by Amber Kizer
“Hmm …”
“When are we going to know instead of guess? When will this whole thing be easy?”
“Which part?”
“The dying still mess with my energy, even though Auntie said I’d be able to control it.”
“She said it would take time and practice. It’s only been a month, Supergirl.”
Only a month? Lifetimes filled that month. I felt like I lived in a dark box with no light, no clock, and no watch. Time lost all meaning. “And Fenestras—we thought we knew everyone’s birth date. I thought we were all girls. And now we find out—”
“Maybe there are more? And men can be Fenestra too?”
“Right?” I sat up and held eye contact. I thought of Señora Portalso, who’d ridden the bus from Portland to Revelation with me. She’d seen the light in me and recognized me as Fenestra before I even knew what was going on. She’d brought help and kindness to the caves without strings. What if she was like Rumi? And knew there were more beings like us between humanity and the Divine? “And maybe there are people who keep the secrets and know this truth and help us? Like Rumi, human versions of Custos and Minerva? We had support, on the bus and then in the caves—”
“Señora wasn’t a coincidence, you mean?”
“How much of this is us being puppets for the big guys”—I nodded up at the heavens—“and how much is free will?” I used to believe I controlled my destiny, but the more I lived, the more I wondered if there was no such thing as coincidence.
“I—”
I interrupted him. “And us—the Protector mantle and my needing you doesn’t make this any easier.”
“What ‘this’?” He seemed baffled.
“This.” I motioned between his body and mine. He’d decided, notably without my consent, that I wasn’t ready to progress beyond kissing. In my mind, we’d long since gone past that stage—our bodies just hadn’t caught up yet. Maybe he was right, but maybe he wasn’t.
He echoed my gestures. “What ‘this’? I still don’t get it.”
I knew mature people actually conversed about sex and their needs. At least that’s what I thought they did, but faced with talking about sex, and naked antics, I wanted to bury my head in my hands, put my fingers in my ears, and sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” at the top of my lungs. Okay, so I’d bathed him while he was sick. He’d helped me. But awake and surging and sexy—we hadn’t tackled that. Why, I couldn’t say.
Tens seemed determined to keep us chaste and me virginal, but I knew I could push him past that if I pressed. I just didn’t want to yet. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to make love with him, or that I had a moral objection to premarital sex; it was more that I knew it would complicate already insanely complicated reality. I wasn’t in a rush. Was I? Because it did royally piss me off that Tens hadn’t put the moves on me. He was way too upstanding to push, even if he was walking around with an eternal erection—which isn’t to say I’d noticed one. But then my crazy lack of relationship experience couldn’t fill a thimble, so what did I know?
Tens bracketed my face with his hands and forced eye contact. “Please?”
I fidgeted. “Are you not … um … Do you want to …” I broke off, my heart racing. What if he didn’t want to? What if all of this was just him feeling like he was stuck with me and he wasn’t attracted to me?
“Merry—”
“Sex.” I forced the word from my lungs and it sounded more like “sucks.”
He blinked, his hands squeezing reflexively before letting go of me. “This is about sex?”
I concentrated on picking up cracker crumbs stuck in the seams of the seat cushions. I nodded.
“What about it? Merry?” His voice deepened.
My mouth dry and my skin itchy, I couldn’t look at him.
“Supergirl? Do you feel pressure? I’ve been careful—”
“No, no.” I swallowed and sucked it up. He might laugh. He might agree with me. But that was no worse than continuing to think he found me as attractive as a tree stump. “Why haven’t we had sex?”
“What?” If the door to the truck had been open he’d have fallen out trying to get away.
Custos barked and leapt from the back of the truck, making the whole vehicle shake with the force.
Feeling bolder, I pressed. “Are you not attracted to me?”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this—” Tens’s expression rocked with incredulity. He rubbed his hands over his face and cracked the door. “Let’s go inside.”
His strides purposeful, almost robotic, he marched toward the cottage.
I took the keys out of the ignition and followed at a much slower pace.
There was a piece of paper taped to the door. Tens ripped it off.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I can’t read it.”
I undid the lock on the door and flipped on lights. “What’s it say?”
“I don’t care.” He didn’t even look at the paper, but stared at me instead. “Do you really think I don’t want to? Really?”
I inhaled carefully. All in, I said, “Well—”
“Oh my God. You have got to be kidding me.”
“What?”
“Merry, you have no idea. None.”
“So tell me.” Now I was getting ramped up.
“I love you.”
“I know that. I’m not saying you don’t. You love Custos too, but you don’t want to sleep with her. All we ever do is kiss—”
“Come on. The dog?” He angrily unlaced his boots, his shoulders vibrating with energy. “You’re sick.”
I shook my head. “Not anymore.”
“Really? Because I’m the one who sees you when you pass out. I’m the one who catches you and holds you.”
“And that makes you not want to—”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. Meridian, you’re a virgin.”
As if I weren’t aware of that. Kind of like pointing out to a fat person that they’re overweight. “So?”
“I’m not,” he huffed.
“What?” I knew he was older than me, and a boy, but I guess I had assumed. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it. “Who?”
