The Astronaut's Wife

9

It was as if Spencer’s finally breaking down and talking about his brush with death had worked on him like an aphrodisiac. Their lovemaking that night in their big new bed started intensely and then gained in fervor.

Spencer lay between his wife’s legs, thrusting into her with a wild passion, grinding, penetrating her, his buttocks working hard like a machine, pumping into her without thought or tenderness. Jillian’s eyes were hazy and filmy as if she had been drugged. Her lips were dry, her mouth parched. She tried to raise her head but it fell back on the pillow, as if her neck was not strong enough to support it. As she slumped backward, Spencer’s thrusts increased, redoubling his efforts, as if the sex had taken over his brain and he was working on pure animal instinct, as if taking her as deeply as possible was the only thing on his mind, something he was driven to do.

Through her foggy brain, Jillian suddenly realized that this was the first time they had made love since the incident in space. And it was not the way they had done it before. Spencer had always been a tender, considerate lover and she had worshipped him for it.

“Spencer,” she said weakly, trying to slow him down. “Spencer, what…”

But Spencer bore down harder on her and put his lips to her ear. “Jillian,” he whispered even as he thrust into her even harder, “Jillian… Jillian…”

Jillian tried to speak through haze, but her throat was dry and the words were hard to form on her lips. “Spencer,” she managed to gasp, “I can’t…”

Spencer was whispering her name over and over but as he spoke the words in her ear became garbled and then changed to a meaningless gibberish. Jillian raised her arm—it felt like it was attached to lead weights—and put her hand to the side of his face. “Spencer,” she said, her voice even weaker now, “Please…”

Without halting his powerful thrusts into her, Spencer covered her eyes with his hand. Somehow Jillian felt that the blackness was impenetrable, the darkness shooting through her and overwhelming all of her senses.

In the darkness the sounds of their lovemaking seemed to fade away, but the sound of Spencer’s garbled, unintelligible chatter continued to susurration in her ear.

“Spencer?” Jillian moaned.

And now, Spencer’s garbled speech changed. It sounded like the screaming, chattering of a hoard of insects, very far off but certainly audible. The instant she heard it, Jillian felt a bolt of fear shoot through her like a hot bullet.

“Spencer?” she said, her voice full of dread. The distorted insect-like screaming seemed to be getting closer. Spencer did not answer, but kept his hand over her eyes and thrust into her with even greater vigor, pounding away at her without cease.

The horrible shrieking seemed to fill her head and she tried to shake her head to throw the sound out of her mind. “Please, Spencer?” she said. “Please…”

The noise continued but suddenly Spencer had stopped. She felt him shoot into her, a hot streaming orgasm that seemed to fill something in the center of her being.

Jillian found her voice and she screamed. “Spencer!…” Jillian awoke—or, at least she thought she was awake. She was in the bed, naked, alone. But gradually she came to realize that the bed was not in the bedroom. All around her, above her, to the side of her, behind her were stars, millions and millions of stars, as if she were trapped inside a dark dome of stars.

Her eyes were open and she tried to raise her head, but she could not. And then, coming from far away, came that sound. The screaming, chattering shriek, but coming closer and closer…

Jillian awoke. She was in the bed, naked and alone. She was sprawled on top of the sheets. Startled by her own nakedness she grabbed at the blankets and pulled them around her as if for protection. Slowly she explored her body. There were bruises on her ribs and shoulders where Spencer had held her tight. She put her hand between her legs and winced in pain when she felt her genitals. They were hot and the pain was raw, as if she had been whipped there.

She sat up on her elbows and looked around the shadowy room. Spencer was not there. The apartment was quiet and seemed to be as still as the night. But she listened in the darkness, intently, her ears picking up a faint sound. It was a very small sound and it was emanating from one of the rooms of the house. The sound was small, soft but very clear. Jillian trembled when she heard it—it was no ordinary sound, it was the sound. That horrible shriek like a cloud of insects.

Jillian swallowed and gathered up all her courage. Pulling the covers around her, Jillian climbed out of the bed and left the bedroom, walking down the long hall toward the sound. It was still soft, but plainly present. She crossed the dining room, approaching the double doors that led into the living room. The sound was a little louder now. Jillian could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Her breathing seemed very loud, as if it could be heard yards away…

She stood in the door of the living room and saw Spencer on the far side of the room. He was sitting in a chair by the tall windows. On the end table next to him was a small AM/FM radio and Spencer was leaning toward it, as if anxious to catch every sound, every note coming from the tiny speaker.

Somehow he sensed her standing there and quickly, but not frantically, he turned off the radio. That soft, distant insect sound stopped abruptly. He turned and looked at his wife. She was leaning against the door frame, the covers clutched at her throat. She stared at her husband, as if trying to focus on him.

“Spencer,” she said, her voice groggy and fatigued. “What are you doing?”

He stood up and walked toward her. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said calmly. “So I came out here. I was just listening to some music on the radio.”

He slipped his arms around her and held her close, feeling her body through the blankets.

“Jill, I… I might have had too much to drink tonight and…” He swept a hand through his hair. “… Well, it had been so long since we made love. If I got out of hand there, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

He kissed her softly. “Forgive me?”

Jillian nodded. “Oh… I feel so awful,” she said. “I think I had too much to drink tonight, too.”

Spencer put his arm around her shoulder and started to lead her back toward the bedroom. “Come on,” he said gently. “let’s get you a couple, of aspirin.”

As they left the living room, Jillian glanced over her shoulder and looked at the radio. It was sitting silently on the table, bathed in the moonlight coming in through the window. Spencer carefully remade the bed and then put Jillian in it, like a parent settling a child for the night. Then he went to the bathroom and got his wife two aspirins and a glass of cool water. He handed them to her and stood over her, making sure that she took her medicine. Jillian put the pills on her tongue, then took a couple of gulps of water.

“There you go,” Spencer said. “Those will help with the hangover in the morning.”

“Thank you,” she said, as if thanking a stranger. He took the glass from her, set it on the bedside table, then climbed into bed with her. He snapped off the bedside light and then cuddled up next to her.

“Good night, Jillian.” He kissed her softly, then closed his eyes, dozing off, his arms around her.

There was no sleep for Jillian. She lay in the dark, her eyes wide open, feeling a vague fear.