The Lavenders

The delectable scent of cinnamon pervaded the kitchen of the late twentieth century colonial that was a respectable distance from downtown. Mrs. Lavender smoothed the wrinkles from her floral apron as the intrusive thoughts seduced her attention from the pie on the counter. The cabinet door beneath the sink was ajar, that was where she went to deal with pests before, why not now?

She indulged the dark fantasy for a little longer than God intended. Five slices of pie filled the dessert plates waiting on the silver tray she and her husband, Mr. Lavender, got six years ago as a wedding present. It was nice enough, for appearances. A dollop of whipped cream danced across each slice with an artistic touch filled with longing.

The deep, burgundy coated her lips once again until she was satisfied with the woman staring back from the mirror hanging above the sink. With time running out, she abandoned her search for someone recognizable and carried the tray through the swinging door to the dining room.

Where they waited.

Pastor Kyrie’s wife noticed her first and flashed the same saccharine smile as the last time she sat in that same chair. Her husband, with his shaved head and beard, clapped his hands and by the look in his eye, Mrs. Lavender couldn’t tell whether it was for the desserts or her. The doctor from the Genesis Restoration Group looked up from his notepad and gave a cursory nod before returning to work.

Mr. Lavender remained in his chair at the head of the table, his dark hair slicked back the way he hated, and his least favorite tie slung over his shoulder. They both needed to keep up appearances after all. He kept his eyes focused on the men at the table when she set the dessert plate in front of him. Like all the other inspections, no words were spoken.

Pastor Kyrie cleared his throat just before Mrs. Lavender reached her seat.

“Kevin,” he said with a gilded smile. “Perhaps it’s best y’all attended to the matter at hand, before enjoying this here dessert.”

While a drawl wasn’t foreign to Mrs. Lavender, having spent well over a decade in Texas before returning from Europe, the pastor’s stoked her fury with the way it insisted itself upon her.

It was an infestation in her home.

“Come along dear.” Mr. Lavender nodded under the watchful eye of the doctor and held out his hand.

She was always thankful he had soft hands, it made it somewhat bearable when he had to put them upon her. Her tenuous grip on his fingers held as he led her from the dining room to the stairs, at which point they were out of sight.

They released each other and scurried up the stairs. The fifth and tenth stairs creaked just as they always did for the past six years. She hated this ceremony. It wasn’t just the vulgarity of it, but that it was a necessary evil. Anything for the mission.

In the decade since the United States evolved into the Dominion, Gender Traitors vanished without discretion. Not like before where they relied on subterfuge. The camps stopped being a secret a while ago

“Are you ready?” she whispered when they reached the top.

“Am I ever?”

She led him down the hallway past the second bedroom that until 7:00am that morning was very well lived in. With the click of the lock to her bedroom, they set about the well-choreographed dance they performed each month. Some days she wished they would finally meet the one child requirement so these checks would end. Those days turn her stomach, because she never wanted to have children with this spouse.

Her dress was the first to hit the ground, followed by her bra, and then panties. Hairs stood on end when the chill pierced the skin of her breasts.

“I thought you turned the heat up,” she whispered.

“The doctor complained while you were finishing dinner.” Mr. Lavender placed his folded clothes on the dresser along the far wall from the bed.

Mrs. Lavender nodded and removed her massage wand from the nightstand drawer. With the questions about the presence of olive oil in the room during the inspection three months ago, it fell on her to…prepare herself, no matter how much it turned her stomach. The low rumble filled the room while she guided the tool to perform its mechanical task.

Her mind raced with fiery opposition to her attempts to clear it. Even with all the chaos there was only one singular thought that rang like a bell in a hurricane.

I need my wife.

The thought brought a surge of pain and panic as the ache of absence hollowed her out. It was the fear of the camps that distracted her though. Not for her own safety, but her love’s.

The sting of her palm across her face dragged back into the moment. Her focus shifted into the low rumble against her skin and the memory of her last time with her wife. Her naked body stretched across the floral print of their bedsheets while the dapples of citrine and indigo light danced across her breasts. The hazy memory of her tongue drew Mrs. Lavender deeper into the moment and her body responded with a yearning that burned for the past sixteen years.

“I’m ready,” she called out and pulled herself to her knees on the edge of the bed. Her eyes focused on the mattress while she leaned onto her elbows. The presence of his body lingered behind her several moments.

This was normal.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

That was as well.

“I know, it’s okay.”

His entrance was quick, the thrusts rhythmic and methodical. His breathing remained steady for two minutes according to the clock on her other nightstand. Breathing became grunting, then steady became staccato. His last three thrusts curdled her stomach as she felt the evidence of his presence inside her.

As he pulled out of her she buried her face into the mattress in a sick mockery of how it used to be when she enjoyed sex. Back when burying her face like that was meant to restrain screams of pleasure, not to stifle pure rage. She laid on her side and prayed her wife could forgive her.

