I'll Sing for my Dinner

by BR Kingsolver

  “Has Jake been treating you badly?” Kathy asked, and I could hear the incredulity in her voice.

  The question shocked me. “Jake? Of course not. He doesn’t treat me any way at all. He treats me like a little sister. I think I’m sort of a substitute for Mary.”

  “Ahh,” was all Kathy said.

  I washed my face, dried it, and went back out to play my set. But I started thinking that I should change my situation. It had been a very long time since I wanted a man to touch me, and now that I did, he wouldn’t.

  Jake was preparing the bar for Fourth of July, and had been running ragged all week. I needed to go to the store for tampons before going to work, and Jake picked me up late. Since then, I had been thinking about talking to him.

  A month before, I finally pulled the money together to set up an appointment with a gynecologist. Everything checked out okay, and the results of all the tests were negative, for which I heaved a huge sigh of relief.

  We were eating breakfast one morning when I decided I had to say something. When I got up that morning, I felt a bit depressed. I couldn’t talk to him, or tell him anything about myself. Usually I didn’t think about that too much, but that morning it hit me hard. He obviously didn’t feel what I did.

  “Jake, I’ve saved enough to get an apartment in town,” I started, watching his face closely. “Don’t you think it would be better for me to look now, before all the university students come back to town?”

  “You don’t need to move out,” he said. “Save your money.”

  “Well, I think it would be best.”

  He finally looked at me. “Why?”

  “I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Honestly, I believe you saved my life. I’ve been low before, but I was never as close to giving up as I was that day. I really wondered if I would lie down in a ditch some night and never wake up. But it’s not fair to you. You have your life, and instead of being able to live it the way you want, it all revolves around me. Pick me up from here to go to work. Bring me back. Take me to the doctor or the store. I think I should let you have some time to yourself.”

  “Renting an apartment will be expensive,” he said.

  “I have over three thousand dollars saved. There’s an apartment complex only a mile from work where I can get an efficiency for four hundred a month. I have to pay first and last and a two hundred dollar deposit, but I’ve got the money. And there’s a bus that runs from there right by the bar.”

  “You don’t have to move out, Cecily. I like having you here. The place would feel lonely without you.”

  Now came the hardest part. The part I really didn’t want to say.

  “Jake, I haven’t been sleeping well. It’s hard. You’re right down the hall, and I want to be with you, and I can’t. I need to move. It will be much easier to be friends if we have some space. But I don’t think I can do this anymore. It just aches to see you every morning and not be able to touch you.”

  I rehearsed the speech to him over and over, and I still didn’t say it the way I meant to. That last sentence wasn’t anything I ever planned to say, it just slipped out.

  “You think you have to move out so we can be friends?” he said carefully.

  He could be so frustrating sometimes. I felt tears start to spill from my eyes. In all the scenarios I had run through my head about this talk, none included me crying. I pushed away from the table and stood.

  “Don’t you understand?” I practically screamed at him. “I don’t want to be friends. I want you to love me the way I love you.”

  Oh, shit. The shock in his face mirrored what I was feeling. Dear God, what was wrong with me? I wheeled about and ran up the stairs. When I reached Mary’s room, I slammed the door behind me and fell on the bed.

  Wiping the tears from my face, I cursed myself as an idiot. Of all the things I could have said, I couldn’t have created a bigger disaster. I’ve lost him for sure, I thought. Maybe I still had a chance before, but now it’s all over. I may have been dumb about men, but I knew the easiest way to scare them was to talk about love or marriage. And no man wants to deal with a hysterical, crying female. He probably thinks I’m trying to manipulate him.

  I heard the door open.

  “Go away. I don’t want you to see me like this. I’m pathetic,” I said.

  He came over and sat on the bed. Pulling me up into a sitting position, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him. I knew he was just trying to be kind, but it felt so good to lay my head against his chest. I was pathetic. I grasped at every kindness like it was a lifeline. I didn’t blame him for not wanting to get entangled with me. Everything I touched turned into a horrible mess.

  “Cecily, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m such a fool. I kept telling myself that it wouldn’t be fair to you. That I would just be taking advantage of your gratitude. I want you so bad. I love you, and so I tried to keep you away.”

  I thought I understood the words he was saying, but I couldn’t make sense of them. My head was so screwed up that I was twisting what he said. He was so kind. I was taking advantage of him. I knew it. How could I do that to someone who loved me?

  What? I put my hands on his chest and pushed away from him. “What did you say?”

  “I said I love you, and I’m sorry I’ve been hurting you.”

  I stared at him, blinking stupidly. “You love me?”

  “Yes. I’ve been in love with you almost since the first night. I just didn’t want to take advantage of you. You were so damaged, so alone.”

  I reached up and took his face between my hands, and kissed him. Kissed him and kissed him. Parting his lips with my tongue, I tried to crawl inside him. I pulled him down on the bed, on top of me.

  “If you love me, then show me,” I whispered into his mouth. “I’ve lain here night after night, dreaming of you making love to me. Make that dream come true.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “I’m going to hit you. Shut up and kiss me.”

