Dancing on the Edge of the Roof

by Sheila Williams

  “They were so different yet their hearts were so much alike. But they knew it wasn't possible for them to remain in paradise forever. He had a duty to his new country. She …” Millie's voice broke, and I looked up, surprised to find tears streaming down her face. She continued speaking in a whisper. “She knew that, while it was easy to stay in paradise, it was better, even braver perhaps, to leave. She still had mountains of her own to climb. Even though she left everything she ever loved in his hands.”

  Asim meowed loudly. Stood up and rubbed against her. Millie shushed him, and wiped the tears from her face. Spoke to him again in words I did not recognize.

  “Did you leave him?” I asked, knowing that she had.

  Millie nodded, unable to speak.

  “What happened to the coffee planter?”

  “He served the new Kenya long and well,” she whispered, dropping tears on Asim, who didn't seem to mind.

  “Is he still alive?”

  Millie looked up at me, her eyes wet, her face drawn and unhappy.

  “It's a story, Juanita, remember?”

  I lit a cigarette.

  “And the singer? What happened to her? In your story, I mean.”

  Millie laughed.

  “Why, she owns a bed-and-breakfast in Paper Moon, Montana, of course.”

  “Of course,” I repeated.

  Asim meowed again, rubbed against Millie, then jumped down from the swing and disappeared around the side of the house.

  Millie looked up at the sky. When she spoke again, her voice was strange and distant, haunted in a way, like Elma Van Roan.

  “The professor wants us to block out the first draft in the form of a parable, like Aesop's fables. With a moral at the end.”

  “And the moral of your story?”

  “Well, I'm still working on that,” Millie said slowly. “But if I had to guess, I'd say that sometimes, when you love someone, you have to let go, even if it's not what you want to do. And the other person has to have the courage to leave, if it's necessary, to finish the goals they set for themselves. Lovers have to allow themselves the freedom to do what they must. That's the greatest love there is. Otherwise …” she paused, stared off into space again. “Otherwise, it becomes a prison. And the love will wither away and die like most things do when they're locked away like that.”

  “Did she ever see him again?”

  Millie didn't answer me. Just got up off that swing, and went inside. And just before the screen door hit the doorjamb, the Siamese slipped in behind her.

  I stayed there for a moment. Thought about the story she'd told me. Was it something she made up? Or was it really a part of her life a long, long time ago? I thought about her love affair with a man she could never have and had to leave behind. Wondered if Paris and London and New York were ever worth what he had given her. Thought about love, and possession and … freedom.

  In my life, I had never known love without possession. I had always been So-and-so's wife, I had always gone where they had gone, I had done what they had wanted. I thought that I was loved and had loved in return by doing those things. It had not occurred to me that love could go with freedom.

  Peaches was coming back in a few weeks and I could hitch a ride with her to California, and maybe on from there to Mexico.

  I looked up at the Pleiades. Saw Jess's face there.

  Wondered if it was time for me to leave. Or time for me to stay.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I love the sound of a summer storm.

  It had started right around seven on Saturday, just as I was closing up. We closed early that weekend because the county fair was on. I was in a funny mood, had been all day, so I sent Carl home early. Wished Jess would leave, too, but he was knocking around in the back. I didn't know what he was doing, and didn't care really. Just as long as he left me alone. I wanted the place to myself.

  The dishes were washed and dried, the tables wiped clean. The salt and pepper shakers were filled, catsup and mustard put away. I seasoned the granddaddy skillet, left it on the back burner, sliced the butter for breakfast, and set it in the refrigerator.

  The front door was open and I looked out. Watched that storm roll in from Idaho, saw the sky grow black, zigzags of silver snapping toward the ground. The pines swayed. The wind was picking up.

