He found his way in the dark to the library and turned on a lamp there. “I have an aged bottle of port hidden here from the Prohibition for just such an occasion as this. Will you have a glass with me?” He removed some books from a shelf and exposed a small door. Behind this door was a short-necked bottle; with it two tiny glasses. He poured a concentrated burgundy-colored wine into the glasses and handed me one. The taste was bittersweet and seemed to take any stray bad nerves down with it. I had another sip, willing my body to relax. He would have great expectations and I, as inexperienced with intimacy as a staked scarecrow, felt incompetent. One accustomed to detracting, not attracting, had attracted a beautiful peacock and how would I join him on the ground without hurting myself? Or worse, would I let him down? Would he be disappointed in me as a wife? As a lover? I watched him hold his glass to his lips and suddenly longed for his touch as he had touched me once before, sitting in this same wing-backed chair. How long ago that seemed, preserved then in chastity. Now he had opened the door and I was free to go inside and love him in the most intimate of ways. These were my thoughts as he refilled our glasses.
He touched his glass to mine, his cheeks flushed, his eyes intense and hungry.
“To us,” he said.
“To us,” I repeated.
He drank his down and then so did I. He lit two candles and handed one to me. “No electric lighting tonight, love. Let’s take these up to our bed chamber.”
I followed him through the dark hallway, shadows of the chairs and our figures looming large on the walls. Like a ghost I trailed him up the stairway, our white apparel glowing in the frail, flickering light. Light-headed now, my eyes played tricks with our silhouettes on the walls; my steps up the stairs exaggerating my shadowy form into marching steps. Women’s rights or War, What are we fighting for?
At the top, he stopped and squared his shoulders as if preparing himself to face his foe. He opened the door to the master bed chamber and let out an audible sigh. He turned to me and smiled. “All is fine,” he said. Walking carefully to the bedside table, he set his candle down and motioned for me to do the same on the other side. He met me there with a kiss.
A kiss so dizzying I wanted to lie down for it. He backed away, his lips deep red in the candlelight. His attention focused on my jacket buttons and skirt zipper until the suit lay heaped on the floor. My camisole slipped off over my head, my half-slip fell to my feet that I at least had enough sense left to step out of. He threw back the coverlets and picked me up and sat me down on the bed in what seemed one smooth motion. I watched with keen interest as a spectator would as he partially undressed himself, unashamedly. Silvery hair on his chest sparkled in the light as he bent over and blew out my candle, leaving his to burn. The light gone dimmer, my other senses turned up to high as he laid me down. I was the sponge, he was my water and I sought to soak him in. This sense of freedom to touch, explore, and bring our lips to private places was exhilarating. Instinctively I knew the ultimate outcome and I reached out to be taken and marked by him. The pain was brief and I cried out but … soon forgotten in the surges of pleasure. To move with such abandon!
With a kiss to my neck, he rose up to his knees and looked down at the sheets.
“You are a virgin?”
“I was.”
He patted my navel appreciatively.
“I wish you were,” I added.
“No you don’t,” he said. He rested by my side, his arm possessively over my stomach. “I couldn’t give you pleasure if I was fumbling and ignorant about it.”
“Which means I gave you none?” I challenged.
“It’s my pleasure to know I’m your first. Japanese men pay big money for virgin geishas.”
His bare leg moved out of the way as I raised my hand to smack him. He snickered softly and placed my hand gently on his thigh. “We’ll keep practicing until you get the hang of it. It’ll be great fun teaching you.”
“Maybe I can teach you some things, too,” I said.
“Such as?” He yawned.
“Humility for starters. You are far too confident now, knowing you are my first.”
“And last,” he mumbled sleepily.
“And last.” I repeated. It is forever, I added like a ghost.
CAPTURED, read the bold headlines in the next day’s newspaper. Our bachelor-about-town, our willful watchdog, our illustrious editor, our candidate for future mayor now has a new title as husband to a former suffragist, Miss Bess Wright …
“They failed to mention that you’re the boss of the newspaper. Which goes in your favor, because there is no word of my former marriage or that I lived at your residence all these years. Do you threaten to wash your staff’s mouth out with soap, if they don’t give you a clean name?”
