“Your bath is ready.”
She props herself on her side. “Will you stay with me?”
“I was gonna tend to your wounds. Just need to get my Dopp kit from my overnight bag. You can go ahead. I’ll be right in.”
I open my suitcase and grab the leather pouch I’ve carried with me on all my journeys, the pouch with contents used to stop the bleeding from so many unexpected events. I hear the water move in small waves, can visualize the immersion of her naked body. I wait an extra minute before returning to my bathroom where she waits.
I tap the door and she says, “You can come in.”
I peek around the corner. On the floor, I notice the piled-up blanket with her panties curled on top as though she’d just melted like Frosty the Snowman or the Wicked Witch of the West. Steam coats me as I take a half step in.
Her body is buried under the water, protected by a shield of bubbles. I open my bag and start retrieving items like a medic on a battlefield. I analyze her wounds, start looking at her arms and hands and shoulders. I soak a cotton ball in antiseptic and gently dab it on an open cut on her forearm. Melody closes her eyes, grimaces. After a few iterations, she gets used to the pain, begins watching me instead of the wounds.
“You’re good at this,” she says softly.
“Well, I’ve got a lot of experience fixing wounds—my own, at least.”
She watches again, the only sound between us the noise of the bathroom fan. Then a few moments later, she says, “Show me one.”
“One what?”
“Wound.”
That’s like trying to select the most significant battle of the Civil War. But if I had to pick, it’s probably the one she’s been able to see all along, the one Ettore imprinted on my temple, the one that speaks every time I look in a mirror, reminds me why I’m doing all of this. But Melody needs to see more, to see what’s behind my curtain of clothes. I’m not sure where to begin, but I’m hot from the steam, so I don’t hesitate to pull my sweater up and expose my stomach, display a six-inch scar that healed into more of a valley than an indentation, the result of a wayward knife when I was ten years younger.
Melody opens her mouth but nothing comes out, leans up and slowly reaches for my abdomen, runs her finger lightly across the scar. “Oh, my…” She swallows. “How terrible.” Honestly, the thing looks far worse than it ever hurt. Alternatively, I have a small puncture wound—can barely see it—right at the center of my left deltoid, a poorly healed perforation that sends a blast of pain all the way to the base of my neck anytime I have to lift something above my head. Melody keeps her fingers moving, leaves the six-inch carving and moves to a smaller question-mark shape near the center of my chest. She raises my sweater as she gazes at the remnants of battles gone by, my own collection of souvenirs. She lifts the sweater even farther as the look on her face turns to queasiness, and I realize I’ve been handed another opportunity to show her how life with me has a discordant translation, that if she has any emotion for me running through her, sustaining it would have to be worth this.
So I pull off my sweater and T-shirt completely, expose my torn and blemished upper body to her like a prize catch pulled from the ocean. She slides back down in the tub as she lets out a sigh, says, “Oh.” She actually turns and looks away, says to herself, “There are just so many.”
Then I quickly put the T-shirt back on as I realize the potential mistake I made: My wounded body may have reinstated the fear of what she could face tomorrow. “Well, all wounds heal, you know? I mean, most of them do, I guess. You can get through pretty much anything. Remind me to get rid of this DNA-soaked sweater, by the way.”
The bubbles are disappearing so I step up my tending to her cuts. I finish her arms and shoulders, ask her how her ankle is feeling.
“Still a little sore.”
I carefully reach into the water, find her knee with my hand, curl my fingers underneath her leg as I run them down the length of her calf. I gently lift up her leg, hold her calf in one hand and drag my fingers to her ankle, rub it softly to check for swelling. I massage her foot—it seems so small and delicate—and ask her how it feels.
She just stares at me, nods quickly, like keep doing that.
The bubbles are gone, her nude body concealed by nothing more than a cloud of soapy water. I walk over to her room to get her terry robe, then open it for her to step into. She backs in, like I’m helping her put on a winter coat, then pulls the sides together and tightens the belt.
I leave her there, walk out to my bed, and sit on the end and drop my head to my hands. She emerges a few minutes later, comes and sits next to me.
“Beating up that guy take it out of you?”
I look at her and smile. “You take it out of me.”
She slides over so our thighs are pressed together, puts her hand on my jeans, slides her hand between my legs. It feels intimate but something’s changed in how she leans my way and touches me, like the surge of passion has dissipated and her interest in me is more thought out, almost preplanned.
“Listen,” she says, “I’m tired, Jonathan. I’m tired of waiting and I’m tired of lying and I’m tired of not living and, I… I’m just going to come out and say it.” I can feel her hand trembling between my legs. “I want you to sleep with me tonight. I mean, I’m not even sure what I’m really asking—as you well know—but I want it to happen.”
While what she’s offering is the greatest gift I might ever receive, her honesty and ability to express her feelings this way are what drag me down harder than any pair of cinder blocks. I clear my throat to rid the obvious lump in it, and say with no hesitation, having lost—surrendered—any further ability to deny my feelings, “I want you, too, Melody.”
She studies me, pulls her hand out and rests it on a less intimate spot near my knee. “But.”
I lick my lips, shake my head. “I can’t take anything more from you.”
