Fear of Heights

by Mara White

  “No te voy ‘hacer daño,” he says, and I relax as he slides his straining erection between the cheeks of my ass, now lubricated by my own desire.

  Ideal takes me like this, so exposed, my breasts bouncing in time with his rhythm. His fingers are again inside me, fucking me swiftly with fluidity until they too are soaked and he drags them up my sex to masturbate me. I fight his hand away with my free one, feeling that if I come, the shame will kill me. But he grabs my hand and guides me until I’m touching myself beneath the command of his hand, reluctantly joining his own frenetic tempo, reluctantly falling completely beneath his spell. Every part of me is slick and aroused, every bounce carries me closer to coming undone.

  Will a release cause me more suffering, pile on more guilt to what I’ve become? If I come, it means I wanted it, that I liked it. But it’s too late to think; my body charges ahead, bent on ecstasy, and the coil of my reluctance snaps and quickly unwinds. I cry out, and curl my sweat-slick body away from Ideal.

  The subsequent silence hangs heavy in contrast to my scream. Then the sounds of the outside world return, creeping in like a symphony, one harmonious section at a time. The midday Univision news, the muffled boleros from a neighbor next door, the groan of traffic on Broadway, occasional voices rising in Spanish from the street down below. Ideal’s ragged panting so close to my ear.

  He grabs a sheet and pulls it over us, and I notice he’s still painfully erect. He lifts me from the bed over his shoulder again, this time giving me a tantalizing view of his muscular ass, and I see more tattoos that litter the entire expanse of his back. He marches me right past his grandfather, who is snoring gently on the couch. I close my eyes as a last-ditch attempt at modesty. Ideal laughs quietly as we pass.

  The bathroom is small, unkempt. Heating pipes are exposed, the leaks mended with duct tape. Rust makes orange tear-tracks down the wall. Ideal turns on the faucet and flips the shower switch, and the showerhead jerks and screeches with the protest of old pipes. He pulls the shower curtain back for me and I step under the cool stream. Ideal likes to wash me, I’m learning; this is an intimate step in his routine.

  He soaps me until I’m pink and covered in foam that runs down my legs in rivulets and swirls down the rusted drain. When the suds are gone, he turns off the shower, holds me from behind, and places both of my hands on the windowsill. The window is open just enough for me to see the barren grey roof of the building next door. My arms are braced alongside his, water beaded on the both of us. He covers the backs of my hands with his, and then enters me from behind. He fucks me so hard that it steals my breath away, the slap of our wet bodies sounding so violent, much too extreme.

  I sense a tiny break in his rhythm, and he jerks me back from the window and pushes me to my knees. I kneel but instinctively reject the push, and throw his hand off my shoulder.

  Just tell me what you want from me. I’ll give you what you need.

  But maybe these thoughts aren’t really for Ideal. These thoughts are for Jaylee. Why aren’t you with me, my love, when I’m so much in need?

  He strokes my neck and my chin, and coaxes my mouth open with the satiny head of his rock-solid length. I take him in and see the replay of this same scenario, but as it was the first time, with Jaylee in my mouth and Ideal watching from the shadows. I’ve come full circle. He unloads on my tongue and I swallow; it’s the consummation, the final orbit of this seed.

  He washes me all over again after he comes. I’ve never been so ridiculously clean—my body in a state of glaring contrast to my sullied conscience. Then he steps out, pulls a clean towel from the shelf, and wraps it around me. When he’s done drying himself, he throws down the towel he’s just used for me to stand on as a bathmat. He offers his hand to help me step out of the tub. Such bold kindness amid this poverty makes my own life’s luxury seem obscene.

  Ideal hugs me again and I stand gently on his feet. He cradles my face and looks at me. I look away, afraid of what I’ll see in him or maybe, of what he’ll see in me. He holds me steady and walks me out of the bathroom backwards, keeping me on top of his feet, my arms wrapped around his neck. I bury my face in his neck, embarrassed by our affection, made worse by the presence of his grandfather. In the hallway, Ideal yanks away the towel that was barely large enough to conceal my nudity, and snaps it playfully across my ass.

