PASSION PLAY

by J. Michael Reaves

J. Michael Reaves is a native Californian now in his early twenties; in 1972 he traveled to Michigan State University to attend the Clarion-East sf writers’ workshop, sold his first story to Clarion III and used the money to buy a typewriter. Judging from the following sharply etched tale of a girl taking advantage of a strange talent (his second sale), I expect his investment will prove to be a boon for lovers of science fiction.

* * * *

The hitch-hiker was barely visible far ahead, a stick figure where the road joined the flat gray horizon. The dust that clung like dry paint to the windshield and the heat waves from the black asphalt blurred Sherry’s vision. But still she felt certain it was a “he.”

The knowing made her smile—the lovely feeling of knowing she would be right.

She half listened to Ellis’ voice droning just above the rattling clatter of the old truck’s engine, telling her interesting things about animal life that she had no desire to hear. Ellis would stop for the hitch-hiker if she wanted him to. She smoothed her hair back, fingers sliding over the blond tangles slick with sweat, and wondered, Would it be worth stopping?

Yes.

“Stop for him,” she said, leaning over close to his ear. It was the sort of command best delivered in a husky tone, breathed just above a whisper. But the ‘62 Chevy pickup forced conversation to be carried on in shouts. Sherry refused to bellow, and so she leaned close to Ellis’ ear, rubbing the tips of her fingers over the back of his neck, feeling sweat and dust like a thin layer of mud. An eighth of an inch behind her smiling face, she shuddered in pure disgust. No ripple of it showed on the surface.

“Stop for him, Ellis.”

His foot began pumping the worn-out brakes in time to the rubbing of his neck.

She was almost able to see the pink dot of his face as he walked slowly backward down the highway. To not even see his face, and to know that it would be worthwhile to stop, she thought. A lovely, lovely feeling.

Ellis didn’t believe in feminine intuition, in Sight. He would grumble and curse, but he would stop. It was good to let him have some resentment left. It kept him thinking that the decisions were still his.

But instead of protesting, Ellis merely said, “Wonder where in hell he came from. Man’d die after a few hours in this heat without a car.”

The truck lurched onto the shoulder in front of the hitch-hiker.

The way he walked, Sherry thought, watching him as he approached the truck. There was such an easiness to it. It made her think of—

“At least he’s not a nigra,” she said.

—John Frank, the black man they had hired to fix the roof last fall.

And then he was opening the door and sliding in, fast, because Ellis’ heavy boot was on the gas pedal, sending the truck back onto the road again. The rattle of gravel and sand against the frame died away, and Sherry looked at the hitch-hiker.

She felt again the satisfaction of being right. She had known he would be different.

And so he was.

His face was tanned and unwrinkled—baby-smooth, and yet lean. She watched him settle back against the seat, relaxing against the plastic covering. His hair was black and short, almost furlike. There was no trace of a beard.

And he was not sweating.

She looked at his face, dry and still in the whistling hot wind. His eyes were closed, but she would see their color soon.

Different, she thought. How different . . . no, she told herself. Don’t look too long, or you’ll find out too soon. She wanted to be intrigued awhile longer. It had been so long since she had been interested in anybody.

She looked at his hands, pale and slim, with tapering fingers. Lucille Ballentine’s hands had looked like that.

What happened, mister?” Sherry snapped her head around in surprise, saw Ellis looking across her at him. Sitting next to Ellis, she could smell the animal odor of his shirt, could see the yellow circles under his arms. Ellis had been driving for almost eight hours. Sherry almost wrinkled her nose in distaste; almost, but not quite.

“My car broke down.” His voice was quiet, and right in the middle; a neutral tone.

Sherry expected Ellis to say that they hadn’t passed any abandoned cars. Instead he simply said, “That happens.”