“You’re not taking it, Jonathan; I’m giving it. I want you to have it.”
“But I don’t deserve it. More importantly, you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”
She smirks. “What?”
“What if, after tomorrow, we have to remain apart?”
Melody passes me a look I don’t recognize, some blend of being hurt and being confounded. Her voice starts off at normal volume but fades so abruptly I barely understand the finish: “Why would we have to remain apart?”
I bite my lip, feel like I’m watching her collapse and die alongside her parents. I might as well have put the bullet in her back then. I hold my breath for a few seconds. “I may be the unpredictable one,” I say, “but I come from a long line of capricious and impulsive people.” I reach over and glide my hand up the back of her neck, gently run my fingers through her hair. “I know what I’m doing. No matter what the feds told you about my family or how they think we operate or what our motivations and responses are, no one understands my family the way I do. I need you to trust me; I’m just preparing for the worst.”
“The worst being…?”
I laugh through my nose. “You haven’t considered the worst?”
She turns to face me more directly, pulls her leg up, and I stroke it with the back of my hand. “I thought I hit rock bottom some time ago,” she says. “Turns out it’s a sliding scale downward.” She reaches over, rests her hand on my shoulder, then slowly slips it around my neck. “But I have a really big reason to want to stay alive now. Do you understand?”
I nod. “Don’t worry, Melody. I’ll never let anything bad happen to you again. I made you that promise and I intend to keep it. I’ll always do what needs to be done to keep you safe. Always.”
Right. That and you’re flawless. My superlatives have to go.
Except something inside her changes this time. Melody stares at me, gives me the same look she gave in the Italian place in Baltimore when she first genuinely considered my words, started feeling the sway. She keeps her hand behind my neck and pulls me to her, rests
her forehead against mine and looks down. We stay like this for a long time, paralyzed.
“Will you sleep with me?” she finally whispers. “I mean, literally.”
I know: terrible idea. It’s like pulling our hands from the wheel, careening off into a ditch, left with no more than the remains of a totaled automobile and a lifetime of scars and bad memories. But between us we share a mixture of fear and loneliness and hope, and I can’t ignore the potential pleasure of feeling her warmth throughout the night. I know deep down that if I do not sleep with her, feel her against me for one night, I’ll regret it for every remaining moment on this earth. Where every addict attempting recovery battles the one last time scenario, they followed the path of addiction with this first step: One time can’t hurt.
I slowly nod.
“I’ll be over in a minute,” I say.
She walks back to her room through the adjoining door, pulls it behind her but does not close it. I quickly brush my teeth and run a wet hand through my hair, change into nothing more than pajama bottoms. I wait behind the adjoining door until I hear the sound of her faucet go off and the door to her bathroom open, and I walk in.
Melody stands next to the bed twisting her fingers together over her chest, looks down at herself. She’s wearing nothing but a camisole Melissa convinced me every woman needs in her bag—indeed—and panties. “I hope this is okay,” she says. “It’s how I sleep.” She curls her toes, twists her foot on the floor like a little girl. I nod like it’s fine, then harder, like it’s perfect. She brings a hand to her face, covers a smile, and shakes her head.
She walks up to me, takes me by both hands and leads us to the bed, sits on the edge and pulls me down. She slips under the covers, her eyes on me the entire time. I consider turning around and fleeing to the safety of my room, but her look demands that I remain. I get in next to her and take off my glasses. She turns off the lamp and I’m thankful I don’t have the light to reflect the color and design of her soft and curvy body.
She snuggles up against me and we kiss, what she probably meant to be a peck but somehow transformed into that seemingly practiced intimacy again. The kiss lasts for more than a minute, manages to progress beyond our only other encounter, enhanced by the freedom to explore away from onlookers, the ability to moan and caress in the privacy of our darkened room. And as if she read my mind, she pulls back and throws a finger to my lips, is out of breath, holds her finger firmly against my mouth. I can feel her breath on my face. Finally, she whispers, “Keep me alive, Jonathan.”
I nod, try to pretend I’m not equally winded, attempt a look of certainty despite a heart of cold confidence.
She slowly turns over and slides my direction, pushes her lower back and bottom against me, hard; a layer of heat emerges between us, stays trapped under the sheet. She reaches back like she’s trying to find the blanket, but grabs my arm and pulls it over her instead, takes my hand and places it on her belly, holds it there for a moment, then slides it up under her camisole so it rests just below her chest; I can feel the soft edge of her breasts against the side of my hand. I lean my head forward, get my face so close to her head that I could count the hairs.
In any other situation, I might have found this the perfect way to fall asleep, but I cannot deny it being the most intimate way I’ve ever held a woman; I’ve had many in my arms, but never before wanted one in them so badly, never so greatly regretted how I must eventually release her.