  “¡Que mujer!” he shouts to the ceiling and I hush him, stepping off his feet, grabbing the towel and running for the bedroom. He catches the end of the towel, pulls me back, and crushes me against his chest. And I laugh—I actually giggle. These are the first nascent sounds of happiness to escape me in weeks.

  “Te quiero fornicarrrrrrrrr!” he shouts and I slap him and shush him. Then he smiles at me so sweetly that my heart simultaneously cracks and blossoms. I’m so responsive to his affection that it embarrasses me.

  “‘Ta completemente sordo, he can’t hear nothing. That’s why the TV volume’s off.”

  In the bedroom he dries me tenderly and hands me a large t-shirt. I slip it over my head and go for my underwear, but he grabs them first and tosses them clear across the room. Back on the bed I curl into him, smell his neck, and pull his arms around me. He looks pleased and sleepy, and I want to disappear into the depths of him. I want to take his good nature, his generous spirit, and wrap it all around me, safeguard myself with it.

  I don’t know what this is, Ideal, but I’m so glad you’re here for me.

  “Can I touch you?” he whispers.

  What a strange question, given how much he’s already touched me. How much we’ve touched each other, how much we’ve let the other see. As I lie here curled up next to him, I’m overflowing with warmth. There’s enough between us to scoop up, ladle out—there might even be enough to heal me.

  Ideal touches the inside of my wrist, his first finger making tiny circles. He works his way to the center of my palm, the pads of my fingers, which he brings to his lips. Then he captures my hand and thrusts it between us, under the sheet that we share. He places it directly on his hard cock, another rock-solid erection, and gives me a mischievous grin. I don’t even think his erection is related to my affection. To young men like Ideal, sex is a sport—if there is a hoop and a ball, you play, shoot it, before you get kicked off of the court.

  “What about my envelope?“ I ask.

  Ideal groans, moves his arm behind him, and flails around the nightstand without looking, upsetting toiletries, an ashtray, a framed photo of a baby. He never takes his eyes off of me, doesn’t move a muscle from our embrace.

  “Is the baby in the photo yours?”

  He nods, says nothing, then dangles the envelope over my face. I snatch it away and open it quickly, as if the contents will immediately reveal Emily’s whereabouts. Ideal smiles. The envelope is empty and disbelief spreads across my face.

  “You brought me an empty envelope?”

  More silence and then he kisses me deeply, stroking the hair away from my temple and gently touching my face.

  His affection is so tender that it horrifies me. I don’t know whether to run, or to hold on to him as tightly as I can. I want so badly to be loved that I’m showering my affection all over the wrong person. And he’s drinking it up as if we we’re madly in love.

  “I’ll still help you. I just wanted to have you again first. The first time was good, but this was even better.”

  “Ideal, you know that I love Jaylee, right? And terrible as it may sound, I’m trying to make it work with my husband. I don’t have a choice.”

  “You love your husband?”

  “I don’t know anymore. But, Ideal, you should know,” and this I whisper to him, “I’m dangerous. Lately, I seem to destroy everything around me.” I hate to sound so melodramatic, but he deserves a fair warning.

  “I like hangin’ with you, Kate. If that’s destruction, then fuck it. Guess I like bein’ destroyed.”

  “I love the way you touch me,” I move my hand to cover my mouth because my words escaped, like
flying locusts—God only knows what damage they’ll do. I shouldn’t encourage him. This is bad enough already.

  Ideal’s hand passes between my legs, and he pulls me closer to him by the pelvis. Then his fingers are inside me again. I’m still damp and now sore. He spits on his other hand and lubricates himself. And once again we are joined. Ideal rolls me on top of him, his hands go to my breasts, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “I like you like this. Ready and wet for me when I want you. Naked in my bed.”

  This shouldn’t make me swoon, but it does. I almost come with just his reckless words. Chills flutter down my back as I rock my hips into his. I’m not an object, I’m not that easy, but Ideal certainly knows how to read me.

