It’s funny; I had a dream about Levi Duckett (who is married to Jael Gandy, oh my God. Poor girl – I wonder what she thought when she saw his little dick (no sex before marriage. I would hope that more sensible couples would reveal themselves to each other from a distance, across a room, so as to know what each is letting the other in for, before committing to a lifelong partnership. Sarai, her twin, is the lucky one; Joseph Thompson, Levi’s mixed-race, same-age nephew, probably has a schlong the size of a hot dog)). Levi was cutting his wet hair with clippers, and I think I borrowed the same ones to shave down my afro. We seemed to be in my parents’ house circa 1985, but were both in our twenties. The clippers, with their extraordinarily long cable, were plugged into a socket in my parents’ bedroom, which had that familiar, sickly smell of my mother’s hair products, congealed with my father’s acrid Sunday morning body odour, while we cut our hair at the bottom of the stairs. The bed had not been made.
Levi seemed to be churning his not-overtly-thick hair up horribly. I worried what people would think of us sitting together at the Kingdom Hall, especially Levi’s aristocratically angular and beautiful sister Kasha, both with our disastrous haircuts. Levi then went to start his car, or something, and accidentally locked himself out. The rose bush out front was full of red flowers and it was my parents’ old front door that I opened to him.
I also remember being outside, lying down in the street, where there were plastic bins all around with their lids open, and I was actually licking one. A small green van came round to douse all the bin lids in a substance that obliterated germs but I’d already ingested all such gremlins into my system. I began to be very worried.
Even though I hated him perhaps more, deep down I quite fancied Levi Duckett, or at least what he represented. His family were the most solid and deep-rooted I had grown up with, arguably apart from the Dellers, who were spread very thinly. Garth and Katharine Duckett were the old King and Queen of the district; Katharine’s mother Mathilda was the Queen mother, and they had seven children who remained close to them and never strayed from the organisation. To marry into the Ducketts was basically to guarantee yourself everlasting life, for only the most upstanding spiritual characters would get past Garth Duckett to one of his five daughters in the first place.
There is something very 1950s-husband about him, which I find attractive if only because it upholds a traditional aspect of manliness. He is the sort of guy who would get up in the morning and expect his breakfast to be laid out on the table by his wife. He would then kiss her on the mouth and pat her bottom before going to work with a packed lunch, unless he lives within reasonable driving distance from work, in which case he would come home for lunch, which he would expect to be laid out on the table, and when he is finished, a ten-minute ravishing of his rosy little wife would ensue before he waved her goodbye upon jumping back in the car.
When he arrives home from work, he expects his dinner to be laid out on the table, and his slippers and newspaper ready. He will then proceed to spend the rest of the evening with one eye and ear on the TV as his wife gossips incessantly about the banality of the day’s events, before taking her to bed and rendering her inarticulate beyond staccato gasps and screams, on those days when he doesn’t go to the pub with his cousins Joseph and Malachi.
I don’t fancy Levi Duckett because I want to be his housewife. Indeed, I don’t think his dick would be big enough even to have an affair with; indeed, from what I’ve seen, I hope for both his and his wife’s sakes it’s a grower. But I wouldn’t mind having an affair on that ass one day, when he takes an afternoon off from work to come and see me. My dream of him is all the more strange as, looking through my calendar this morning to see which events I have coming up, I skipped past his birthday, April 26, which is in five days’ time. He will be 27, as I will be next month. We’re not quite old enough to have an affair yet. I think when we’re both 37 or 38, would be the ideal time. I’ll be well-kept and handsome; he’ll have come into his age beautifully. He does have a sweet, blue-eyed, cherubic face, unless he’s allowed it to slip. I haven’t seen him for close to ten years. He’s certainly better looking than his brother Vedran (where do they get these names from?) anyway, whom all the fourteen year old girls in our year group might have been hot over (surely they must have wondered why, living next door to the school, he wasn’t picking them off one by one, but there you go, it seems that if you want it too much you never get it), but to my eyes he resembled Sylvester Stallone with the silly lip but minus the raging muscles. Don’t get me wrong, he was very good looking in a toned, wiry, tall and dark kind of way, but give him a wife and he’ll end up a barrel, albeit a snarling barrel with huge balls, just like his father.
There was always something slightly mad about Levi’s character too. He was by no means the godliest of all His children. He hung out with the thugs at school, and only because they thought I was his cousin was I spared the full gamut of the bullys' wrath. I often had to explain to people that I wasn’t his cousin, but that our parents had been friends since we were little kids. His mother ‘studied’ mine, as the Witnesses would put it. I actually lived there with them for a little while; I remember it as four weeks but it was probably more like four days, when my mother was close to giving birth to the twins, and the happiest years of my life ended. I can picture Ruth’s cherubic little face and baldish head right as I write, but for now I have to use the bathroom before The Beast gets there first. Another story.