“That’s not going to help—” Tens broke off and stared up at the ceiling. “Sit down, please?”
I came over to the couch and sat on the opposite end.
“Meridian, I can’t believe you don’t know how much I want you.”
“You do?” I squeaked, in a very unsexy voice.
He laughed mirthlessly. He turned toward me, pulling one leg up onto the couch. He reached out a hand along the back of the sofa, toward me, but stopped just short of contact. “Kills me. It kills me to pull away. To stop. I love the feel of your skin and the way you fit against me. I can’t get enough of you.”
“Then why?”
“I want it to be right.”
“When is that?”
“Are you ready?”
“You are.”
“Just because I’ve had sex doesn’t mean I’m ready to make love to you.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Big difference, Supergirl.” He grew silent.
“Explain, please?”
“I was living on the streets. I was cold and scared and felt completely alone. I thought you were a voice in my head that made me insane. She was older and I thought sex would make me feel more in control. More like a man.”
In a small voice I asked, “Did it?”
He snorted. “No, not even a little.”
“Was it bad?”
“I’m not going to lie. It felt good in the moment. I fell asleep next to her and it felt good. Close. Human contact is so underrated. It wasn’t about sex, not all of it.”
“And?”
“And when I woke up she was gone and so were my money and my sneakers.”
“She stole from you?”
“I wasn’t mad, Merry; I was the stupid one. To let my guard down. To trust her. But I learned
fast. The loneliness was worse after that.”
“But I’m not going to steal away—”
“I know that. Look, we could have sex right now and it might be great, or it might suck. It’s not like in the movies; we have to figure it out as we go, together.”
“You think having sex with me might suck?”
“Oh my God, are you deliberately trying to misunderstand me?” He grabbed my hand.
“No, but you just said—”
“We’ve only known each other a month. And most of that month we’ve been fighting for our lives, or yours, and sex changes everything and nothing.”
“It makes things more complicated?”
He nodded. “And it’s already really complicated. Meridian, I want you. I’m sorry you thought I didn’t. I really am. But let’s say we do make love and you’re not ready, or I’m not ready, then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“We do it. Someone regrets it. We’re not going to break up, right?”
“Right.”
“We could, but it would make the rest of the Fenestra-slash-Protector crap really, really hard. All I’m trying to do is make sure we’re in a place where neither of us regrets it.”
“Okay, but I’m regretting that all we do is kiss. It’s frustrating. I’m ready. I really am, and I don’t like you making the choice for me.”
He nodded. “That’s fair.”
“I like falling asleep with you. I love touching you. I don’t want to stop every time our tongues touch.”
“Then let’s make a deal.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll pull away when I reach my limit, not when I think you’ve reached yours, if you promise to stop too.”
“And if I don’t? If I really am ready?” I asked.
“I don’t want to screw this up. You’re too important. We’re too important to screw over because of hormones.” Tears flooded his eyes, but he blinked them back.
I scooted over, tracing his eyebrows and then his lips with my fingertips. “You won’t. You can’t.” I pulled him to me and hugged him.
His embrace tightened around me, until I was sitting in his lap, my legs wrapped around his waist. I don’t know how long we held each other. But I know his tears wet my neck.
“I love you,” I whispered into his ear.
He brokenly answered, “Always.”
We finally let go when Custos barked at us, picked up the note that had slid to the floor with her tongue, and mouthed it into my lap. We chuckled and I pretended not to see Tens wipe his face on his shirt.
“What does it say?”
“It’s from Joi. Anthony Theobald, former priest, now gives evening tours at the Eiteljorg Museum, 500 West Washington Street, Indianapolis. I told him to expect a friend of mine to contact him. Here’s his cell-phone number.”
“Former? Do you think it’s the right one?”
“I don’t know. Won’t hurt to find out. Do we call him?”
“I don’t think so. I think we go take a tour.”
Tens glanced at the rooster-shaped clock above the kitchen sink. “We have time to get down there if we leave right now.”
“Let’s go.”
I loved him, though he never really saw me unmasked. At least not until he flew away, but that is little comfort in my grief.
Melynda Laine
1918
CHAPTER 20
Tens found a parking place along the Central Canal and we walked hand in hand toward the museum. The fountain of frolicking bronze deer frozen in midflight wasn’t working. I imagined water flowing through them like a stream in the height of summer. Set far back from the road, up a stone-block path, stood the museum.
Tens whistled through his teeth. “Impressive.”
“Yeah, wow.” Layers of apricot, beige, and red stone gave the impression that the museum had been carved out of the earth eons ago. The air seemed to still and grow warm the closer we got. Even at half past twilight the rock softly reflected the sun.
Tens held the door for me. I’m sure we seemed like wide-eyed tourists transported to the Old West. Native American and Western artifacts were artfully placed; I didn’t know where to look first. Tens tugged me toward the information desk.
“You look just like your grandfather.”
We turned in unison as a Robert De Niro look-alike strode toward us with his hand outstretched.
