by Sally Quinn
“What is it?” His secretiveness made her curious.
“I don’t want to spoil it for you,” he said. “You’ll have to wait and see. I’ve never shown it to anyone before.”
Both of them were totally relaxed, as though they had known each other for a long time. Sprague was not as ebulliently Southern as he had been in Georgia, but he had taken off that protective coloration he wore in the office and he was completely natural with her. He had not seemed to be totally disgusted by her body when she took off her T-shirt and plunged into the water. In fact, she had noticed him admiring her several times when he thought she wasn’t looking. The sun and the water and the beer had made her feel looser and freer, so that at the moment she didn’t really give a damn what her body looked like. She didn’t have to look at it anyway and he didn’t seem to mind.
She wondered if he would make any advances toward her, but he never even glanced at the bunk beds. She certainly wasn’t about to come on to him either, though he was getting more attractive by the minute. Knowing Sprague, his military background, and his sense of discipline, he was letting the sexual tension build until they got back to the cottage. To the cottage with one bedroom. The cottage with one bed. It was very oriental, actually.
They started back a little after seven. Once they rounded the point and headed back down the St. Mary’s River, Sprague told her to relax because the wind was behind them and they could just run with it. It was the most beautiful time of the day because the flaming sunset was to the west and it was setting in a clear sky with only a few gathering clouds behind it.
“Looks like it might storm later,” said Sprague. “We’re lucky we’re headed back. Sometimes these summer storms come up very quickly in the early evening and they can be fierce.”
“But there’re just a few clouds,” she said. “How can you tell?”
“Just watch,” he told her. She noticed that he looked a little worried and he kept his eye to the west as they headed around the horseshoe bend at St. Mary’s College and back to Tippety Wichity.
The wind had come up rather suddenly and had shifted from the south to the west and clouds started moving in.
“We’re going to have to beat into the wind,” said Sprague with a certain urgency in his voice as he jumped up to grab a sheet.
They were about fifteen minutes from the island when the sky suddenly turned a reddish brown, and what had only minutes earlier been white wisps became menacing black clouds seemingly hurtling toward them. Rolls of thunder sounded from above and cracks of jagged lightning stretched in front and back of them.
Allison was terrified. She wasn’t a great swimmer and she was not particularly comfortable on the water. She was also scared to death of lightning.
She looked at Sprague for reassurance and though he was calm she could see his jaw tighten. He jumped over to the mainsail when the sky changed color and was now trying to force it down.
“You hold the tiller,” he shouted as he released the halyard.
She grabbed the tiller and struggled to keep the boat in the wind.
“Oh shit,” he yelled. “The fucking halyard is jammed.” He reached in a side compartment of the boat, pulled out a knife and cut the halyard, sending the large mainsail crashing down around them. While she tried desperately to keep the boat under control, he bunched up the sail and stuffed it in the cabin.
By this time the storm was upon them. The thunder was deafening and the lightning seemed to be striking all around them. Sprague had started the motor and he grabbed the tiller to try to steer them toward the pier, which was now in sight.
A huge gust of wind threw a spray of water over the boat, knocking Sprague away from the tiller and practically knocking Allison off the boat. The rain was now driving at them with such force that they could barely see anything in front of them. Allison grabbed Sprague’s arm and held on to him as tightly as she could until they felt a bump and realized they had hit the pier. He ran up to the front of the boat to cast a line up on the pier leaving her clinging to the tiller, afraid to let go for fear of being washed overboard.
Sprague came back to get her and pulled her away from the stern, holding her with one arm and the rail of the boat with the other. He jumped up on the dock and pulled her up behind. As he did they heard a loud crack and saw a gigantic white flash as lightning struck one of the trees next to the cottage and split it in two, sending shards of wood everywhere.
“Get up to the cottage right now,” he screamed at her and gave her a shove. She hesitated, then decided she was too scared to be brave and she ran up the path to the top of the promontory as fast as she could.
When she got into the house, she turned around and saw Sprague tie another line from the boat to the pier to secure it. Another bolt of lightning struck; this one seemed to be right where he was standing. She cried out his name, her heart practically leaping out of her chest, but he obviously couldn’t see her. It was interminable, the rope tying, but finally he had finished and rushed up the path to the cottage.
When he got inside he shut the door and leaned against it panting. She came over to him and put her arms around his bare chest and hugged him, then pulled away. She was half relieved, half angry.
“Oh God, Sprague, I was so worried about you. Why didn’t you come in right away? You could have been hit by lightning, you asshole.”
He grinned.
“Danger is exciting. It’s kind of sexy, don’t you think? This is the other side of fear.”
“Ah,” she said. “The macho code. Of course. How could I have forgotten?”
They were soaked and shivering. It would still have been dusk were it not for the storm, but now it was pitch-black. They could barely see each other. Sprague went to turn on a lamp but the power was out. He groped around for matches on the table and lit the candles. Then he took them and went around the cottage, lighting all the candles until the whole place had a sort of iridescent glow.