With my hand on her torso I can feel her heart slowing, yet still pumping hard. I think of how my father asked me to make it stop, bring her life to an abrupt ending, slap her shut and toss her aside like an unfinished book. This recurring reality of my life and family drains away the pleasure of the moment. My hand starts to shake and I’m afraid she’ll feel it; I don’t want to move it, either. My emotional stake in her well-being has grown exponentially, my approach to saving her shifting to the more reckless and desperate; my family better make the right choice. With each breath I see how easily Ettore would’ve dropped her in the parking lot of the A&P, how he would’ve simply walked away, returned to his motel room to clean his guns. How he could never know what he destroyed, and how my father could never grasp what he actually requested. Like taking an unseen Monet or Rembrandt and torching it, no one would’ve ever comprehended its magnificence, ever knew it even existed.
I think of the first night I met her in the motel in Cape Charles. As her body now rises and falls with each breath, I remember just how gently she slept then, how peaceful she seemed until I pressed my pen to her neck, began the long journey toward gaining her trust. And then I remember what I witnessed before I even entered her room, an image that had gone missing during these turbulent days but comes upon me now with the weight and worry of a forgotten deadline.
I gently jar her body with my hand. She stirs, turns her head halfway.
“I saw you kiss Sean,” I blurt.
The rising and falling stops.
“What?” she says. “Wait. Who?”
“Your useless fed. And I saw him leave your room the morning I came to get you.”
She turns her head all the way to mine, her back flat against the mattress. She stares at me and thinks for a moment; her inability to recall what I’m talking about declares the memory’s insignificance. I wish I hadn’t brought it up.
“It wasn’t that kind of kiss,” she says. “It wasn’t what you and I just shared.”
I smile a little. “It’s okay.”
She turns all the way so we face each other squarely. “No, it’s not. I was just… I don’t know what I was doing. It was nothing. You have to know that. And I don’t know what you think you saw, but he was not in my room overnight. I did not see him until the next day, he simply checked in on me in the morning.”
“Okay.” She runs her hand up my body, stares at me. “Seriously.”
She smiles a little, turns back to her original position. After a moment, she says, “You were right, by the way. Sean is not married.”
Gardner may be an inconsistent human being, but his data sure is reliable.
Then she adds, “I asked him about it after he stole me away from you in Baltimore, wanted to know why he wore a wedding band. He told me his wife had died years earlier and that he leaves the ring on because ‘there will only ever be one Mrs. Douglas’ and he will never remarry—his words.” She chuckles quietly. “Then he told me it helps to fend off the ladies, too.”
What a pretentious, self-congratulating piece of—
“I liked that about him,” she says.
Oh.
Then, as she yawns, “It was one of his two redeeming qualities.” When I don’t respond, she continues, “The idea of someone knowing when real love has come and gone from this life, how that person can love the memory of someone more than they could ever love again.” She pushes back against me again. “There’s no truer sign of love, nothing more beautiful, than sacrifice.”
She takes a deep breath, holds it the way I used to when inhaling my first hit of nicotine for the day, then lets it slip out as a sigh.
“So,” I say, “what was his other redeeming quality?”
She shifts her body a little. “He seemed to have his finger on the pulse of what was going on even though he appeared aloof, like it was easy for him. Like the way he found me in the parking lot of the Italian restaurant.” She turns a little. “I wasn’t happy about that, as you know—but he always seemed in control, even though he appeared out of it.”
Just what I wanted to hear. To me, he was the distracted bumbler tossing shells in the Chesapeake; Melody’s depiction indicates that my interpretation might’ve been wrong all along.
“He really that different from all the other marshals you’ve known?”
She gently brushes her cheek, thinks. “He was more talkative, but that’s not saying much. Every marshal I’ve known has been incredibly focused, not easily diverted.” I mentally shrug. Then: “I don’t know, maybe it’s because he cam
e from the FBI.”
Now my body stops rising and falling.
“What do you mean?”
“He said he used to be with the FBI, was there for most of his career, moved to the Marshals Service not too long ago.”
My conceptual sketch of Sean, the abstract drawn and colored by my limited observations, turned out to be an impressionistic work. And useless. As I start to hear Melody’s breathing deepen, I know she’s seconds from sleep. Me? Not a frigging wink anywhere in my near future. Her breath stutters like she’s going to say something else, that there’s more to the story, but she either forgot or is too tired to continue. I twist my arm up and over her head, begin lightly stroking her hair, run my fingers back and forth across her hairline at the top of her neck.
Then, barely audible, she asks, “Do you speak Italian?”
I know some, mostly general greetings and small talk, gastronomic terms, and slang no one would ever want translated. “A little.”
Her final words: “Whisper to me.”
I am preoccupied with Sean now, racked with concern that he’s been one room away this entire time, so in control of the operation that he’s grabbing a cup of coffee and a croissant before dropping by. But Melody’s effect on my being, her steady and strong pull on my life like I have my own personal gravity, has me succumbing to her command. I wrap my arm around her body, outside of her clothes, outside of the sheet, and pull her in, move my head to hers, and whisper all the things I would want her to know, that I could never say for fear she would not have the will to leave me. I whisper in broken Italian how she is both a princess and an angel; how I love what she’s done for me, how when I’m with her I want to be a better man; how it does not matter if the world ever views her as imperfect because she’s perfect for me; how these days, these moments we’ve shared are so brilliant it’s been worth living the other thirty years of my life just to get to experience them.
The Exceptions Page 28
