“Mom, it’s not like that, I’m just...Actually, I do know how much weight I've lost. It's not a big deal, just a lot of stuff going on right now...'My woman's name is Be, Mom, and yes, she is feeding me plenty...No, not meat. Why does it matter? ...I don't want a 'nice girl,' Mom, I want Be...If my father were alive," I cut her off - she hated that, "you'd have to find another way to guilt me into agreeing with you...No, I'm sorry Mom. That wasn't necessary...You’re my mother, I expect that of you. But really, you don't need to worry about me. Shit, there goes the timer. I gotta go Mom; I’ll call you back later...Yes, I’m cooking...No—it’s fine, really...Love you too. Bye”

Be saunters in as I gently ease a pork roast out of the oven.

“Was that your mum?” she asks with a smile. After so many years, I don’t bother to ask how she knows. She always does. “You’re cooking again. And pork, too! What a treat.” Be is a vegetarian. I was well aware when I started this roast that it would never get eaten, but cooking relaxes me, and I needed it.

She slides up behind me, sharing her body heat with me, as if she can tell how cold I feel inside. “I can fit an arm all the way around you now, Beast.” 'Beast.' She started calling me that in college, after I told her she was beautiful. She refused to admit she was dating me for a couple of years before we moved in together. At which point, she conceded that 'a monogamous lifestyle suited her needs at this point in time.' But it's clear she cares. Actions speak louder, and all that.

My mother, of course, hated her immediately. It started before they had even met. My mother has some sort of issue with vegetarians, though they're not quite as bad as 'the gays.' Then there was the way Be cut her hair short, the way she dressed, her major, the sorts of books she read, her friends...I don't know. I just avoid the whole thing. I try not to even think about them at the same time. Be is in one compartment of my brain, and my mother is in another.

I can tell that Be is worried about me, but she's not the type to fuss. She just takes helps me the best she can, and doesn't need to talk about it. It's one of the things I appreciate about her. I can see the strain wearing her down, though. The color is fading from her cheeks, and the gray bags under her eyes speak to the strain. It would be easier if she just let me sleep on the couch, but she refuses. I guess she wants to be there for me.

I don’t sleep, you see. Not often. I have nightmares. It's a little embarrassing to admit it, being a grown man, but they are constant, and terrifying, such that I’m afraid to go to sleep unless I can't stand it anymore. And every time I do, they return.

It’s not one reoccurring dream, either, but several. Or maybe different versions of one story. The black haired Lady is the only constant. I don’t know who she is or why she despises me, but she is in every dream. She haunts me. She seems to take a wild pleasure in my torment, like a cliff jumper with the wind in her face. The worst part is that I can’t wake up, which is why I’m secretly glad that Be makes me sleep with her. If she weren’t there to shake me awake, I’m afraid the dream would go on until I died.

“Get outta here and let me make supper,” she says. Somehow, for all the cooking I’ve done lately, I can’t eat anything I’ve made. Be can sometimes get me to eat a bit of her cooking, but a few bites in, I feel nauseous and have to stop. I haven't eaten properly in weeks, no matter what I try. I tell myself it’s stress at work, that it’ll all be over soon, but between this and the nightmares, it’s no wonder Mom and Be worry about me. I think I do as well.

I have a glass of wine at supper, and manage to finish both it and a whole dinner roll. The pasta remains untouched on my plate. Be doesn’t say anything about it - she never does - but she Tuperwares up the leftovers and takes the roast next door. I don’t think our neighbors have eaten so well in years.

That night, Be gives me a massage in the hope that it will help relax me into sleep, and we make love. I wonder for the eight thousandth time why she won’t marry me. But that’s not Be. She says she loves me, says that should be enough for me. It is, I guess. She tells me that marriage is an institution that exists for control, stretching back to the days when women were property. She says, "Why do we need a piece of paper from the government to tell us that we're in love? Why do we have to prove it that way? Why do we have to possess one another? And forever? That's totally unreasonable. I don't know who you will be tomorrow, or in ten years. I don't know who I'll be. Can't we just enjoy what we have for now?" I tell her that she could always divorce, but she doesn’t believe in divorce any more than she does in marriage. “Besides,” she says with a smile, “Why would I want to marry you?”

