Chapter 25 Mrs. Smith
Mrs. Smith
Mrs. Smith studied herself in the mirror with satisfaction. She looked like an older, sultrier version of the Brooke Shields
girl.
Most of the men at the cocktail party would want her, but she was only interested in the most virile specimens. Tonight, she
would have sex with several partners, hoping that a little sperm competition would fire up her anatomy.
She found her first partner while crossing the parking lot.
“Hot damn!” cried the valet as she passed by.
She paused to look him over. He was young, barrel-chested, and hairy. She spun in a slow circle. “Do you like what you see?”
He clutched his chest and said, “Lady, you must be a parking ticket because you have fine written all over you.”
Mrs. Smith gestured at the valet booth. “Is there enough room in there for two?”
“If we stand real close.”
She brushed her fingertips over the crotch of his black polyester pants. “How close?”
Within minutes, she was straddling the hairy young man.
As she rode him, she closed her eyes and imagined tearing him apart with her teeth.
When he came, he twisted her nipple like it was a radio dial.
She waited until he’d released his seed before leaning forward and biting his ear hard enough to draw blood.
He shoved her off his lap. “Ow! What the fuck, lady?”
Mrs. Smith licked her lips. The man’s blood stirred her hunger, but she was not here to feed. It was time to find another
partner.
“Crazy bitch!” the valet shouted as she walked away.
She strode through the front door and approached the banquet room, wishing she could tune out the raised voices and peals
of laughter.
She was over an hour late, which meant her neighbors were probably on their second or third cocktails. Here in their private
club, with its leather chairs and trophy cases, their defenses would be lowered. All Mrs. Smith had to do was pick a man and
get him to meet her in an empty room. As long as that man kept his mouth shut, she could continue luring partners to the same
space for the rest of the evening.
She was walking down the hall behind a tall, broad-shouldered man when he suddenly ducked into the coatroom. Taking note of
his thick legs and big hands, she followed him.
The man had his back to her. As she closed and locked the door, he continued rifling through a cardboard box. Grunting in
frustration, he tossed the box on the floor and began digging through another box.
“Goddammit,” he muttered.
Mrs. Smith said, “Lose something?”
The man cried out in surprise and swung around. He opened his mouth to berate her for sneaking up on him, but his jaw went
slack.
“I’ve been watching you,” she said, pointing a red nail at his chest.
His gaze probed every inch of her body. His eyes shone with lust. His face clouded in confusion. “Do I, uh, coach your kid? Mrs. . . . ?”
“Smith.”
He was taken aback. “Is Kirsten your daughter?”
Mrs. Smith walked her fingertips down her neck to her collarbone. “As much as I love children, I don’t have any of my own.”
“But you’ve been watching me?” The man shoved his left hand in his pocket in a lame attempt to hide his wedding band. “I’m
Coach Patrick.”
“Patrick.” His name was a reverent whisper on her lips. “Could you help me? I lost an earring. A round, lush pearl. I could
go down on my hands and knees to look for it—” she slowly ran her hands over her dress, lingering on the fabric covering her
breasts “—but this is so tight. It might tear right down the middle.”
The man’s eyes widened. The tip of his tongue probed the corner of his mouth. A pulse danced on his neck.
“There’s no need to speak.” She pressed the tip of a nail against his lips. “I followed you in here because I want you.” She
withdrew her hand and put the same nail in her mouth, biting down on it as she stared at him, her dark eyes daring him to
make a move.
“I—I can’t,” he stammered.
Mrs. Smith tucked a finger under the shoulder strap of her dress and eased it over and down. She pushed the strap lower and
lower until the swell of her right breast was exposed. She leaned back until her nipples strained against the blue silk. Even
in the dim light, the man could see how they begged for his touch.
An animalistic groan rose from his throat.
He tugged at the top of Mrs. Smith’s dress, freeing her perfect breasts. His mouth was suddenly everywhere. He licked and bit her. He sucked on her. Drooled on her.
When she couldn’t stand his fruitless pawing anymore, Mrs. Smith shoved him away and told him to take off his pants. While
he unbuckled and unzipped, she bent over the table.
Glancing at him over her shoulder, she commanded, “Don’t be gentle. I want you to take me. Prove to me that you’re in charge.”
This seemed to release something primal in the man—an atavistic, biological need to dominate.
Digging his fingers into her hips, he thrust himself inside of her. He rammed into her slowly at first. Then he picked up
speed. The table struck the wall with a forceful bam, bam, bam, but he didn’t stop. When he climaxed, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled so hard that a clump of black strands
came away in his hand.