  I had dreamed of having his hands on me, but the reality was so much better. His rough-calloused hands ignited sparks everywhere he touched me. He was gentle, taking it slow, which was the exact opposite of my agenda. I pushed him away, and taking his shirt in my hands, frantically pulled it apart. Thank God for cowboy shirts with snaps instead of buttons.

  His chest was broad and muscular with dark hair like a soft carpet. I reached back and unhooked my dress, then leaned forward.

  “Unzip me,” I said.

  He pulled the zipper all the way down and I let it slide over my shoulders. Pressing my bare breasts against him felt so good. I held him and reveled in feeling his skin next to mine. But that wasn’t all I wanted. I pushed away from him again and started unfastening his belt. That done, I unzipped his pants.

  “Get undressed,” I said, pushing my dress and panties over my hips, then tossing them to the floor. He was too slow, and I pushed him over on his back. Standing over him on the bed, I pulled his jeans over his feet and threw them to the side. My eyes feasted on his naked body, and then I dove into his arms.

  My urgency increased. Kissing him while I wriggled around on top of him, I finally managed to straddle him. Sliding down over his stomach, I felt behind me and grasped his erection. Rising to my knees, I guided him into me and sank down until I had all of him in me.

  “Oh, God,” I moaned.

  “Cicely, we need a condom,” he said.

  “No, we don’t,” I said. “That’s why I went to the doctor. All my tests are clean and I got a new implant.”

  I rode him hard and fast until we both cried out as we reached our climax. Falling forward onto his chest, the sense of frantic urgency finally flowed out of me. He was so warm and soft and solid and comfortable. I nestled against him and purred.

  We finally crawled out of bed in mid-afternoon. Taking a shower with him was every bit as wonderful as I’d imagined it would be. We washed each other, and then I washed my hair. It was still wet when w
e left for work.

  Sitting beside him as we drove into work, I realized that I had actually made love for the first time, in the sense that I had sex with love. This was actually the first time I ever initiated sex. And it was the first time I ever had an orgasm with a man that didn’t involve some sort of pain. I didn’t know how closely I associated the two until I braced myself as I reached climax, expecting it to hurt as the price of the pleasure. But it didn’t hurt at all. It was glorious.

  I had to explain to Jake that I was okay. He was so concerned about the tears after I came. I told him they were tears of joy. And that was part of it, along with fear and relief. How could I tell him how sick I was? That I craved orgasms the way an addict craves drugs. That I loved the way men made me feel even when the men themselves repulsed and scared me. I couldn’t count the number of times I had an orgasm, then went to the bathroom and threw up.

  Every time I had sex before, I was raped. I had never thought of it that way before. Most of the time I hadn’t said no, because I knew it was useless, and it might even cause the guy to hurt me more. But it was rape just the same. The drug in my drink the night I lost my virginity provided consent, but I was incapable of either refusing or consenting.

  I sang love songs at the bar that night. Only love songs. Following him with my eyes while he worked, I sang to him. When I took a break, Kathy motioned me to come over to where she stood by the waitress station.

  Looking me over, she said, “He finally came to his senses, didn’t he?”

  I bit my lip and stammered, then said, “I think so. I hope so.”

  “You’re afraid he’ll change his mind?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “He won’t,” she said with conviction. “He’s as mad about you as you are about him.”

  I climbed back onto the stage and sang more love songs.

  That night, I slept in his bed. I took my knife off and left it on the dresser by the door of his room. But feeling warm and safe in his arms didn’t stop the dreams.

  It was one of the worst ones. Rough hands on my body, alcohol on his breath, his weight crushing me. Pain in my face where he hit me, pain in my groin as he forced himself inside me. The feeling of helplessness, terrified that he would hurt me even worse. The dream went on and on and I couldn’t stop it. The dream ended with the horror that remained when he finally had stopped. I sat up in bed, gasping for air and shaking. That image stayed in my head all morning.