  I harbor an almost incapacitating weakness—a desire to belong to someone, to be their everything. Not just to be needed, but to be the one indispensable thing. The secret ingredient, the key to someone’s very existence. I was never that for my parents and Robert needs me less, year after year. My daughters too will eventually outgrow me. I’m afraid of fading into nothing, that little by little I’ll slowly disappear.

  A few hard thrusts from his hips and I’m already nudged to the precipice. He yanks my hair to pull my mouth to his and I spill over the edge, collapsing on top of him and breathing hard, my chest glued to his.

  “Sit up,” he commands.

  He steps off the bed and pulls me to him. I’m kneeling again, sitting on my feet. His hand sweeps behind my neck and he gathers my hair in one hand, pulls it over my shoulder and twists it once around his fist, then Ideal takes my mouth. Hard and without shame. Only freedom, consummation, a white flame of lust. This is Ideal; he is rough and lit shockingly bright from within.

  He comes in my mouth. I again swallow his seed.

  I don’t understand what’s happening between us. I don’t know who he is, how we got here, what the hell exactly I’m doing in his bed. The path that led me to him is a blur of compulsion. I keep turning rebellion into reality. Then I wake up, lost, standing in the middle of the mess, clueless as to how to proceed.

  Ideal reaches out and wipes semen from my top lip with the pad of his thumb, then he smears it into my bottom lip, lightly scraping my teeth. He pulls me up toward him, wrapping my legs around his waist and kisses me full on the mouth. No aversion to his own semen, my mind does a blip. There is so much I don’t know. About everything. About life, and love, and especially about sex.

  I quickly gather my clothes before Ideal decides to wash me again. I’ve lost track of time and it seems I came here for nothing. Ideal watches me get dressed. He’s reclined on the bed, so relaxed, with his arms resting behind his head. I think he finds my morality amusing, and secretly laughs at my shame.

  “Where’s my underwear?” I say, my hands on my hips.

  Ideal only shrugs and grins.

  I leave the building pantiless and hurry down the street. A lot of good I’m doing finding Emily by completely losing myself in sex. I’m annoyed with Ideal, but I still can’t help but smile when I think of him.

  I know all too well how infatuation makes you fall for everything around you. My love for Jaylee created enough overflow and runoff for me to fall newly in love with my husband. That was a mistake.

  My heart belongs to Jaylee, but there is bounty in this lovemaking that gives me a sweet compassion toward the world. I came to Ideal longing for escape through his touch. Instead, I’ve found meaning in his dusty apartment. In his well-worn bed that could use a change of sheets. In this unexpected lover, who can soothe everything that stings.

  Chapter 11

  It’s late afternoon when I make a phone call to my attorney. Robert hired Randolph, I believe, for his arm’s-length style of counsel. He’s sent me an email asking me to call him. There are major changes to the case, he says.

  Randolph sounds pleased; he asks after Robert and the children, taking an inordinately long time to get to the point. The last I knew of my case was that we were waiting for a discovery conference to set a possible date for trial. Randolph was still working on a plea as well as a possible motion to suppress, based on an illegal search. Randolph told me that no one can charge you for simply carrying large amounts of cash; the prosecution would have to prove a motive.

  Every time we speak, my anxiety gives me a million and one images of myself behind bars—of Ada and Pearl making the same trip to see me that I make to see Jaylee. I imagine them angry and filled with shame at a mother in jail. No matter how much my lawyer and my lawyer-husband reassure me that there’s no chance it will happen, I can’t help but imagine and reimagine the very worst scenarios.

  Then my mind wanders to Jaylee, his father imprisoned since he was a child. I’m sure Jaylee was angry with him, but I wonder who got the ultimate blame. Did Jaylee hate his father for going to jail, or did he hate the system that put him there? Would my daughters ever see why I tried to do what I did—to keep Jaylee out of prison, to keep his family together—or would they cast me as the criminal?

  How the hell do you act as a parent when you’re locked away behind bars? What becomes of the relationship, once the child gets tired of the wait? Tired not just of the bus ride and travel and tedious lines, but the years of being held in suspension? Whether they’re on the inside or the outside, innocent or guilty, all members of the family pay for the crime.