After five minute of clean up and recovery, she squeezed into her panties to keep as much of him inside her for what came next. Neither of them spoke while they returned into their clothes and the carefully crafted personas required outside that room. They typically didn’t say much for a day or two. It wasn’t contempt for each other that stole their voice, but it was contempt, nonetheless.

They joined hands and with each step down the hallway transformed into the happily married couple from Old Chicago, a city neither of them even visited, but their paperwork said it was the truth.

In this new world, truth was relative, but still worth its weight in gold.

Mrs. Lavender was not surprised to see the doctor waiting at the bottom of the stairs when they rounded the corner. His intent gaze slithered under her skin as she imagined he inspected every micro expression for confirmation of their intimate relationship.

In the dining room the pastor’s wife set Mrs. Lavender’s favorite pillows from the living room on the far end of the table. Again. Mr. Lavender returned to his seat with his face stoic as ever. Mrs. Lavender climbed with resignation onto the other end of the table with her legs dangling over the edge. The doctor pulled a chair unreasonably close to her and jerked his head up.

“Remove your panties,” the doctor demanded without warmth or care.

Obliging, she slid them up to her knees, and left them there. A mild act of defiance that regained a sliver of control. The doctor huffed and yanked them down to her ankles. His gloved fingers poked and prodded her labia before he forced the speculum inside her.

“A healthy deposit this time.” With the precision of an assembly line he swabbed her canal and capped the tube. “Hopefully it will take this time. For your sake.”

“Yes doctor,” Mrs. Lavender replied and avoided the veiled threat, for now.

The doctor unceremoniously dismissed her and returned to his seat to eat the pie she spent two hours making from scratch. She hoped he would choke on it. Instead, she waddled back to her seat as the cold, wet fabric soaked with Mr. Lavender’s seed pressed against her skin.

The pastor picked up the conversation, as if a stranger wasn’t just in Mrs. Lavender’s vagina three feet from where he sat. He went on about the gossip of the church with the increase in mandatory giving starting the following week and the latest scandal of Michael Willoughby caught fornicating with another man. No one noticed Mr. Lavender flinch, but she did. She was well aware of all of his foolish dalliances.

Risks like that would get him shipped off like Willoughby to a camp in South Texas by week’s end according to the pastor. Her heart beat faster for a moment. Was that where she was? Would Micheal Willoughby meet her there?

After the pie was consumed, the pastor finished his diatribe about gender traitors and the need for a final solution. The echoes of an empire that rose from hell to corrupt a once hopeful nation. Tears welled in her eyes as her husband must agree to the heinous suggestion that was an utter betrayal to everyone who died so they could survive. The alternative was worse, if their truth got out then all the good they could do would be lost.

For once she was thankful that men don’t feel input was necessary from women in such matters. This is one of the only times she was happy to just smile and look pretty.

To her relief, the intruders rose and bid their farewell to conclude the visit. The tension in her back eased as she and her husband bid farewell while the car doors opened and final waves were given. The muscles in her face burned for relief from the forced smile she wore for their preservation.

Once the cars were out of sight, she slammed the door and released a guttural cry that shook the very fabric of her existence. On some level, she hoped her wife felt it.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” Mr. Lavender said.

Mrs. Lavender leaned back and bounced her head against the door. His statement woke her courage, and her love. The reason she returned to this country was love. The thought of her wife trapped in one of the camps, after the horrific rumors…torture and worse. She’d rather die trying to save as many as she could than sit in safety.

“As long as we can.” She wiped away the wetness from her eyes and shook off the lingering pain. “We owe the ones who didn’t get this chance. Someone has to survive to protect the next generation.”

They stood there in that truth for a moment.

A knock at the door.

Mrs. Lavender’s pulse raged and she transformed in an instant to open the door with a radiant smile to find a young girl standing alone on their porch with a large purse and a dirty plaid dress. Her long black braid hung to the side while her lips trembled.

“I’m looking for Virginia?” the girl whispered.

Mr. Lavender placed his hand on Mrs. Lavender’s shoulder and squeezed.

“She moved to Lincoln.”

“Do…do…” the girl stammered her response. “Do you know when the next train leaves?”

“Not until next week, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Lavender answered with a smile.

The girl’s demeanor shifted ever so slightly and her posture eased.

“It’s okay. I’ll walk to the station.”

“No, please come in. I can drive you there,” Mr. Lavender said with the gentleness of a dad.

The girl stepped inside the home and Mrs. Lavender eased the door shut. She took the girls heavy purse to ease the burden from a long journey.

“What’s your name sweety?” Mrs. Lavender asked.

“Amelia,” the girl responded with ease in her tone.

“I…I really love your name,” Mrs. Lavender said, trying to fight back the lump in her throat. “I’m Cassie.”