by DD Cooper
Pretty soon Lucy got bored of asking me about my hometown, which wasn’t much different than hers. I kept out many details. I never mentioned him. Soon, Lucy got the hint and didn’t ask me much about my family or the people I left behind.
“I didn’t leave anything behind,” I had told her once in a moment of hopelessness, “I thought I did. But some things you can never leave. They stay with you forever.”
And here I was today, sitting in the sand, watching Henry trying to take the perfect picture for the brochure that might not even materialize.
I absentmindedly leafed the pages of one of the journals, breathing in the wind as it played with my hair. I smiled when Henry looked up, but I was somewhere else. The memories tried to make their way to the forefront of my mind, but I pushed them back.
“I’ve gotta go, Henry,” I said. “Gotta get these journals somewhere safe.”
“What are those, anyway?” he asked, as if he had just now noticed they were there.
I lifted them up, in case he wanted a closer look. I inspected the worn leather covers of one of them, but couldn’t find anything really distinctive that caught my eye. And then I noticed the almost completely faded marks on the bottom of the spine. VII one of them said. Journal seven. How many journals did this person keep? And why did they stop writing? Or a much better question: who hid these journals in the wall of the house that Jack’s own had torn down to replace? So many questions ran through my mind, and I knew the only way to find some of the answers was to sit by the warm fire and actually read the words within.
“I’m not so sure what they’re about, yet, but I want to find out,” I said and stood up. I gave Henry back the blanket he let me borrow to sit on, since the sand was wet from the downpour earlier. It was going to get dark soon. I left Henry to capture his sunset in peace, while I trudged toward home, the journals safely underneath one arm, and Jack’s umbrella in the other.
After lighting the fire and getting comfortable, I had a difficult decision to make. It was like Sophie’s Choice, only much harder. Shall I start reading from the earliest journal (with closer inspection, I found I had III, V, and VII in my possession), or shall I go to the last one I had, hoping all the juicy details would be in there?
I leafed through the last journal. When in doubt, go to the end, though if it were a fiction novel, I definitely would have started at the beginning. But this wasn’t a novel. These were someone’s most inner thoughts, foolishly committed to paper, for anyone to find and read.
You must realize by now that I find the whole journaling thing a bit perplexing. If you don’t want anyone to read it, why keep a personal diary in the first place? Once something is out, from mind to paper, it must forever search for eyes to be laid upon it and to revel in its confessions.
Now I was starting to sound like those heroines from the novels of times long past, probably written by women who hadn’t had much experience in the real world, so they made up stories of forbidden love to lull themselves into a false sense of hope. Hope that would never become anything tangible. Would never become something that they could touch, but only dream about. And like a thief in the night, when the sun comes in through the shutters, it shatters those dreams, and the fragments fade away to be lost forever.
The sun shone that morning like it had never shone in my lifetime before, for I was in love. The man in question did not even know my name, but soon he shall, and we shall spend day and night together, in each other’s arms for the whole world to envy us. For our love will be the talk of the town and
I put the journal down. It was one of those. Just when I had resolved to forget Jack, or any other man for that matter, here fate had dropped into my hands the journal of a lovesick girl. It was just too much.
I tried to read more, to give it a good old try, but I just wasn’t in the mood to read about budding romance. Soon I found myself drifting away.
Minutes, or hours, passed, and I woke up with a jerk. Once I had oriented myself to where I was, I saw it was only Lucy coming in from work. I searched for a piece of paper and used it as a bookmark. The last thing I remember was our Ms. Browning (Josie Browning, to be precise) making extravagant plans to seduce a married man. It read like fiction, that was for sure, for I couldn’t believe any girl would be that daft and then have the audacity to brag (err, write) about it. Her plans hadn’t come to fruition, yet, but it was only a matter of time. If her entries were to be believed, she wasn’t a bad looking gal, and though the man she wanted was handsome, he was also older than her.
“What’s all this?” Lucy asked when she came back into the room after a quick shower.
“Just some journals I gotta hold of. Not too interesting yet, but it has potential to get better.”
“Where’d you find the darned things?” Lucy asked, most of her attention on opening a fresh bottle of wine.
I hesitated before telling her. “Jack’s,” I said, and then added when I saw the look on her face: “Nothing like that. I was out walking and that terrible storm had just started. Jack was on the beach and he offered me shelter in his place.”
“Tell me more,” she said as she held out another wine glass. I shook my head. I did not need another headache.
“Not much to tell. Borrowed journals, then I ran into Henry, taking photos of the sunset for Digby’s. Can you imagine this place becoming a tourist destination?”
“That creepo. I hope he didn’t give you too much trouble,” Lucy said as she poured generously into her wineglass, almost filling it to the brim. She meant Henry, of course. She wasn’t a huge fan of the fellow, but I didn’t mind him too much. He seemed nice enough. A bit weird, but then so was I. “Anyway, I know you’re trying to change the subject, and I want details. And lots of them. Let me live vicariously through you for a change.”
I told her everything that had happened. I even recounted the shirtless incident for her more than a couple of times, at her behest. She delighted in imagining being the one there instead of me.
