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Back Black Ambrosia Save as PDF
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

“And I wasn’t surprised when those sexual things kept going on with me, night after night, and all the time those terrible things were happening in Wilton, all the doors were locked and everybody was so afraid . . . I began to wonder about myself I thought maybe I was just discovering that I was, you know, one of those kinds of people who get turned on by grisly neighborhood murders . . .

“Anyway, I was so scared that I pretended it wasn’t true. I wanted to believe I imagined it—I would rather believe I was perverted than to really think that the murderer was in my basement, so I never said anything to anybody.

“Some mother, huh?

“Oh God, the worst is that I thought if I said something to somebody, it would be over, and somewhere deep inside myself, I didn’t want it to stop. I thought, being middle-aged and having two kids, that sex was kind of over, well, not really over, but not what it used to be, and this was so . . . tender, almost. Loving. I was afraid and reassured at the same time. Sounds weird when I say it.

“So you see, I barely gave a thought to what could possibly happen to Will, or . . . or Amy . . . God, I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

34

34

When my eyes opened and consciousness wavered for the briefest of moments, then slid into focus, clear and serene, I had the answer to my difficulties.

Children. Sweet, innocent children. They smelled so fresh; they would taste tender, rich, soft, unspoiled. Children had not poisoned their bodies with drugs and chemicals; they had not hardened their hearts against the travesties of life; their lives had been brief, their aspirations limited. I could live with the knowledge and consciousness of children—I could live with the optimism of children—far better than I could live with the bitter draught of adult memories.

And two perfect children lived right up the stairs. My nest egg, my reserve.

The house above was full of activity. The floorboards over my head squeaked as footsteps traversed them, and I tuned in and recognized the vibrations of voice. The evening was young—dinner preparations were in the making. Someone could hear me, or see me as I left the cellar. Must I wait until they bed down? I looked around the dismal cellar. I could not.