She sat between them, feeling the contrast, feeling repugnance push her away from Ellis, from his grimy clothes and damp skin, toward the hitch-hiker. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Kyle.” He hadn’t looked at her once—she still did not know what color his eyes were. If she moved another quarter inch, she would be touching him ...

Not yet. She was still enjoying the mystery too much. To touch him would be to absorb more knowledge, just to brush against him would tell her what she didn’t want to know so soon.

Ellis had resumed his lecture, which had started on desert life and progressed to animals in general, reciting scraps of knowledge remembered from old Reader’s Digest articles. One large hand gripped the steering wheel while he talked; the other rested on the door. The sun had tanned that arm darker than its mate during the three days he had been driving.

“You take your reptiles, your snakes and lizards,” he said. “Protective coloration—they look just like the dirt they crawl around in. There’s some can even change their color to match their background. That’s how they stay alive, y’know. Or some attach themselves up with the dominant life-form in the neighborhood, like those birds that live on rhinoceroses. It’s called a defense mechanism.”

“Ellis,” Sherry said, looking at him wearily. “We’re not interested.” Ellis grunted, and changed the subject, flashing an irritated glance her way. The look surprised her—usually that tone of voice forbade any resentment on his part.

“Bad place to have a breakdown,” Ellis continued. “Gets up to a hundred-twenty in the shade this time of year. That’s killing weather.”

And Kyle’s skin was so smooth, and dry—and pale. Sherry looked from the brown of Ellis’ arm to the pink of Kyle’s face. Was there the slightest hint of darkening, down to the first button of his shirt?

It was time, she decided, to learn a little bit more. Sherry put her hand lightly on his, and felt—

Thunder! Gunshot!

—And the color of his eyes as he looked at her...

The truck was jolting toward the right, the blown-out tire dragging them toward the shoulder. Ellis wrestled it to a stop, twisted the key out of the ignition. He got out of the cab, walked around to the right front tire, and let go with a curse and a kick.

Kyle was still looking at her. “What’s your name?”

She knew her confusion showed. “Sherry.”

“Sherry.” He smiled, opened the door, and went out to help change the tire.

Sherry watched the two of them working. A stripe of sunlight lay across her thighs, making her hose hot and itchy. She touched her tongue lightly with a fingernail and wondered if she should be afraid.

His eyes were brown. The dark chocolate brown of John Frank’s, the walnut-brown of Lucy Ballentine’s. Gooseflesh burned along her arms from that touch.

She watched them changing the tire, Ellis doing most of the talking. Three years with Ellis; the challenge, the satisfaction, and now the boredom of being in command. He would do anything she told him to, even quit his job and move from Arkansas to California, for the privilege of her body. She watched the easy way Kyle lifted the tire into place, back muscles stretching the faded blue shirt he wore. Then, quickly, one hand went to the rear-view mirror, twisted it so she could see her face. Her complexion was chapped, and her hair stringy from the hot dry air. She reached for her purse and was dabbing salve on her cheeks when Kyle and Ellis got back in the cab.

The road stretched long and straight, like pulled taffy, toward the swollen red sun. Night came almost without a dusk. They rode without saying much for another hour, until the lights of a small motel showed on the horizon.

“Stopping here,” Ellis said. It looked clean, and more important for what she had in mind, there was only one other car parked in the gravel lot. Sherry smiled.

Ellis went in to sign for a room. When the glass door to the motel office swung shut behind him, Sherry said quickly, “Why don’t you stay here for the night, and we’ll take you on with us tomorrow?”

And waited, breathing lightly, for his answer.

“I could hitch the rest of the way tonight,” he said. And by the tone of it, she knew that he was playing with her. She turned her head, and stared at him. His eyes were hidden in the darkness—the red Vacancy light flashed a band of crimson across his chest.

“I know you’ll stay,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“Same way I knew I wanted to pick you up. Same way I knew you were—different.” She smiled at him. “I can usually tell about things like that. Mother used to say I had Sight.” She put her hand on his arm again.

