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“I’m full.”
“Not full. You wait for sweet. I make apple dumplings, just for Master.”
Trap told her Master’s dead. He said the words flat out. She can’t have any doubt.
But she hasn’t asked me about Master, not once in the past week. And now she says, “I wax you in shower. You clean for Master. He come home tonight.”
I shake my head. “No. He’s not coming home.”
“You lie!”
“It’s not a lie. Ursula, I promise you. Master will never come home again.”
She shakes her head like a toddler refusing spinach. “He gone many days now. Weeks. But this is night he come home. You make new movie tonight. You make many new movie.”
The only “movie” I’ve ever made is the one that proves Ursula dreams in vain. I need to show her the video of Master dying in Trap’s dining room. Maybe then she’ll believe me.
But she’s babbling on, happy with the fantasy she’s weaving. “So many movies. So many men.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Master make movie.”
Has she seen the viral video? Is she trapped in some strange fantasy about Master’s death? “Master didn’t make that,” I say. “Master’sbrothersmade it.”
“Yes!” she says like I’ve just recited the entire Bible in German. “MeinJonas.MeinAnsel. You make many movie with them.”
“Notwiththem.” I’m getting frustrated.
“With them! Yes! See! Come see!”
She grabs my hand and drags me toward her bedroom. The Ursula I live with now is greatly diminished from the woman who ran Master’s domain, but she still has more strength than I can resist. She pulls me into her room and forces me to sit at the little desk beside her bed.
A laptop computer sits open in front of me. The screen has shifted to a picture of Master, his milk-blue eyes staring out like he’s trying to read my mind. Ursula kisses her fingertip and touches Master’s lips on the screen. Then she scrapes the trackpad, forcing the computer to wake.
A video is framed on the screen.
“Movie!” Ursula says proudly. “You watch movie!”
I’m looking at Master’s study, at the leather chair that replaced the one with claw feet. A man sits deep on the cushion, his legs spread, his head thrust back.
A woman kneels between his legs. She’s wearing a headband studded with a unicorn horn. Her tight white top is fastened at the neck with a plaid necktie. Her matching schoolgirl skirt has flipped up, exposing her ass. Her butt is plugged with a metal cone that ends in a stream of horsehair.
She’s stroking the man’s giant erection.
She’s making whinnying sounds.
She’s saying, “Thank you, Daddy. Thank you for my pony.”
She’s me.
She’s me, and that’s one of Master’s special guests. He’s the Reverend Bobby Quinton, and he’s about to take Jesus’s name in vain when he comes all over my pouting face while I tell him I’m Daddy’s girl, his special girl, the only girl who loves him.
I sit back in Ursula’s chair. “Where did this come from?”
“Master,” she says. Like that’s the answer to everything.
And to Ursula thatisthe answer to everything. Master is the heart of her world. The subject of her catechism. Master is the beginning and the end, the alpha and omega, the reason she wakes up in the morning, and the last thing she thinks about before she sleeps at night.