“Worse. I’ll send one off to report on the filthy New York City septic system in the immigrant areas. I’ve only had to do that once, but all remember and want to stay clean, as much as I do.”
We finished our sections of newspaper reading in peaceful quiet, with only the occasional clink of the coffee cup settling on its saucer and a crunch of toast here and there. Having breakfast brought to my – to our – bed was such a royal treat, I felt compelled to relay this to Thomas when he brought the tray in. I raised the top of my hand for him to kiss. He bowed as formally as one could in boxer shorts and an undershirt. I was tickled at our teasing. Such peace and relaxation I had never known. If it weren’t for my virgin desecration causing such tenderness where I sat, I would have felt perfect. I could see calm and contentedness in my husband’s (oh how I loved calling him that!) demeanor and I accepted full credit for it.
I was truly happy our wedding night had been spent here. From this vantage point, everything around me was new and different. No signs of his first wife were in the room; photographs and memorabilia had been replaced with a vase of fresh flowers on the mantle. I asked not where they were, since I wasn’t supposed to know about them in this previously sanctioned chamber. The aged off-white lace coverlets had been removed from the stately four-poster bed and a wedding ring quilt – our gift from Mama’s friend Phyllis - had been spread there on top of a thick feather mattress cover. Six or more feather pillows were there to prop us up in this early morning hour.
We were alone in the house, an added indulgence. While Thomas had been down in the kitchen, I had tiptoed naked down the hall to the bath room to wash and slip on my white nightgown. I had brought a damp cloth back to the bed to attempt to wash away the sheet’s red bulls-eye, humming a gospel tune I’d heard Lizzie hum many times. I thought for a moment of the words, Are you washed, in the blood, in the soul-cleansing blood of the lamb? And giggled again like a school girl, absolutely light as a feather with giddy.
I wasn’t sure whether to run about the house in my nightgown or stay in bed all day. Either approach would be exciting and fresh. Since Thomas had over-speculated my shyness on such a morning-after and thus eliminated my need to leave the vicinity, I threw aside the newspaper and opted for the bed covers.
God help me, I felt as young and pretty as a blossoming flower. I suppose one could think my bloom had been picked, but given that it was singled out by Thomas, I would happily sit in his vase as settled as those flowers on the mantle.
Thomas interpreted my inertia as a sign. He discarded his papers and rolled over onto his side. Kissing my shoulder, he grinned up at me under those bushy eyebrows as a young boy might from under a cap. His hand slipped under my nightgown and I flinched at first, but his crafted touch convinced me with tingles that I could take him in for yet another session in the art of lovemaking. I accepted what he taught with an openness I’d never experienced before and how wonderful to know I could do so without hesitancy.
Finally the mysterious key of love had opened my passage. Why Thomas, and not Billy or Jere I did not know. What I did know was that this felt so right that I clutched his back in a high rise of tingling sensations I couldn’t control. He smiled down at me as he advanced his movem
ents with a pleasurable smile that said to me, you are why I am here in this room, you and no other.
Thomas and I shared our own secrets in this shrouded bed chamber. I no longer stood outside looking in to another time. We made our own memories with I as his bride. His body became an experience in exploration, touching the blond hair of his thighs and learning the burning in his eyes when he reached for me. How his muscles tightened when we connected and how daring my kisses became. We sustained on our four-poster island with only an appetite for each other. Like Cinderella who arose in the castle of her prince, we lived happily ever after for three glorious days.
Then we hit the road running. Literally and figuratively. Reality forced its way through our door via the doorbell when long-awaited lawn signs and flyers were delivered on our third morning. Thus began a concentrated election campaign. We barnstormed our town of Annan with many of the same strategies I had learned in suffrage. Door-to-door we walked, arm-in-arm, asking for support, flyers changing hands listing his campaign promises, shaking folks’ hands until our own hands ached. Permission was granted by scores of homeowners to post our lawn signs painted in bold blue letters, Thomas Pickering for mayor: He’s on the right road.