Kyle grinned, and she ran her tongue over her dry lips. “You’re a sensitive girl, Sherry. Just how different am I?”

“I hope to find out.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a ten and a five. “You take a room here. After Ellis goes to sleep...”

He looked at the money. “What makes you think I won’t take it and leave?”

She glanced at the motel office door, then leaned over and kissed him. His lips were dark and full, soft and womanly...

“You’ll stay,” she told him. It was meant to be a sultry whisper, full of confidence. It came out a gasp, full of pleading.

Suddenly confused, she slid over to the door, opened it, and started toward the motel office. As she reached the door, Ellis came out.

“Number seventeen,” he said and handed her the key. As she started across the parking lot, she saw Kyle stroll into the office. A few minutes later, he was unlocking the door to number fifteen.

Another hour or two, she thought, and no more mystery.

She was in bed by the time Ellis was out of the shower, her eyes closed so she wouldn’t have to see him walk damp and naked across the floor. The thought of his paunchy belly on hers, weight crushing her into the mattress, puffing his way to climax and beginning to snore almost before he rolled off, disgusted her. But he made no attempts, merely laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. After a moment he mused, “That Kyle’s a strange one, ain’t he?”

He’s tired from driving, she thought Good. “Strange how?”

“Why, it’s fairly obvious how, at least to me. I guess a woman wouldn’t notice it, though.” Ellis chuckled.

“Ellis, what are you talking about?”

“He’s gay, is all.’

“What?” An image of Kyle, smoothly strong and tall . .. the easy way he had lifted the tire, his relaxed form sitting beside her... “Gay? Kyle?’

“Plain as can be,” Ellis said. He chuckled again. “I always wondered why anyone would care to play on that side of the fence. But seeing one as pretty as he is, I can almost understand—”

“Ellis!” she shouted. “You quit talking like that!”

For a moment he was silent. Then, “Why’s it bothering you, Sherry?”

“What do you mean?” She didn’t like the tone of his voice. “It’s not bothering me. Now, go to sleep.”

“Not right yet. I think I deserve an answer.

“Ellis, go to sleep!”

He said nothing else—the silence gathered and grew. Finally he reached over and turned the light out

Gay. She thought of a night, not quite a year gone, when she had stayed at Lucy Ballentine’s house while Ellis and Lucy’s husband went moon-fishing. The two of them sleeping in the same bed, lying close together and touching...

She waited until Ellis began snoring. Then she dressed and went out the door. She walked along the sidewalk, swearing softly as one bare foot came down on a piece of gravel. At his door she stubbed her toe against the cement porch. The pain made her sit down for a moment, holding her foot, tears squeezing out of her eyes.

When she was able to stand, without thinking she knocked. Then she realized what she was doing, and before he could make it worse by saying “Come in,” (or “Stay out”? she wondered), she opened the door and stepped inside.

Kyle was sitting up in the bed, the sheet pulled across him. “Hi,” she said. Quietly, almost shyly. And began to undress.

She had put on her clothes for a reason, instead of just throwing a coat on. She watched Kyle as she undressed, trying to read his expression in the dim light. She had done this before, more than once—there had been a time when she had been paid to do it. Ordinarily she would move slow as chilled oil, tugging buttons loose on her blouse one by one; swaying slightly, sliding material over her shoulders and down her arms to let it drop on the floor. She would look through lashes at her audience, tongue against her lips, as she let her skirt fall. And following it, with just enough movement, would be her stockings, and the black napkin-lace of her panties.

It was one of the things that kept Ellis in line, kept him chained to her. The sight of her preparations; the prelude to bed. But this time it was different—this time she hurried, fumbling buttons, tossing her blouse away, yanking her skirt down her hips, stepping quickly out of underwear. No tantalizing, no baiting this time. It would take too long.

And then she stood beside the bed staring at him. Remembering the two times in her life when she had been satisfied by someone other than herself—once by John Frank, and once by Lucille Ballentine. The mingled feelings of desire and guilt...