He put on a CD, battery operated—he had thought of everything—a popular sixties singer of romantic songs, and went into the bathroom. He grabbed two towels and gave one to her. She took hers into the bedroom, took off her wet suit and T-shirt and dried herself off, wrapping the towel around her. She was about to get some dry clothes from her bag when he walked into the bedroom, his towel wrapped around his waist.
“Well,” he said, bowing to her slightly. “Kon’nichi-wa.”
She smiled, recognizing the Japanese.
“Well, hello yourself,” she said.
* * *
They lay in each other’s arms after they had made love, listening to the rain pelting down on the roof and the thunder and lightning outside.
Allison stretched out her body and raised her arms above her head and let out a contented sigh. She felt completely relaxed and, more importantly, completely sexually satisfied. Sprague was a brilliant lover. She had not been at all sure he would be. She’d had a few unsatisfactory experiences with good ole boys before. They had been the masters of the slam, bam, thank-you-ma’am school of fucking. And it was just that: fucking. Not lovemaking. Sprague understood how to make love. Sprague understood how to please a woman. He was in control and disciplined. It was an interesting combination of a military and oriental approach. He would not allow his own desires to best him. When he finally let go he lost himself completely. He had waited until she was practically begging for him and then when he knew she was ready he let go, which made it all the more sensational for her. It gave her a sense of enormous power at the same time that she was surrendering herself to him. He was also a thoughtful and a gentle lover. He had let her guide him in the most subtle ways without making her show or articulate what pleased her. He had also remembered a condom, which he had discreetly slipped on at the last minute. The boy had taken a magnificent natural talent and fine-tuned it into an extraordinary performance. He was awesome.
“You’re very good at this, you know,” she said softly.
“The Twelfth of Never” wa
s playing on the CD.
“There’s a whole generation of men who couldn’t even get an erection without this music,” said Sprague, smiling down at her.
“He demurs,” she said.
She ran her hands over his arms, his torso, his thighs, taking him in with her eyes.
“How did you get those muscles?”
“Why, Ally, I didn’t think you were interested in that sort of thing.” She moved her hand over and began caressing him until he started to stiffen.
“Speaking of interesting things, is this the surprise you mentioned in the boat, the one you didn’t want to spoil for me?”
He burst out laughing.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Would you like to see it?”
“If it’s anything like this I guess I would. Although I don’t see how it could be any better.”
“Girl, you sure do say all the right things.”
“So show me.”
He got up, took her by the hand, and led her into the other room. He unlocked the bottom door of an old pine country cupboard that stood against one wall. Inside were stacks of large picture-type books, scrolls, folders, and prints. He pulled several of them out of the cupboard and carried them over to the sofa, sat down, and motioned for her to join him.
“These are part of my collection of ancient Japanese and other oriental books and art. This is one of my favorites. It’s called a bride book. It was given to couples when they got married, supposedly as instruction manuals. But they’re so much more than that. They are art and poetry and they depict the joy of lovemaking.”
“I’ve seen them. Sam collected them when we lived in Japan. He left them to me. It’s funny. I’ve never looked at mine. They’re stored in the attic. It always embarrassed me that my father had them. It’s hard to think of your parents like that.”
“This is one of my favorite samurai books. I’ve always been fascinated by the samurai. I love their fierceness, the valiant lone warrior so ready to kill or be killed, and the aesthete contemplating the cherry blossoms, the beauty and the fleetingness of life.”
“Not unlike you.”
“I suppose on some level I have tried to model myself after the ancient samurai. Their philosophy appeals to me. I’m a loner. And I’ve never figured to live a long life. I think my stint in Vietnam did that for me. It either made you crazy or it made you an existentialist. I’d like to think I’m the latter. But it surely is part of the reason I’m on such a crusade to get these drug dealers. I saw the destruction of souls on drugs in Vietnam. I’ve seen it covering the cities, the hospitals.”
“Is that why you think it’s worth risking your life?”
“Yes. And I’m not afraid of dying…” He paused. “But I wouldn’t want to die until I’d made love to you at least one more time.”
She looked down at the book she was holding and opened it to a middle page. There was an exquisite woodblock of a Japanese couple making love. They were lying on a tatami mat, completely clothed in heavy kimonos. Only their genitals were exposed and they were extremely large.
“They call this kind of art ‘Shunga.’ It means visions of spring.” His voice was husky. They were sitting close together on the sofa, both nude. He made no move to touch her.
“What else have you got here?”
“This is an Indian art book. I’ve got several of those. Some of them are really beautiful.”
“The lingam and yoni books?” She was teasing him.
“I suppose you could describe them that way.” He was annoyed.
“Oh, look, this one has instructions. But then I suppose you know that?”
She couldn’t help herself. She wanted to goad him.
The book was filled with hilarious pictures of people screwing on horseback upside down, on acrobatic poles, sideways, and every imaginable position.
“Let’s see,” she said. “Ah ha. In this one the man puts… oh, my God, I don’t believe it.” She laughed, incredulous. “He actually puts a plum into her yoni and then tries to get it out with his tongue.” She stopped and looked up at him, with mock suspicion. “Have you ever done that?”