  I sniffed the air, and I could smell the rain before I saw it. The air was heavy with it. The thunder rumbled in the background. The lights went off for a few seconds, the old generator groaned. Then the lights came back on, a little reluctantly it seemed to me. The rain came down with a vengeance. I smiled to myself, closed my eyes, and listened to the rain hitting the roof. The stiff, sticky late-August heat was gone for the moment, the temperature had dropped almost fifteen degrees. Good sleeping weather. I thought about the raindrops dancing on Arcadia Lake.

  A crack of thunder woke Dracula, who whined a little, then yawned. He licked his paws and rolled over.

  Jess carried in a box of steaks, set them in the freezer. He yelled at me as he went out the back door.

  “You want a ride to Millie's?”

  “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  “I'm sure.”

  He clicked his tongue at Dracula, who looked up, then put his head under his paws. Jess frowned. Whistled this time. Poor Dracula sighed and dragged himself up and followed Jess out.

  Jess yelled, “Better move it. It's gonna rain.”

  I looked outside. It was pouring.

  “No shit,” I said to no one in particular. I glanced over my shoulder. Jess was gone.

  I checked out the window, saw man and dog scramble into the old pickup, then turn onto the road and disappear into the thick forest nearby. Kaylin's Ridge and Jess's cabin weren't too far away.

  I turned out the lights, checked the pilot light on the stove, and locked up. Opened my umbrella. I walked out of there with every intention of making a break for it to Millie's, taking a long, hot bath, and collapsing into bed.

  But the storm stopped me. I just stood on the porch, with my little fold-up umbrella over my head, watching the storm, listening to the raindrops dance on the tin roof of Henry's Citgo across the way. For a half hour or more, I watched. And listened. Listening to the water speed through the rain pipes, splashing on the concrete slab on the side of the diner, like a waterfall gone mad. I watched a wall of water move over the town and drench it, then move on into the mountains above. The clouds, now released of their burden, lightened in color from steel gray to fine silver blue, and the sun tried here and there to peek through, but the clouds were still too thick with the moisture left behind. The lightning sliced through the air in the distance now, and I figured that Missoula was in for a big rain.

  Paper Moon was now left with a fine, light downpour, the kind you can see through, the kind that helps you sleep, or inspires the poet to write. Heavy enough to get you wet, but light enough for a robin to fly through if she wants.

  I took a deep breath, and caught the scent of the forest in the moist air. Just a hint of pine, a rich aroma of the warm earth and the thick, sweet smell of flowers.

  I listened for the thunder again. Looked for lightning.

  And when I didn't hear it, and didn't see it, I dropped my tote bag on the porch, closed my umbrella, slipped off my sandals, and walked down the slope toward the lake.

  I have always wanted to dance in the rain. People do it in the movies all the time. Couples stroll together hand in hand in the rain. But no one ever seems to do it for real. There are always umbrellas up, stained khaki-colored raincoats, floppy shapeless hats and rubber boots. No one wants to get wet. They want to keep dry, to be protected. Being wet never hurt anybody, did it?

  The grass squished under my feet, and I got smacked in the face by a tree branch that I didn't see. By the time I reached the lakeshore, I was soaked to the skin.

  There was a little clearing there,
just a small patch of grass, and then the rocks leading to the water. It wasn't big enough for a lakeside barbecue, but it was big enough for me.

  I stopped there and listened to the rhythm of the rain as it hit the water and the trees nearby. I pulled the sounds and the beat into my head. I absorbed it, I breathed it.

  And then I danced.

  I lifted my arms to the rain goddess and danced a ring-around-the-rosy. The water dribbled down my arms and I licked it off my fingers, slurped it from the palms of my hands.

  I pirouetted on my toes—a stiff ballerina—and closed my eyes as I lifted my arms up and down, up and down. Swan Lake … I imagined myself on a stage in old St. Petersburg, the star of the ballet company, dancing for the czar, dancing from my heart.

  I made a tribute to the Motherland—patting my feet to a rhythm as old as the rain itself, maybe older. Clapping my wet hands together, rubbing the wetness across my breasts and down my abdomen. Shaking my behind as I moved around, the rain provided the drums and the chant.