Volunteers sprang up, Pearl and David among them, and our back parlor once again rang with incessant telephone calls and a collage of paper and people. We arranged for a last-minute media blitz through the newspaper and asked for a live debate. We knew our opponent, George Groves, would have a stronghold over airwaves as owner of the radio station, and some financial backing from the businessmen of the community thanks be to such owners as Mr. Jones of the textile mill who had a vendetta against Thomas for supporting the women’s union. On the other hand, and for this reason, we energized pledges from the women’s groups. As the husband of a suffragist, Thomas could prove his sincerity in addressing women’s concerns by introducing me wherever we went. We pushed the fact that, thanks to women like me, all women could get out there and vote and who best would ensure their voices were heard, with a good woman behind him? There should be no wasted votes out there, Thomas said over and over. To our pleasant surprise, the local chapter of the League of Women Voters agreed to sponsor an open-air debate in City Hall Park and scheduled this for the day before the election.
George declined. Not surprising that George preferred the radio - his appearance as fat and pompous would not hold a candle to Thomas. Thomas rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “Now’s our chance to give the press a good story. They’re just itching for one and they can’t very well go out and make up their own. Let’s make his refusal as colorful and controversial as we can.”
The next day’s headlines gave Thomas what he wanted. George Can’t Do It!, read the bold letters on the front page. Some people question his ability to stand up to the big boys, when he refuses to stand up to his opponent in the race for mayor, Mr. Thomas Pickering. Mr. Pickering stated, “I believe I’m on the right road and my road leads to everywhere. Mr. Groves leads to no where and I wish to prove that.”
Knowing we struck a nerve, at six on the nose that evening, a group of us gathered in our back parlor around our new radio – the one I remembered from his apartment – and fixed our eyes on its dials, knobs and tubes, and listened to George change his tune.
“I’ll tell you where Mr. Pickering’s road leads,” could be heard George’s tenor tone from the cabinet’s gold fabric panel. “It leads to the jazz joints where he’s been seen consuming prohibited alcohol, and it leads to his home where he harbors women who’ve left their heart-stricken husbands. All led by his live-in girlfriend, only recently made decent by marrying her. I’m not afraid to stand up to such an immoral man. I accept the challenge of a debate with my opponent, Mr. Pickering. George can do it and will!”
We’d won a battle in this war, but hadn’t come away without injury. George was going for blood and seemed more interested in ridiculing Thomas than upholding himself. Technically what he said had some tarnished, twisted truth. I squeezed my hands together, wishing his neck was in between.
“The challenge is on, my dear,” Thomas said as he stood and turned the dial of the radio to off. He looked down at me with a hesitant smile. “He’s giving us a hint of what is to be.”
“We can fight back, Thomas. Eleven or twelve years ago, he wasn’t on such high moral ground. Eunice, remember? He kicked her out of their home and brought in your ex-secretary, supposedly as his housekeeper. They married as soon as his divorce from Eunice was finalized. You must bring this up in tomorrow’s debate!”
Thomas bit his lip in thought. “I don’t necessarily agree with negative campaigning, dear, you know that. At any rate, public scrutiny can be brutal. Are you up for it?”
I stood and faced him, my hands on his chest, public affection for the group to witness, it didn’t matter. “I was raised a suffragist,” I said, lifting my chin to him. “I’ll march beside you all the way.”
Now you know some of my deep dark secrets, Mama.
Like I said, you first opened that bed chamber. Will you reveal all your own, during your year of awakening?
Life is a fragile balance between past and future. How do you like that saying? I made it up! The past taps me on one shoulder saying, Remember me? And the future taps me on the other saying, Forget about her – it’s me you’ve got to worry about. And here I sit in the middle, not moving to the front seat, or the backseat. Georgia crippled me as much as it did little Jesi. I hadn’t realized that until now. I pretend that everything is wonderful when the truth is, I tap dance over my damn nightmares as if tapping them down will keep them buried. They only immerge over and over to say, Look at me! Look at me! Like an unwanted child in a grotesque costume.