  God, how could I let Jake love me when I was keeping such secrets? Didn’t he deserve to know he was sleeping with a woman capable of such a thing?

  ~~~

  Chapter 7

  Jake

  Life with Cicely in my bed was something I had never imagined. Oh, I fantasized about her, but the reality was very different. That first morning, when she stripped off her dress, I could only stare in awe. She was slender, but she wasn’t skinny. Smooth firm flesh covered her frame, and the swell of her hips from that impossibly small waist took my breath away. I had thought she was wearing a bra, but her high, firm breasts didn’t need one, and they were larger than I imagined.

  She approached lovemaking the same way she approached performing on stage. It depended on her moods. One night she might want me to take it slow, drawing out our pleasure in a slow, sensual horizontal dance. The next night she might be playful, bouncing around, teasing, enthusiastic and wanting me to explore my fantasies, talking about hers. Still another night, she might be urgent, demanding, wanting me before we hardly got in the house.

  To say that she was enthusiastic was like saying water is wet. She was in the mood all the time, and it took very little to bring her to climax. The first time I went down on her, I thought she would completely come apart.

  She had no inhibitions, and nothing I ever suggested seemed to be out of bounds. I had never been with a woman who was so open about discussing our fantasies. But one of hers stopped me cold. She said that sometimes she wanted me to hurt her.

  “And you enjoy that?” I asked, incredulously.

  “Sometimes. Not most of the time. Not hurt hurt, really. I mean, I don’t want you to hit me or anything. I just like it really rough sometimes.” She looked away, then back to me. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about what I’m going to say. You have to understand that I love you, and the only reason I would ask this is because I trust you. I know you would never really hurt me. Sometimes I want you to treat me really rough.”

  I ran this over in my mind. “Have you ever been raped?”

  She was quiet for a long time, and then she whispered, “Yes. Before I met you. When I lived on the streets. When I was hitchhiking.” She looked up at me with as open and vulnerable an expression as I had ever seen on a person. “I never knew what love was until I met you. I love the way you touch me.”

  There was a catch in her voice as she said, “No one was ever gentle with me before. Seeing the love in your face when we climax is the most incredible thing I could ever imagine.”

  She got up from the bed and stood looking out the window, tears running down her face. “Jake, I know I’m all messed up inside. Being raped was terrifying, horrible. But,” her voice fell to where I could barely hear her, “sometimes I had orgasms when it happened. Really intense ones. I know that’s wrong. Someone has to be really sick to do that. I don’t want to be raped, but sometimes, I feel like I need to be punished. When I’m in a certain mood, I just want to be used as hard as you will let yourself use me. Can you do that for me occasionally?”

  My God. ‘Sometimes I had orgasms’ she said. How many times had she been raped? Enough that some of the times were better than the other times. I thought of the knife. She still wore it around her neck. I never asked about it, and she never mentioned it. She always took it off when she entered our bedroom, and left it by the door.

  I knew that she had dreams, nightmares. She didn’t thrash around or scream or anything like that, but I could tell when she was having one. Her body would stiffen, and she would whimper. I interpreted the expressions on her face at those times as being those of terror or pain. I didn’t know if I should wake her up, so I would just hold her, stroke her hair, and whisper over and over that I would take care of her and it would be all right. Sometimes it seemed to quiet her.

  Jeri took Cecily over to Fort Collins and she found a violin in a pawnshop. It was only fair quality, but she said it was fine for her purposes. I had never heard her play violin before, and sat in awe listening as she played. I was considered good enough, perhaps, to apply to some orchestras before my injury. The difference between me as a third seat in a medium-level symphony and her, was the difference between Bob Dylan and Pavarotti.

  Cursing myself for a fool, I crawled up in the attic and found my violin. When I gave it to her, she lit up like a lightning bug. But she kept the pawnshop instrument. She took it down to a music shop and had a pickup put in it. Then she tuned it to play bluegrass fiddle.

  Shortly before Halloween, Jared brought the band’s agent, David Thomas, to the bar to hear Cicely. The band was doing well. Dave was booking them all over the Rockies and putting them in some large venues. They were out of town most weekends now, and I could only get them into the Roadhouse on Thursdays, if at all.

  Her performances varied widely, not the quality of the performance, but what she played and sang. It was her first performance after she got the fiddle and she played it a good deal, dancing around the stage to her own music. The band that night had a mandolin player, and she borrowed his instrument for a few songs. The variety put her in a lively mood, and she was much more animated than usual.

  The mandolin player came over to the bar for a beer, and then leaned back and watched her. Shaking his head, he said, “Have you ever felt totally inadequate? How in the hell am I ever going to play that instrument again, knowing that it can sound like that?”

  She also sang a couple of songs I’d never heard before. When she came over to get a drink on her break, I asked, “Are
you singing your own compositions?”

  “Yeah. Do you like them?” Her smile brightened.

  “I like them a lot. I didn’t know you wrote songs.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve got a couple of hundred I’ve written over the years. Do you want to hear some more?”

  She didn’t know the agent was there. He was sitting behind her, and I saw his ears perk up.

  “Yes, do you think you could do a whole set of them to finish the night?”

  Smiling, she said, “Anything for you,” and kissed me.

  She sang nine songs over the next hour. Ballads and love songs, and a song that would make a good dance number. At the end, she motioned me up to the stage, and using me as her foil, sang a hilarious song, making fun of herself by pointing out all of her supposed faults and foibles. It went on for thirty verses and included every supposed female fault that had ever been cataloged. The chorus at the end of each stanza was, “But the joke’s on you, because you think I’m perfect. Oh, how wonderfully blind love is.” She punctuated the end of the song by kissing me.

  The audience loved it, laughing and joining her to sing the chorus.

  She sang one encore, then turned the stage over to the band. Skipping across the bar, she threw herself into my arms, kissed me, and sang, “Oh, how wonderfully blind love is.”

  “Cicely, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine and Jared’s. This is Dave Thomas. He’s the agent who books Jared’s band.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him and gave him a fake pout. “So, you’re the one who’s responsible for taking Jared away from us,” she said. “We hardly ever get to see him anymore.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Dave said. “But he’s making a lot of money.”

  The fake pout disappeared into a bright smile. “Money’s good!” she said. “I guess I can forgive you.” She extended her hand and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Thomas. Don’t mind me, I’m in a mood tonight. I’ll be more subdued when I come down off the performance.”