  Randolph interrupts my reverie by finally delivering the news. He sounds a little giddy.

  “Mrs. Champion, imagine my surprise when I received an unannounced visit from a federal agent at my offices this afternoon.”

  The full mug of tea on the way to my mouth comes down with a bang on the counter, the hot liquid splashing over the side and burning my hand.

  “What? Was it about my case?”

  “Well, it’s larger than that. It’s about the entire incident you were a part of. Apparently it’s bigger than we thought, and has been handed over completely to federal jurisdiction. I’m no longer a part of it.”

  I grab a dishtowel to wipe up the mess, then grab a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer and press it into the back of my hand.

  “What does that mean exactly? That I’ll be prosecuted on a federal level?” My heart starts to speed, and images of the television show with the white-collar white lady in the women’s prison come to mind. My version has a hideous laugh track, and none of it’s funny.

  “Not at all. The federal prosecutor dropped all charges against you after looking at the case.”

  I take a minute to absorb this, pulling out a pack of cigarettes Sarah left when she visited, that I’ve hidden in a kitchen drawer. I light one with a match and take a deep drag.

  “Wow,” I manage, before I cough on the cigarette smoke. I extinguish it in the sink, still coughing. I don’t smoke. What am I thinking?

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Champion?”

  “I’m fine. Is this like the motion to dismiss? The one we talked about, based on the lack of motive and witnesses?”

  “This is even better. No hearing, no conference. It’s a definitive decision.”

  “So, to be clear,” I say, drumming my knuckles on the counter, “you’re saying that the case was basically thrown out of court and I’m off the hook?”

  “I’ll need you to come my office to sign some papers, but other than that, it’s a done deal. They’re on to something much bigger than you, Mrs. Champion. My guess is that you’re of no value to them now. Everyone knows you’re not a drug dealer. What they’re looking for is a serious conviction.”

  “Thank God. That’s great news,” I say, my images of jail time all effectively popping. But that doesn’t solve all of my problems. “What about Jaylee Inoa’s case? Could it be thrown out as well?”

  Randolph pauses. “I’d say that’s doubtful. He’s got some real charges against him.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you so much for your help, Randolph,” I say, not wanting to sound ungrateful.

  “I’m sure Mr. Champion has been contacted. You could ask him fo
r details on the rest of the case, and what it means for the accused once it’s moved to federal court.”

  “Thanks, I will,” I say as I hang up the phone.

  It remains to be seen, however, just how much Robert is willing to tell me.

  Chapter 12

  I’m back at Ideal’s apartment again. I’ve been spending at least part of each day with him. He’s become like a new drug to me; I’m clearly an addict. Whereas Jaylee was like heroin, Ideal is crack: a cheap, fast fix that’s easy to get. I crash soon afterwards and feel regretful and trashy.

  But all I have to do is walk ten blocks from my house, and there he stands, like clockwork, always on the same corner. Today he’s in a spotless white t-shirt with a long rosary around his neck. Sneakers and jeans, and an easy smile on his face. He hugs me hard and takes me upstairs. There’s garbage in the hallway, and the building smells particularly bad. The walls have been painted so many times there’s a rounded warp to them. I drag my hand along it as we trudge up the stairs. The elevator is out of order today. This makes my denial more difficult—every damn stair making me more and more accountable.

  Our sex is coarse and hurried, without any affection to soften my blatant need for attention. Today I tell myself it’s the last time. Which is the same thing I said yesterday. Sex with Ideal is a quick fix, and I know it’s only a matter of time before the repercussions catch up with me.

  Ideal always smokes after sex. Today he offers me a drag. I take the cigarette from him and pull on it deeply. I’m not a smoker but I’ve been smoking lately. I find that I like sharing things with Ideal. I’ve shared my body with him, and even my doubts about Robert. Ideal has glimpsed some of my deepest fears and carried me through them. Perhaps, the strangest part is that he’s seen me make love to Jaylee. It doesn’t seem fair that in this one week, I’ve been with Ideal more than I ever was able to be with Jaylee. Or that this man I make love to as some sort of symbolic replacement actually knows my lover better than I do.