Tens’s grandfather, Tyee Kemp, met Auntie and Charles during World War II and stayed in contact. I’d snooped and found letters Tyee had written to Auntie throughout the fifty-plus years they’d known each other. Tens didn’t talk about him much and I still didn’t know how Tens went from living in Seattle with his grandfather to showing up at Auntie’s two years ago. He’d walked and worked his way across the country, but I wasn’t privy to many details.
“Excuse me?” Tens asked.
“Am I wrong? You have to be related to my friend Tyee.”
I smiled. This had to be our Father Anthony.
Tens’s nod was snuffed out by a bear hug. I’m not sure I’d ever seen such shock on Tens’s face, but he returned the embrace, albeit more conservatively. I was next. The man smelled of soap and a subtle aftershave that reminded me of my father’s.
“Father Anthony?” I asked.
He nodded but didn’t take his eyes off of Tens’s face, as if he was trying to memorize each feature. “Not anymore. It’s so good to see you. Last picture I got was your second—no, third, maybe—birthday.”
“You know me?” Tens asked.
“Tenskawtawa Kemp, grandson of Tyee and Rosie?”
“No. Yes, I’m their grandson, but my last name is Valdes.”
“Ah, that’s right. It’s been so long. How is your grandfather? I was sorry to hear about your grandmother’s passing.”
“I didn’t really know her. But my grandfather—” Tens broke off, linking his fingers with mine.
I finished, “He died.”
Father Anthony sagged, his eyes filled with sadness. “My condolences. He was a good man. One of the best.” He turned toward me. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ignore a pretty lady.”
I waved my hand at his apology. “I’m Meridian Sozu.”
“Are you two the friends of Joi’s looking for me, then?”
I nodded. “Yes, we need to speak with you.”
“I have to give a tour in a few minutes.”
The gal behind the information desk called out with more than a little curiosity, “Mr. Theobald, those are your only arrivals tonight.”
“Well, then, would you like a tour of the museum, or would you like to go get coffee?”
“We came to meet you,” Tens answered.
I felt like we needed to apologize for not being more interested in the artifacts. “But we’d love to see the museum at some point.”
Father Anthony’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at me. “Some other time, then. There’s a coffee shop right down the street, across from the hotel. Why don’t you meet me there in about ten minutes? I’ll check out of the museum for the night.”
I left Tens to his thoughts while we walked down the street. He clung to my hand, but seemed utterly bereft of words. I didn’t think either of us expected Father Anthony to have a real connection to us. My assumption had been that he knew Juliet, not that he knew Tens. How do we move forward with this? What are the right questions to ask? What did Auntie want us to talk to him about?
At Sacred Grounds, I sipped a frothy hot chocolate and Tens played with the straws in his Americano. We sat in our usual positions: Tens against the wall, watching the door, and me sitting in such a way I could see the room and watch Tens. Father Anthony strolled in, zeroing in on our table.
“Ah, friends.” He shrugged out of his navy wool pea-coat and hung it on the chair next to me. He ordered his drink and came back to our table. His average height, dark hair liberally salted with gray, and dark brown eyes complemented his carriage. He was the type of
man I could easily walk by and not see, not because he faded away but because his serenity and assurance simply existed. He didn’t shout for attention in his dress or manner or personality. His was a steady fluidity.
“What brings you to me?” Father Anthony scooted his chair around the corner of the table so he could see both Tens and me.
Tens glanced at me, his expression helpless and confused.
“Is that too big a question?” Father Anthony asked.
Tens nodded.
I couldn’t handle Tens’s continued self-consciousness. “Will you tell us about how you knew Tens’s grandfather?”
“Sure. I’m happy to.” He sipped, holding his cup as if he could soak up the warmth of the coffee through his hands. “I served with Tyee in Vietnam, as a chaplain. I was a young priest, very green. He was one of the best field commanders. He cared about his men, and came to me when he worried for them. He also watched out for me. By that time he’d served in Europe during World War II, fought in Korea, and had three tours in Nam. He knew what to look for, how to see it, and how to teach us beginners to survive. War creates relationships, friendships thick as quicksand, with lightning speed. You watch men die, bleeding, and hold them while they do. On the other end of that you’re bonded. I can’t articulate the enormity, the speed and the steel that war builds.”
“You were friends after?” I asked.
“Sometime during that first tour and his last one, we became brothers. ‘Friends’ isn’t a big enough word. He was hurt—shot out his knee.”
“The left one?” Tens’s gaze sharpened.
“Yes.”
“You remember?” I asked.
“Some things you see are seared in. His knee was shattered, ground-up, turned inside out. I used a tourniquet, stopped the bleeding. Felt like hours I bent over that left leg. He was left-handed, told me he’d never dance again with a smile on his face.”
Tens nodded. “He limped, felt the weather change in that leg. I used to ask him about the scars crisscrossing it like a spiderweb, but he wouldn’t answer.”
“I’m sure he didn’t have the words. It can be hard to share things with people you love when you think telling them will hurt ’em. Protect them with secrets and silence. That’s the code. That’s what kills us from the inside out when the war is over.” Sadness clouded Father Anthony’s face. “We lost touch in the mid-eighties. By that time I had a parish in northern Indiana; he’d moved to the West Coast, I think.”