“Do you think I’d admit it to you if I had? Not with your irreverent attitude, missy.”
“Let’s try it! It’ll be a new game. We’ll call it Samurai Sucks.” She started to get up from the sofa. “Oh, dear. We don’t have any plums.” She sank back dejectedly. Then her face lit up. “But we do have grapes! Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
She jumped up and ran to the icebox, pulled out a bunch of green grapes and brought them back to the sofa, plucked one, and held it up.
“Will you do the honors, or shall I,” she teased.
“You’re making fun of me and my books,” he said. He was only half amused. “I have a good mind to withhold my favors. And if I weren’t so goddamned backed up from no sex I think I would.”
“Well. You’re the master of discipline and control. Let’s see how well you do at it now.”
She was really taunting him.
She knelt on the sofa in front of him, her body erect.
She took the grape and put it in her mouth, rolling it around on her tongue while she looked down at him. Then she took it out of her mouth and slowly brought it down between her legs and inserted it. She leaned back against the opposite arm of the sofa facing him and crossed her legs.
He sat looking at her defiantly and it occurred to her that he actually might be able to hold out.
The teasing had stopped. Neither one of them was amused any more. The game had turned serious.
She waited a few more minutes. He didn’t budge.
Finally in a low and sultry voice, she challenged him.
“You couldn’t get it out,” she said, “even if you tried.”
* * *
The next morning was clear and beautiful. They went outside to survey the damage. The tree that had been hit by lightning was split down the middle with a huge brown crater. Branches were lying everywhere. They still had no electricity. Luckily, the stove was gas, so they made coffee and tea and took it down to the pier.
Allison leaned up against a post and basked in the sun with her eyes closed; the water lapped against the pier, and she decided that she felt really happy. She had managed to expunge both her emotional and sexual tension. Aside from everything else, Sprague was a good listener, sympathetic and concerned. She had told him during the night, during bouts of inventive and passionate lovemaking, what had happened between her and Des. She had talked a lot about the religious problem, exploring with him the possibility that she had not been understanding enough. She was in a contemplative mood this morning.
Sprague was sprawled against another post, sipping his coffee quietly.
“I’m thinking about going to church this morning,” he said.
“Oh, no,” said Allison, genuinely alarmed. “Not another one. I can’t stand it.”
“Well, after last night I’m feeling awful guilty. That was pretty heavy stuff for a little Presbyterian boy from Savannah.”
“Say a prayer for me, just in case.”
She had just said that when they both saw the small speedboat coming toward them from downriver. They didn’t pay much attention until it got quite close to their pier and they realized that it was actually coming to them, not going around the island.
Sprague sat up and looked closely at the two men driving the boat. They were Colombians.
Allison thought she would faint from fear. This was it. They had no weapons. They were completely alone. There was no phone because the electricity was out. They were dead meat.
The boat pulled up, not to the pier but to the small beach on the right side of the island, a little distance from the pier. They turned off their motor and one of the men got out and waded to shore. Both of them ignored Allison and Sprague. The one on the shore walked up and down the ten feet or so of sand, then turned toward Sprague.
“Don’t worry, señor,” he said. “I won’t go beyond the high wa
ter mark.”
Sprague didn’t move. He sat coiled where he was, ready to spring if he had to.
“If I tell you to,” he whispered under his breath, “I want you to jump in the water and swim to the mainland and get help. I’ll keep these two bastards at bay. They don’t want you anyway. They want me.”
“I can’t do that…” she started to say in a louder voice.
“Shut up and do what I say if I tell you,” he whispered back.
“Does your wife know about your lady friend?” asked one of the Colombians.
Sprague didn’t answer.
“Maybe your wife will ask you to get off the story,” said the other one.
Sprague still said nothing.
The man on the beach waded back to the boat and got in. The other one started up the motor.
“We won’t go past the high water mark,” said the first one in a menacing voice. “This time.”
The boat sped away as fast as it had come. The last thing they heard was one of the men yelling, “Adiós, señor; Hasta luego.”
“We’re outta here,” said Sprague, leaping up and grabbing her hand.
Allison had managed to calm down, barely, as Sprague led the way up to the cottage.
“Don’t forget your Japanese porn. You wouldn’t want that stolen,” she said.
“It’s not porn, it’s art…” He turned and saw her grin. “Oh, go fuck yourself.”
“I’m sure there’s an illustration of that, too, in one of those books.”
“Look, Ally,” he said, stopping, and suddenly very serious. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop seeing you.”
“Why?” She could feel her heart drop into her stomach.
“Because it’s just too dangerous. Those two bozos could just as easily have killed us as looked at us. I can’t have that responsibility on my conscience.”
“I thought you said you had no conscience.”
“I said a stiff prick had no conscience. That it had a head of its own. But that was last night. And it was very hard to separate me from it. And stop trying to change the subject. I’m taking you home, right now.”