Mama says the Lighthouse has always been her haven. For me, it’s a hide-out. Jesi and I came here in the middle of the night like run-away slaves and I’ve stayed hidden ever since. Hiding behind them telling me I’m needed here. Hiding behind them telling me Jesi’s theirs. Hiding behind the fact that I gave up both of us far too easily.
Will this journey down Memory Lane help me understand why? Mama is a clever one – there has to be a damn good reason for all this writing. Silly me thought she’s doing this project for me. Instead … all these years I thought I had been living at the Petticoat Junction and now, in sneaking into her wardrobe and reading her chapters, I find Peyton Place! You could have knocked me over with my feather ticking! My own mother and grandmother - this Jere fellow must have been one hunk!
Makes me damn curious as to why Grandmama Ruby said on her last page that she’s heading to a greater judgment. Also makes me think that where my story is going may be easier to tell. You know how it is: it’s a lot easier to throw shit into a muddy river than into a clear blue mountain spring.
Everyone is writing, even little Jesi. She looks pale and her limp seems more pronounced when she entered the dining room. But she only coils tighter if I prod and there’s no revealing pages from her in the wardrobe. I want to yell Papa’s expression, Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining. I mean really, what’s this crap about planning to stay at a girlfriend’s house for a long weekend? I want to yell, What girlfriend?
Best to leave her alone, let her write. Hopefully she writes about why she sneaks out in the middle of the night. Doesn’t she think I notice?
1943
My feeble attempt at a Savannah birth control clinic is dropped like a hot sweet potato. I don’t return Ellen’s calls; she gives me a headache. And funding from eugenics? You’ve got to be kidding! I like Clary too much to stab her in the back with such a cut-throat, cut-ovaries organization. And when I tell Clary why Ellen is calling, Clary hangs up the phone on Ellen before she can finish asking for me. Clary looks so self-righteous and says, “That lady couldn’t hit her ass with both hands!” I laugh til I cry.
So I kick it out of the way and I jitterbug on to the dance floor. There are some great boogey-woogey sounds with a beat I just can’t sit on. It’s a sh
ame William can’t fast-dance but never-mind; there are plenty of soldiers who can.
These fellows are here for the same reason I am: to forget why else we’re here in this part of the country. “You’re on furlough; I’m a Virgo,” I say as a pick-up line. Why not beat them to the punch? Although I’ve heard some good ones at that Bottoms Up dance club or at its neighboring Hug and Slug.
Like Love me tonight; my ship sails in the morning, or Do it for your country, or You know who else would look good in that dress? Me!” or the one I laughed hardest at, Uncle Sam wants you; meet Uncle Sam!” We shake hands and I meet Samson for the first time. Beautiful sea-blue eyes (all sailors have this color after three months on open water, he jokes at my compliment), a sweet smile that easily breaks into a grin and makes his two front teeth that slightly overlap look adorable, like all guys should have crooked teeth. He could move his stuck-out ears up and down in line with his eyebrows after one of his jokes that remind me of a puppet on a string, like the recent Walt Disney flick, Pinocchio.
The best part is, I don’t take these soldiers seriously and they don’t take me home. William does. And I’m thinking he’s okay with that. He has his own group of buddies and a couple of hang-on girls, one goes so far as being jealous. “Why do you call him ‘William’?” she asks me, holding possessively onto his arm. “His name is Teeee-Jaaaay.” She says it like I have a hearing problem. “It’s our little secret,” he tells her and winks at me and then the dead hoofer pulls me onto the dance floor for another slow one. She and his group patiently wait until his return and they once again talk about who’s who like I’m not even there. He’s popular enough with just being who he is, and I’m only his irritating poodle that has to be taken out once in a while.
Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction Page 32