  There was something ancient here and I was a part of it. The forest around the lake was lush green and dripping with moisture. The rain, cool and steady, danced on the lake and with the ninety-degree heat, I could see steam rising in places, or was it fog? The mists gave my little clearing a mystical quality, the spirits of the lake were here, and I was one of them, dancing, praying, paying tribute to the earth, drinking her wine, caressing her body with my thumping feet. I inhaled the rich honeysuckle incense she was burning, thick and sweet, in the damp air.

  Behind me, a twig snapped. The magical mist lifted for a moment. I stopped moving. I wasn't really worried that someone would think I was crazy—I didn't care a rat's ass about that.

  But I was by myself. And Arcadia Lake was back off the highway, isolated and out of sight. Paper Moon, Montana, was a popular truck stop, it was right off the interstate. As Peaches would say, you never knew what kind of serial killers might be driving those big rigs.

  I froze and looked around me, but there was no one there. Still, I had heard something. Snap. There it was again. It came from the left. Near the honeysuckle bush. I felt a pair of eyes studying me. I glanced around quickly. Nothing there. But I still felt someone, or something, watching me. Then I looked down. I had almost missed him.

  Tiny, beady black eyes, a dark stripe down his back and he was as still as a rock—holding his breath and hoping I wouldn't see him.

  A chipmunk. Watching me intently, waiting for me to turn away so he could make his move.

  Well, I didn't move. But I did sneeze. And little Alvin, he squeaked, jumped at least six inches, and scurried away, twigs and leaves crackling under his tiny feet.

  I laughed. Not a giggle. Not a chuckle. A belly laugh. I laughed until my sides ached. What the hell was I doing, anyway? Poor little thing, he probably thought I was the craziest human he'd ever seen! Here I was, somebody's grandmother, living hundreds of miles away from home among strangers, a runaway, fearless (well, sort of), and soaked to the skin and dancing barefoot in the rain like a pagan worshiper carried away by the spirit. And spooked by a tiny chipmunk.

  I had to be crazy. It was wonderful.

  And I laughed again. Laughed until my eyes watered. Laughed until I coughed and my stomach hurt.

  “You left your tote bag …”

  I whirled around to find Jess behind me, my tote bag hanging from his outstretched hand. How long had he been standing there? I didn't know whether to be angry or awed. I had heard a four-ounce chipmunk, and this one-hundred-eighty-pound man hadn't made one sound.

  Damn Lakota …

  “Just set it there, I don't need it,” I snapped, aggravated that he had seen me. Angry that he had intruded on my ceremony, and interrupted my private dance.

  “You were dancing,” he said flatly.

  “That's what I like about you, Jess,” I grumbled. “You always state the obvious.”

  There I was, snapping at him again.

  “In the rain …”

  “Do you want to join me?” I challenged him.

  His black eyes flickered for a moment but he never took them from my face. And I saw …

  “You were laughing.”

  “Well, Jess, it's not a crime,” I retorted, annoyed with him. I reached for my tote bag and he moved it out of my reach.

  “I've never heard you laugh like that before.”

  “I do it once a year on the fourth Saturday of August whether I need to or not. You ought to try it sometime, Lakota Man. That's what's wrong with you. You have no sense of humor and no passion. Now, give me …” Even when I said it, I knew that it wasn't true.

  I tried to snatch my dripping bag from him again, but he pulled it away, and me toward him.

  His usually quiet eyes were stormy and fierce, hot with intensity, and with another quality that I could not describe. The fact that they were black in color did not detract from the sparks I felt down to my toes. My stomach tied into an uncomfortable knot—and I suddenly realized how the little chipmunk must have felt. I wanted to stay and I wanted to run.

  “Don't tell me I have no passion,” he said evenly before he kissed me.