He was staring into her eyes, his gaze brown and deep. Feeling her thoughts, her desires; knowing, she thought, somehow. “Kyle,” she whispered. Then she turned the sheet back, let it flutter to the floor like a dying ghost.

And saw:

Skin clear and smooth, woman’s skin on a man’s body. The hairlessness of the chest, the darkening flesh.

“You’re not—” she said.

“I’m different. You said you could tell.” The voice was a man’s voice, and a woman’s voice, and neither.

“You’re not human,” Sherry whispered.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” And it didn’t, it didn’t; the rushing of her blood, the moistness . . . she still wanted him—

As she watched, his skin grew darker, blacker. Above the erect penis were the lips of a vaginal slit.

“No . . .” she whimpered just before he kissed her. His kiss was that of John Frank, firm against her mouth. And his hands were Lucy’s hands, the softest she had ever known.

John Frank was in the county jail back home, for carnal knowledge of a white woman. And Lucy Ballentine had suffered a nervous breakdown in fear of lesbian tendencies.

“No,” she said again as Kyle pulled her down to the bed. “No!” she screamed, and pushed both hands against the soft black shoulders. There was a moment of pain, and then she was grabbing her clothes and running out the door. Behind her, she could hear the sound of Kyle’s laughter...

She was sobbing by the time she reached her room, screaming by the time Ellis had gotten out of bed, bewildered, demanding to know what was wrong. She told him what had happened, again and again, scratching at his chest to make sure he understood, until a sudden, intense pain against her cheek stopped the crying and the explaining. For an instant she did not know what had happened. Then she realized—he had slapped her.

He had slapped her.

“Ellis?” she murmured. A small sound, totally lost in her throat.

“You goddamn bitch,” he said. “Sherry, you’ve done it now.”

She sat quietly in a chair and watched him dress. He picked up the suitcases and carried them out to the truck—after a moment, realizing that she was alone, she followed him outside.

The truck’s engine was running, and the headlights were on. Ellis slung the suitcases into the back.

Yes, she thought. Let’s leave—leave now, before—

The door to number fifteen was open. Sherry watched the woman walking across the gravel of the parking lot toward the truck, toward Ellis, who was busy tying down the luggage.

“Ellis,” Sherry said.

“Just shut up, okay?” He pulled a knot tight

The woman stopped beside Ellis, leaned against the fender, smiled at him. “You going west?” she asked.

The skin was whiter than it had been yesterday. The hair was lighter, and the eyes—were blue. Only the smile and the voice were the same.

“Ellis!” Sherry screamed. But there would be no evidence under those clothes for any accusations she made against Kyle.

He ignored her. “I am,” he replied.

“I could use a ride.”

“I’m sure my wife won’t mind,” Ellis said. “She’d better not, at any rate. Right, Sherry?”

“You send her away,” she said desperately. “Ellis, you send her away this minute. You even think such thoughts as that, and I’ll—I’ll leave you! I’ll leave you this minute, I swear I will!”

He would do as she said, like always. But that woman, that thing, was smiling at him, and one hand was touching him, stroking his arm.

She remembered what that touch had been like.

Ellis looked at her. His eyes were hard.

“Leave, then,” he said. He pulled her suitcase loose, dropped it on the gravel.

Sherry stood by the road watching the two red tail-lights disappear below the horizon. Just wait until he finds out, she thought. He’ll be back. When he learned what sort of creature it was, he’d get rid of it, leave it, kill it, and come back for her. He couldn’t throw her over like that, and not even ...

Not even for another woman...

After a long time of waiting, the eastern sky began to gray. She tried to ask the one other guest at the motel for a ride, but couldn’t seem to make him understand what had happened. Afterward, she picked up her suitcase and began to walk. For a while, she held her thumb out, hopefully. But the few cars that passed her did not stop.