He dropped the hair in revulsion and backed away from her.
While Mrs. Smith stood and began to adjust her dress, he growled, “This never happened. You got me? This never happened.”
Mrs. Smith retrieved a comb and a compact from her purse. Studying her reflection, she said, “It’s already forgotten.”
After he fled the room, she worked the tangles from her hair and reapplied her lipstick. After using powder to conceal the
bite marks on her neck and décolletage, she spritzed herself with perfume and stepped out of the coatroom just as Natalie
Scott exited the ladies’ room across the hall.
Mrs. Smith contorted her mouth into the semblance of a smile. “Hello, neighbor.”
Natalie let out a soft gasp. “Oh, my goodness! Are you Mrs. Smith?”
Mrs. Smith disliked shaking hands, so she performed a small bow instead. “One and the same.”
“It’s lovely to finally meet you,” the Natalie woman gushed. “I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it. You’re stunning. I can’t believe you ever had a skin condition.”
“How very kind.”
Natalie made a visible effort to stop gawking. “Did you just come in? If so, I can introduce you to everyone.”
“Perhaps not everyone. I am unaccustomed to crowds. My immediate neighbors will be enough for this evening.”
Natalie blushed. “Of course. I almost forgot that you’ve . . . kept to yourself for a long time. The Bernsteins are at the
bar. Let’s start with them.”
As she entered the room, Mrs. Smith saw heads turning her way. Men and women openly ogled her. And then the whispering began.
“Who is that?”
“Is she a model?”
“A movie star?”
“She has to be someone famous.”
“Look. Natalie is introducing her to the Bernsteins.”
“Figures. They’ve got more money than the rest of us put together.”
Mrs. Smith felt every eye on her as she ordered a Manhattan from the bartender.
“Do you have a bourbon preference?” he asked.
Mrs. Smith gave him a reproachful look. “I prefer rye.”
Benjamin nodded in approval. “Rye is what they used back in the day. Did you know that the cocktail you just ordered was invented
at the Manhattan Club in the 1870s at a party hosted by Jennie Churchill, Winston Churchill’s mother?”
Mrs. Smith shook her head. “Impossible. At the time of the party, which was thrown to honor presidential candidate Samuel Tilden, Jennie Churchill was in England, preparing to give birth to her famous son.”
“How do you know that?” asked Elaine.
“Having spent a good part of my life indoors has made me a voracious reader.” She smiled warmly at Elaine. “How is your son’s
d’var Torah coming along?”
Elaine lit up with delight. “You’re familiar with the bar mitzvah ceremony?”
Mrs. Smith dipped her chin. “I am. Such a sacred rite of passage should be celebrated on a large scale. I’m looking forward
to wishing your son mazel tov in person.”
“Just two weeks to go,” crooned Elaine.
Mrs. Smith took a delicate sip of her cocktail. Then she speared the cherry with the tip of the stirrer and held it between
her plump lips. The Scotts and Bernsteins were hypnotized by the sight of her mouth closing around the bright red cherry.
“How many guests will be in attendance?” she asked after swallowing the cherry whole.
“Over three hundred,” boasted Elaine. “We invited the whole synagogue, people from Benjamin’s company, Charles’s school, and
everyone on our street. We’re a tight-knit group on Tidewater Terrace, and we’re happy to welcome you into the fold.”
Natalie held up her glass. “I can’t raise a toast to you as Mrs. Smith. What’s your first name?”
“Mare.”
“Like the horse?” asked Jimmy. His face was alcohol-flushed, and he wore a lopsided grin. Natalie shot him a dirty look.
“As in Latin for ‘the sea,’” corrected Mrs. Smith.
The two couples raised their glasses to Mrs. Smith.
Elaine put her empty glass on the bar and was about to speak again when her attention was suddenly diverted. Her smile slipped
and she turned to Natalie and whispered, “Don and Beth just walked in.”
“Uh-oh.” Natalie grabbed her husband by the arm. “Quick. Buy Don a drink and take him to the lounge.”
“Why?”
“Please, Jimmy. Just do it.”
While Jimmy ordered a whiskey neat, Benjamin gave his wife a puzzled look. “What’s going on?”
“Tsuris. Natalie and I will handle it.” Elaine put a hand to her heart. “Excuse us, Mare.”
The women hurried away, leaving Mrs. Smith alone with Benjamin Bernstein. Unlike most men, he was unaffected by her beauty.
He is used to beauty, she thought. His wife is like a ghost jellyfish, ethereal and elegant, but lacking in substance. He yearns for something else.
