“I get it, you like it classy.” Her conspiring wink had made him swallow hard.
Now he opened the book to the place she had marked for him with a purple cats-eye mask. He turned the image sideways to orient the two-page spread. It was a picture of Lili St. Cyr seated next to a bare, silvered tree, her skin a pale glow atop the black background. She reclined on one arm, while the other held an antique ukelin across her abdomen and chest. The narrow instrument highlighted more than covered, and the rounded sound-hole was nestled between her open thighs, exactly where a more delicate orifice might have been expected. One leg bent at the knee and rested comfortably below. The other leg was thrust up in a vertical line where it followed the trunk of the small tree, entangling the calf and heel within smooth branches. The woman’s hair was a liquid gold and her bright red lips were full and parted just slightly. Her eyes were lost in the distance.
As many stimulants as the pin-up contained, it was the leg that kept drawing his attention. The way the wood seemed to clutch at her ankle, as dry and blanched as bone. The darkening of her toes, which was either shadow or a trace of the dirty floor she had recently walked. Perhaps it followed from his recent talk with the priest but he couldn’t escape the sense that this was the image of Eve being beguiled, and captured, by the tree of knowledge. The fruit was hidden. The serpent was missing but implied. He felt it twitch to life against his thigh.
“Help me.” His throat was thick and his voice hoarse. Lili did not respond. Neither did his maker. “I don’t want to be bad.” She looked so good. He closed his eyes and thought he could feel the smooth skin of the barren tree against his palm. He whispered to her then; he promised his true love and devotion. And, at least for that night, he belonged to Lili St. Cyr.
(c) Derek Ivan Webster, 2019
Raised in an Alaskan fishing village, educated at Yale University, Derek Ivan Webster can appreciate a good contrast. When not shepherding students seeking creative careers, Derek is enrolled in the MFA creative writing program at Fairfield University. His wife and children keep him sane. More at ivanhope.com/blog.
Alex Greenhalgh graduated from Drama Centre in 2014 and his credits include The Comedy of Errors (Thelma Holt Tour), The Cause (Jermyn Street Theatre) Catastrophists (White Bear Theatre) and NewsRevue (Canal Café Theatre). He has narrated many titles for the RNIB including Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs.
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