“Oh God,” she said. “You were so close to him. And it seemed like he wanted you, and instead of shagging the guy, you borrow a couple of old ass journals from him? What’s up with that, Sophie? What’s up with that?”
“It’s actually quite spooky. These journals,” I lifted the one I was reading to show her. “His builders found them hidden in the walls of the old house when they tore it down. I wonder why anybody would go through all that trouble to hide journals, that from what I can tell, are just a lovesick girl pining for a man she couldn’t, or at least shouldn’t have.”
Lucy’s face went blank for a second, and then when she realized I was staring at her, she was back to normal.
“What’s wrong?” I hoped I didn’t offend her with my description of the girl. Surely she knew I didn’t mean anything by it?
“No, nothing,” she waved her hand as if it indeed was nothing to worry about. “Just that damn diner. If we were busier, it wouldn’t be so bad, but that place is dead most of the time. I really need to get away from this island. And once I do, you’re coming with me. Unless Jack Hotdamn Stark doesn’t sweep you off your feet first!”
“Oh Lucy. You don’t have to worry about that. At least Mr. Bottoms is at the diner most of the time, that’s gotta count for something.”
“One patron hating all our pies doesn’t count and you know it.”
She took a huge drink. I knew Lucy wasn’t happy on the island, but most of the time it was easy to forget. She would rarely be home at night, going out with some guy or other, always inviting me to join them, to make it a double date kind of thing with one of his “mates.” I always refused, of course. But it seemed for the past week or so the dates had dried up.
“Things going well with Sam?” I asked, wanting to change the subject. He was the last guy she had dated, and they seemed to be going strong. Until a week ago that it is. Usually he would call her, but that hadn’t happened in just as long. I wondered if they had broken up.
“I c
aught him shagging another girl. Kate if you can believe it. What a fucking twat.” Lucy took another huge gulp of her wine. It seemed I had hit a nerve without even meaning to.
“Oh, Lucy, I’m so sorry.” I said, utterly sincere.
“It’s not like I was going to marry the guy, so it’s not a huge loss.”
But there was something in her eyes that told a different story. It was as if she had hoped for something more with Sam, and now those hopes and dreams were shattered.
We sat in silence for a long time. Me not really daring to start reading the journal again, and Lucy lost in her own thoughts. I hated myself for bringing up such a painful subject, but if anybody could get over a guy, it would be Lucy. She had confided with me plenty of times that guys were only good for one thing, and I’ll let you decipher what that thing is on your own.
The next few days were a blur of work and the journals. I didn’t see much of anyone, either Jack or Henry, or even Lucy. It seemed that my question about Sam had woken something in her and she had started to go out again, in search of a “real man” as she had told me. I wished her luck. She said she would need it. So each night, after Lucy put on her best dress and I helped her with her hair and makeup, a different guy would pick her up and they’d do whatever it is islanders do on this godforsaken rock. One time, Lucy had told me that the one good thing about alcohol was that it tasted the same everywhere, whether you were in the city or in a tiny village pub. I couldn’t really disagree with her, since I had never been in either.
But as Lucy’s carnal adventures seemed to resume, I had carnal adventures of my own. Not in the way you’re thinking, but through the journals I was reading. It seemed that Ms. Browning had gotten her man. Here, read for yourself:
It finally happened. The moment I had been yearning for the whole summer. My beloved had finally shown me that this affair of ours was not one sided. I blush as I think of writing these words down, but they must be put to record. I never want to forget this night for as long as I shall live on this earth. For as long as breath enters my lungs, I want to remember the sweet, gentle touch of my lover’s lips on every part of my body. On the parts that no one but me has even seen! Oh the glory! The fire that burns as I think of the things we did.
It started innocently enough. I had attended his church for the last couple of months, but there were always others around. I could not get a moment alone. Especially his wretched wife would watch over him like a hawk. I could not fathom how a plain, almost ugly, looking woman as her could have gotten her clutches into such a fine man as Thomas. But I digress. This is not about her. She was not there yesterday, for she was sick in bed or something. I wasn’t really sure, and I didn’t really care. Perhaps she was allergic to something in the bread I baked for the church function. Alas, back to Thomas and that fateful hour when we two were the only sounds in the church. I had stayed later to help him put everything back in its place. He told me to go more than once, but I insisted. Mary, his wife, would usually help with these duties, but since she wasn’t able that day, I offered my services instead.
I lifted my skirts to show him what he was missing, and while there was a moment there in which I thought he would turn away and run, and my reputation would be ruined, he came closer instead. He pushed me up against a table, unzipped his pants and penetrated my inner most depths, with the hard and soft instrument of his manhood.
We made love, until both of us came in unison, while Jesus watched from the cross, blessing our love with his sad, sad eyes, that never stopped looking. I held on tight to Thomas’s firm ass as he entered me again and again, savoring each touch, each breath, each kiss, each moan. And then when we were finished, he zipped up and turned away from me.
“Go now, Josie. This must never happen again.”
