Black and Blue Ivy

Blue Christmas

I dreamed of Morningstar being led down a long prison corridor, her orange jumpsuit clashing with the garish, green colored walls. I heard the sounds of rattling chains, a door echoing shut with a metallic clank. When I awoke alone in the king sized bed, I glanced out the window facing an empty gray sky and for a minute I thought I had died. It wasn't heaven I found myself, or even hell, but a dull, off-white purgatory. Despite the ecstasy of the previous night, I found myself numb with sin. Or was it only my Catholic guilt rearing its ugly head? There was only one source that could assuage it.

"Bentley?" I sat up in the bed, folding back the white sheet and quilted comforter, still damp from our lovemaking. I was about to hop out of bed when Bentley entered from the living room. He was already up and dressed. Before I could utter, "good morning" his finger pressed against his lips. He was quietly talking on the phone—to Gardenia I guessed.

I sank back in the bed. The guilt pressed down on me again. I had lost my virginity, to Bentley, my stepbrother. It all seemed so surreal. I should have felt like a woman then, a grown-up, but I didn't. Not really. All I wanted was for Bentley to fold me in his arms, to tell me he loved me with as much fervor as he had the night before. Did that make me childish? Pathetic? Or did it make me a woman in love? The problem with being in love is that you need the other person to make you whole, and I didn't feel whole, not with my lover across the room, his hair damp from a shower talking to someone else. He caught my eye, smirked slightly, and turned to leave again. I didn't know how to interpret that smirk. Was he annoyed at Gardenia? Or me?

I pushed the covers aside and swung my feet out of the bed. When they landed on the soft carpet, I realized with a jolt that I was naked. I glanced down at my body. Had it miraculously changed after what had transpired the previous night? No, it was still the same body: small, not much upstairs, hips only slightly rounded, a flat stomach which was nice I guess, but still it wasn't a woman's body.

I spotted Bentley's rumpled white oxford shirt on a chair by the night table. He must have changed to one he found in the closet, one of Mr. Robinson's shirts perhaps. Suddenly I felt like an interloper, a cheap street hustler had Bentley picked up at the skate park for the price of a diner meal, except I didn't even get that, did I?

A whore just like your mother.

"No!" I leaped from the bed and covered my shame in Bentley's shirt. It was like a dress on me. As I padded across the carpet, I spotted myself in a full length mirror. Backlit by the gray morning light, I looked like a wraith with my shaggy hair and pale skin. Some sophisticated woman I was.

"Bentley?" I whispered, entering the open living room leading to the kitchen.

"Hey." He smiled at me from the far side of the kitchen island. The chunk of wood and marble blocked me from my love, my succor. He was making coffee in a French press, scowling slightly as he poured the steaming water into the glass carafe. His cell phone rested on the counter.

"Everything okay?" I asked. My voice sounded small in the high ceilinged kitchen, echoey.

He made a face in response. "You like cream and sugar in your coffee, don't you?"

"Sure. I guess." Why was he being so matter-of-fact. Didn't the world shift for him last night the way it had for me?

He prepared my coffee and slid the cup toward me. "Drink up and then get a shower. The roads should be clear by now."

I dumbly picked up the coffee and brought it to my lips. It was hot. Bitter. "Bentley, I—"

He had retreated to the far corner of the kitchen.

I set down the coffee and skirted around the kitchen island. "Bentley, what are you doing?"

He lifted his hand toward me as if warding off an evil spirit. "It's my fault, Ivy. I think it's better if we both pretend like last night never happened."

"Are you fucking serious?" My voice broke and I was close to tears.

I stood in front of him now so he couldn't avoid me.

His hand trembled slightly as he set down the coffee cup. When he saw I wasn't going anywhere, he sighed and then placed his hands on my shoulders. But his touch was that of a condescending older brother, not the lover who had caressed me so intimately just hours ago.

"Ivy, what I did..."

"What we did," I corrected.

He nodded. His mouth tightened. "What we did last night was wrong. I had no right to take advantage of you like that."

"But you didn't!" I insisted over the growing lump in my throat. "I wanted it as much as you did."

Another sigh. "I know." He shoved me aside, gently, but still it hurt. Everything about me hurt. He crossed the living room to the window. Glancing out at the snow-crusted day, he rubbed the spot between his eyes. "I blame myself. You're the innocent."

I was already standing behind him. "Not anymore." I ringed my arms around his waist from behind. Laying my cheek against his back, I melted into him. His pine scent, his intoxicating masculine essence made my knees weaken. I held onto him for dear life.

He wheeled on me and his violence shook me. "Cut it out!" he shouted. Shoving me aside, harder this time, he charged into the bedroom. I followed him.

"Get in that shower, Ivy," he snarled as he tore the sheets from the bed. His lip curled in disgust. "Wash off everything that happened between us!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Hadn't he told me over and over again how much he loved me. Hadn't he whispered those words into my flesh when he explored every part of my body last night and I had opened to him with complete trust?

Suddenly, my face reddened with shame and rage. The old Kensington gal in me rose like a fiend. Who the hell was this rich asshole to treat me like that? He looked so ridiculous desperately changing the sheets like some wealthy crook trying to cover up his tracks.

"Fuck you then!" I shouted and wheeled toward the bathroom. I locked the door and set the shower on the hottest setting. I scrubbed and scrubbed with the expensive soap I found in the shower and washed my hair two times, three times.

I'll wash away last night, Bentley Robinson, or whatever the hell your real name is. I'll wash you out of my life forever!

The drive home was absolutely silent. Bentley didn't even play his usual classical musical. Once, when I couldn't stop myself from shooting a glance at him I observed him staring straight ahead, biting hard on his lower lip till it was white. Whatever thoughts tortured him, the guilt and regret, couldn't compare in the least to what I was going to, the agony of rejection, the shame of giving myself to someone who obviously cared nothing for me.

When we passed the Luther Black billboard, it seemed like his coal black eyes glared at me with contempt. His smile was a diabolical sneer.

A whore just like your mother.

I began to cry uncontrollably.

"Ivy, for chrissakes," Bentley muttered under his breath. He was the grown-up, I the child. "We're already in trouble for staying out all night." He reached out and glanced his fingers off my knees.

"Oh," I blubbered, "you're not afraid to touch me now."

Another prolonged sigh from Bentley. "We'll talk about it later. We just need to get back home and act like nothing happened, especially today."

"What's so special about today?" I snapped through my tears.

"Because it's Christmas day, that's why." He turned toward me and attempted to smile.

"Oh," I turned away to glance out the window and searched the sky for something marking the day as something special, something sacred. But only a cold slate blue sky stared back at me. "I'd completely forgotten about Christmas."