  What happened after that only comes to me now like a dream that I had, and now that I am awake, only the golds and the blues, the silvers and the whites come through in my mind. It is all sensory: how I felt, how he felt, what I smelled and tasted, no linear scenes, no sense of time or space, as if our loving was not real, but a dream and relegated to the subconscious realms of my mind. The coolness of early evening, the smell of wet skin and honeysuckle, always the honeysuckle, thick and sweet, its scent rich and warm, these are the things that are the clearest.

  I don't know how we got to his cabin. I don't even remember walking up the slopes to the road. The very next memory that comes to mind is his face as he lay me gently onto the pillows of his bed, and the sweet words he whispered in my ear in an ancient language I could not understand.

  He undressed me slowly and almost reverently, the wet clothes peeled away from my skin like thin layers of silk until I lay naked, and wet and burning from a fire within.

  He worshiped me first with his eyes, then with his hands. Then, his lips.

  I would have blushed had I known how, but I was beyond that. It must have been the reverence in his eyes that made me hold his gaze, that eased my fears, that caused my nipples to harden and my thighs to weaken. He studied me carefully, without words, without expression, but with a fire in his eyes that kept me warm despite the cool evening breeze that floated through the open window.

  I awoke from my dreamlike state only once when I remembered the imperfect condition of my body, and became self-conscious and ashamed. I moved to cover myself with my hands, but he stopped me, taking my hands from my breasts, his eyes never leaving mine.

  He kissed the knees that I felt were lumpy and fat, and ran his tongue up my thighs until they quivered and parted. He traced the tiny, silver slivers which crisscrossed my belly and stroked the loosened skin with his hands, telling me that I must have been exquisite when I was pregnant so long ago. By the time his tongue reached my nipples, I was delirious, my body running hot and cold. He licked the beads of sweat from my forehead, and wrapped his strong body around mine to keep me from shivering. I moaned for him to release me but he shushed me with his kisses.

  He touched me with such gentleness that I wondered at first if he thought I might break, or that I might be offended somehow. But I soon learned that his gentleness was just his way of paying homage to me. I felt as if I was worth twice my weight in gold and diamonds.

  And when he moved inside me, I couldn't think at all. The words to describe what I was feeling deserted me, and I became instinctive, primal, and wordless, letting my body speak for me, telling him with every kiss, every touch, every moan, and every squeeze, what it was I really wanted—and how I really felt about him.

  And I had said he ha
d no passion.

  I now knew why we had often said so few words to each other. I had known from the day I met him. For weeks, I had been reading his thoughts in his eyes.

  Later, while Jess was sleeping, I stepped out onto the porch and listened to the sounds of a night recovering from the brilliant noises of a summer storm. I didn't hear any scurrying or rustling in the undergrowth. The critters had more sense than I had. They had burrowed into their dens and nests and settled themselves to sleep.

  The thunderstorm was long gone, and all we were left with was a light, misty spray. But in the distance, the thunder rumbled now and then as if to remind us that it could still come back and threaten us with its booming voice.

  And I listened to my heartbeat and remembered the warm touch of Jess's fingertips on my damp skin. And smiled to myself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Idivided my time between Jess's cabin and Millie's place. Sometimes it was just better to go to Millie's and chitchat, stroke the cats, and eat Inez's fudge. Other times, when I needed to hear his voice, speaking only to me, and feel his hand gently stroke my face and my hair, I made my way up the mountain to Jess's cabin.

  Millie said I had a split personality.

  But Jess didn't seem to mind. And I began to think that with us working together all day, too, it might be pushing it to wrap ourselves up in each other twenty-four-seven. We were too old for that puppy love stuff. That's what I told myself.

  “You're treating me like a whore,” Jess told me one night after we had both melted into a muddle of sighs. He was still wrapped around me, his legs holding mine in a tight embrace, his thighs tightening their muscles and then releasing. He had propped himself up on his elbow and, even in the dark, I could feel his eyes boring into mine. But there was only warmth there. And amusement. I touched his face and felt that the corners of his mouth were turned upward into a grin.