I pulled up my undergarments and set everything in its right place, his seed still inside me. I went over to where he was standing, breathing heavily, obviously guilt ridden about what we had done. I put my arms around him, caressing his chest with my hands, then going a bit lower. He was still hard for me, and that made me smile.
“But it must, Father Thomas,” I said. “But it must.”
He turned around then and embraced me, and gave me the most passionate kiss of my life. The need, the desire, was plainly apparent in it.
“Damn you woman! I cannot refuse such beauty as yours!”
And that’s how I left him. Wanting me still. Mama always said that the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. I wasn’t much of a cook, so I’d deign to disagree.
Until later, dear diary! I’m sure I’ll have much more to report pretty soon.
I very much doubted that Miss Browning had blushed as she wrote those words, but I was definitely blushing while reading them. It was at once repulsive and yet oddly erotic. I could feel it reaching to my inner core, awakening the need there like I’d never felt before. I had to open a window just to get some cold air to take away the heat that had risen within me.
Miss Browning was definitely not a good girl. And it just happened that that was the last entry in the latest journal I had. If I wanted to continue the story, I needed to go to Jack’s again. But now I wasn’t so sure about the whole affair. Did I really want to continue reading what happened to be extremely erotic adventures of a scarlet woman? A woman who had no problem with seducing a married man, and a priest at that. It seemed a sordid affair indeed, but I still wanted to know what happened next. I wanted to get an idea of why these journals would be hidden instead of burnt. I knew if I was in her position, I would have burnt, not saved, the evidence of my discretions.
But here I was again, living through another’s experiences.
Not surprisingly, the next day I found myself walking toward that beautiful house on the hill, the talk of the town, and towards the man that had showed himself to be more than he seemed.
I walked up slowly, not really sure if I should have gone through with it or not. I wanted to wait for him to show up at the diner and just give him the journals there and be done with it, but he did not show up today. So after work, I took the journals with me and made the long way to his house. It was quickly getting dark, so I have no idea what I was thinking. Thankfully, no storm was in sight. At least not for now.
The sun was soon to set so I hurried to the door and prepared to knock, but what I saw instead shocked me.
I saw Jack, completely naked, on top of a woman with short, shoulder-length hair. I watched in horror as he thrust harder and harder, the sound of their lovemaking, of his moans and her urging ecstatic screams to give it to her “harder.”
And then, he collapsed on top of her, both of them sweaty from their carnal act. I watched as the girl carefully laid out a line of white powder beneath her breast (powdered sugar perhaps?) and urged Jack to give it a try. The dark look in Jack’s eyes, full of longing and something darker made me think that he was going to do something I wasn’t supposed to see. But instead, he leaned down, and while both of his hands held onto the woman’s inviting breasts he inhaled the white powder. Immediately he leaned his head back, eyes toward the ceiling, and the look on his face, though not dissimilar to the look when he came inside the woman, somehow felt more genuine. As if, if even by a measure of an inch (or centimeter if you want to go there) he felt more pleasure as the white powder worked its magic on his brain, filling his blood with euphoria or whatever it is drug addicts feel when they sniff coke. For I realized now, in shock and in horror, that indeed it was coke, and not powdered sugar that the woman had laid beneath her breast.
And then something even more shocking happened. Jack opened his eyes, and his beautiful green eyes, though now dulled by the sex and drugs, looked straight into mine, and the shock on his face was my confirmation that I had been seen.
Before I turned, I caught the woman’s face as well: it was Lucy. I saw as Jack got up, his “manhood” as Ms. Browning would call it still mostly hard, and started to move towards me. I turned and ran as fast as I coul
d down the hill, the precious journals slipping from my numb hands. I ran as tears filled my eyes.
Not surprisingly, once I made it to the beach, I fell in the sand, cursing my fate, and my stupidity in even thinking that a man like Jack Stark was a decent fellow who wouldn’t betray me. It took all the strength I had, which wasn’t much, to push myself out of the sinking sand I had found myself in. All I wanted to do was find a hole and disappear into it forever, or at least until I could hatch a plan to get away from Jack and Lucy and their torrid business.
I ran, but my legs did not take me far. Jack caught up to me. Thankfully, he had managed to put on some underwear, though his semi-hard “manhood” was still very much visible through the fabric.
I didn’t have time to say anything before he started to speak. “Sophie, please forgive me. She meant nothing to me. You are the one I want.”
“Then why were you fucking her just now?” I fired back. I might have been a small town girl, but I knew messed up when I saw it. And Jack seemed to be more messed up than anyone I’d ever seen in my life, and I know some freaks, so you know he’s not good news.
I expected Jack to apologize again, or tell me to go away, but he didn’t. Instead he used his hands to point out his perfect physique. “I’m a man, Sophie. I have needs. You don’t get to look like this and be celibate. It’s just not natural. And I don’t even know why you’re crying, why you’re mad all of a sudden. You were the one who told me that nothing was ever going to happen between us, remember?”
I knew he was right. I was the one out of line here, but I wasn’t going to let him off that easily. “You could have at least chosen somebody else, not my best friend.” Hot tears streamed down my face. The betrayal by Lucy was almost as big as that by Jack himself, if that was possible.