These and a hundred, hundred other half-formed thoughts float through my brain as I lie curled around her, smelling her hair and hearing her deep, tranquil breathing. Something is different tonight. I can feel it.

. . .

When I wake up, it is still dark My first thought is shock at having been asleep.

Then I hear the crying. At first, I think it is Be, but she is asleep next to me, and this crying is coming from far off. Slipping out of bed, I prowl through the house. There is no one on the main level, but the crying is still there. As I inspect the garage, I decide to grab my ax, just in case.

In case of what? I ask myself, A sorrowful thief? A depressed rapist? But I keep the ax, just in case.

Along the back wall are the stairs to the attic, and I really don’t want to go up there. Attics make me nervous, and it’s the middle of the night. I have to, though, so I do.

The sound of crying gets louder as I ascend. I push open the door and pan around, but see no one. Stepping from beam to beam over the exposed insulation, I begin to weave around the piles of crap stuffed in our attic. Past the trunk with my grandfather's war things, the stove from our old place that no longer functions, Christmas decorations, two broken lamps, and I come upon a painting, leaning up against my great-grandmother's buffet.

It is the portrait of a woman with deep, dark eyes that suck me in, as though I could see the past and the future in their liquid profundity. The woman from my dreams. As soon as I see her, I know that it is she who was crying, though she is still and silent now.

I find myself crouching in front of the portrait. I think that maybe if I can help her, she will stop tormenting me at night. “What is wrong?” I whisper to her. “What is wrong? How can I help you?” There is no response, and I begin to feel a little silly, crouching in my attic talking to a painting. Perhaps I had just imagined the weeping.

I study the painting for a while. It is impeccably painted, almost photo-realistic. I know now who this woman is. In my dreams, I could never place her, but that makes sense. She was out of place, and I've never actually seen her this young. It's a portrait of my late grandmother, painted shortly before she married. She is beautiful, reminds me of Snow White with her 'skin as white as snow, lips as red as the red red rose, and hair as black as ebony.' Her hair is perfectly curled, makeup expertly applied, she is obviously someone who expends much time and effort on her appearance.

Be seems to run from conventional beauty as if it were some sort of plague. She keeps her hair in a short pixie cut, wears clothes that don’t fit. I’m fairly certain she believes that were she to wear makeup, she would break out in oozing sores. No matter what she tries, though, she is still beautiful to me. I think it rather irritates her, actually. I smile at the thought.

Coming out of my thoughts, I realize that I am still squatting in front of this painting in my attic. I shake my head, Perhaps I am losing it. I grab my ax and stand, stretching my stiff legs. Time to go back to bed and stop this foolishness.

Abruptly, the painting begins screaming. Her pale face has gone even paler. Her mouth and already large eyes are wide in a never-ending scream. I jump back from the frame. My brain is empty, I can't think or move. All I have is the beating of my heart and the rapid gushing of blood and adrenaline in my veins. And she won't stop screaming.

Her screams rise to a mind-piercing shriek. Her hand shoots up, pointing behind me in sheer terror. Instinctively, I grab my ax and whirl around, striking at whatever is terrorizing the painting so.

My ax sinks deep into Be’s shoulder and neck. Her face is concerned, betrayed, confused…

I drop the ax and grab Be as she falls. I lay her out awkwardly on the attic floor, in between two beams, and run for the door to call the ambulance. Hearing a noise behind me, I turn to see the insulation between the beams swallowing Be up. I run back, try to extricate her from the pink foam, but it is all happening too fast. She disappears beneath the insulation, and though I am digging with all my might, I can’t reach her, and I know she is gone.

As my pulse slows, I hear two sounds. Behind me, the woman in the painting is laughing. Softer, beneath all this, I hear crying again, but now it is different. It is coming from all around me, from the floor and ceiling and walls. It’s Be. I’ve never heard her cry before.