“What kind of trouble?” she asked.
Benjamin gazed at her with renewed interest. “You know Yiddish?”
“I have a gift for languages and an aversion to crowds.” Mrs. Smith glanced around the room. “Is there a quiet corner where
we might sit?”
“Certainly. Let me show you.”
Benjamin led her away to a sitting area overlooking the harbor. Though Mrs. Smith had no interest in seducing this man, she
did want to extract information from him. After disarming him with questions about his business, she turned the topic back
to his son’s bar mitzvah.
“Are you looking forward to the party?”
“Am I looking forward to being crammed on a luxury power yacht with three hundred people?” He snorted. “No. But if it makes my son happy, that’s all that matters.”
Mrs. Smith pumped him for details for another ten minutes. When she was satisfied, she bid him a good night and left the party.
As soon as she reached the beach, she took off her heels and left them on the seawall. The sand was soft beneath her feet,
but she longed for the cool caress of water. Wading in up to her ankles, she headed for her boathouse.
She scanned the quiet harbor. Her children were out there, swimming under docks and boat hulls. She would rejoin them soon
enough.
“Hey!” a man shouted from behind her. “HEY!”
Mrs. Smith didn’t turn around. Recognizing Don Pulaski’s heavy breathing, she smiled to herself. She’d known he would follow.
Human men were all the same. When she wanted them, they were as pliable as warm wax. But when she was done with them, they
turned combative. Their lust morphed into a different breed of desire. A simmering, heated rage.
This is why she wasn’t surprised when Don’s hand closed around her arm and he yanked her out of the water. He smelled of booze,
sweat, and cigars. His tie hung loose. There was a red stain on his white shirt. Fury danced in his eyes.
Grabbing her other arm, he shook her like she was a rabbit in a hound’s mouth. “Did you fuck the valet?”
She gazed at him flatly. “Yes.”
“Whore,” he spat.
She found his anger amusing. “I don’t belong to you. I belong only to myself.”
“But why him?” His fingers burrowed into her arms. “He’s a total loser.”
“You’re all the same to me.”
His face clouded with anger. He cupped her jaw and squeezed. “Fucking whore.”
Her hand whipped through the air, striking Don’s cheek with such force that his head rocked back.
The slap echoed over the surface of the water. In the distance, there was a splash. Then another. And another. Her children
were close. They’d sensed her hunger. The possibility of violence.
Mrs. Smith needed to couple with another man tonight. A virile man. If she wanted a better performance than Don Pulaski had
delivered thus far, she needed to bring out his baser self.
Don grunted, sounding more pig than man, and slapped her back.
The blow sent her careening to the ground. She fell on a patch of broken shells, which sliced through her silk dress and the
skin on her lower back with the precision of a scalpel.
Her mouth curved into a smug grin. And then, Don was on her.
He tore the bottom of her dress and shoved his body between her thighs. His hand searched for a pair of nonexistent panties.
When he hesitated, Mrs. Smith worried that he might walk away, so she punched him in the chest. He caught her hand and pinned
it over her head. Eyes blazing, he pushed her dress high up on her belly and penetrated her.
She laughed softly, stoking his ire, and he responded by wrapping his hands around her throat.
By the time he came, Mrs. Smith’s crimson face was flecked with spittle. Her back was bleeding. Her arms and neck were a garden
of blooming bruises.
She leveled a dangerous look at Don.
“You have served your purpose,” she said, lying in the sand with her pelvis tilted toward the night sky. “Do not come near me again. Disobey me, and I will cause you more pain than you’ve ever known.”
Don looked into her black eyes and blanched. Suddenly disorientated, he fumbled with his pants and lurched across the sand.
When he was gone, Mrs. Smith peeled off her ruined dress and walked into the water.
Her children surged forward and wound themselves around her legs and torso. The blood from the cut on her back excited them.
They thrashed from side to side. Their mouths opened to drink in the metallic taste in the water. When it finally dissipated,
they grew calmer. They swam languidly, weaving in between her legs, stroking her flesh with their flesh.
She ducked under the surface, her hair spreading out like a spiderweb.
Suddenly, a spark ignited in her human womb. Warmth spread over the center of her torso.
Bathed in diaphanous moonlight, the Mother of Eels glowed with power and possibility.
She was ready to create life.
In two weeks, when the same moon was little more than a scythe blade, she would attend the man-child’s party. She would eat
her fill of Pure Ones, swim to her secret cave, and tear herself in two.
She closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation of eel skin against her naked body.
My children. It’s almost time to feast.