by Cathy Holton
He was waiting in the car with the windows down. He had taken off his jacket and laid it across the back seat, and rolled his shirtsleeves so that his forearms were bare. His hair, stirred by the humid breeze, fell boyishly over his forehead. When he saw her he smiled and got out, going around to open her door. She thought he might kiss her, there in the sunlit parking lot where anyone could see, but he didn’t.
“Let’s get a breeze going before I melt,” she said, sliding in and lifting her hair off the back of her neck. She removed her hat and fanned herself. He started the car and drove north through town, crossing the river and then turning left at Suck Creek Road. They followed the road for miles, the creek glinting through the trees to their right, past modest farms and houses, and later, junkyards and tarpaper shacks.
“Where exactly are we going?” she asked, drowsy with the heat. The wind roared through the car, blowing their hair around their faces.
“The Blue Hole.” He glanced at her. “Ever been there?”
“No.”
“Really? Never been swimming at the Blue Hole? You haven’t lived until you’ve dipped your sweet toes into the icy waters of the Blue Hole.” He glanced down at her feet when he said this, laughing, and she colored, remembering how he had lifted one foot and delicately kissed the arch, his expression one of curious and attentive devotion. It was an expression she had begun to look for during their lovemaking, an almost worshipful turning inward, a monk-like attention, an act of pure faith. It gave her a feeling of awe and power that she could be the cause of such feeling.
They turned right at the top of a rise and drove along a narrow rutted road toward the creek. Arching trees and brambles closed in around them, pressing against the sides of the car. The breeze had died and the heat was thick and close, heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and wild mint. The car bumped and jolted along the rutted track and Alice put a hand on the dash to steady herself. Sweat trickled down her back. Ahead she could see an opening in the brush and beyond that a glinting ribbon of water.
Just as the heat became unbearable, they broke through suddenly into a clearing and the breeze began again, soft and warm. They were on a rocky bluff overlooking the swiftly moving creek. A narrow path led down to the water’s edge through a collection of large tumbled boulders and thick clumps of rhododendron, their flowers swarming with bees. On the opposite side, rock cliffs rose into the cloudless sky.
“Where’s the Blue Hole?” she said, climbing out of the car and stretching languidly.
“Be patient. You’ll see.” He took the lunch pail and started down the trail, and she set her hat firmly on her head and followed him. He walked with a long swinging stride, his shoulders straining against the white cotton shirt, as sure-footed as a mountain goat along the rocky trail. Half-way down, he stopped and waited for her.
“I didn’t know we’d be walking so far,” she said breathlessly. “These aren’t the best shoes for this.”
“Do I need to carry you?”
She gave him a defiant look and leaned and slipped off her shoes.
The trail turned sharply to the left and followed the creek for half a mile before it rose again through a series of rocky ledges. The woods were dense here, thick stands of spruce and fir and steep slopes dotted with wild hydrangea. He stopped again at the top of the trail, waiting for her, and then started down on the other side. The stream narrowed, roaring loudly through rocky cliffs on both banks. Large boulders created a natural dam and a pool of slowly moving blue water, while further downstream, another line of boulders created a series of cascading falls. The bank of the creek was dark and slick and shaded by hemlocks and rhododendrons. Several wide flat rocks extended into the pool and, jumping up on one of them, Brendan crouched and set the lunch pail in the cool shallows.
He put his hand out to Alice and pulled her up on the rock beside him. Sunlight streamed between the tall trees, glinting off the blue water of the pool.
“How deep is it?” she said, leaning against him and smelling the hot starched scent of his shirt, his own familiar smell mixed with the scent of tobacco and cologne and, very faintly, whiskey.
“Deep.” He pointed to the cliffs on the opposite shore. “We dive from those sometimes. To my knowledge, no one’s ever touched the bottom.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Only if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
He looked down at her and grinned. Pulling her close, he kissed her roughly, and then let her go.
She swayed, leaning lightly against him. She said, “How far is the Suck?”
“It’s downstream from here, where the creek empties into the river. And it’s only dangerous in the spring when the heavy rains come.”
Alice had grown up on stories of The Suck, her father’s tales of the notorious whirlpool on the Tennessee River where many a poor settler and his family had drowned. In the old days, settlers had come down the creek on flatbottomed barges, and Chief Dragging Canoe had stationed his warriors in the cliffs overlooking the river to pick them off as they attempted the treacherous crossing. Those that the Cherokees didn’t kill, The Suck often did.
“Should we eat first or swim?” Brendan said. Looking up at his dark face, the high cheekbones, the startling green eyes, she felt a tremor low in her belly, a swelling of shame and desire.
“Swim,” she said.
She had been unprepared for the intensity of the sexual act, the obliterating spasm of orgasm. She had, of course, discovered said spasm years before through a long line of ardent, imaginary lovers, but had never experienced it in the company of another. It seemed almost too private an act, too exquisitely personal to be shared, and yet each time she felt more connected to Brendan, less lonely in the world than before.
Neither one of them ever spoke of love. It wasn’t necessary.
Their feelings were expressed through their actions, their ravenous mouths and hands. All was surrender and exquisite release, skin against skin, taste, smell, grateful murmurings. There was no need for words; words would disappoint, diminish, render the extraordinary ordinary.
Alice had engaged in heavy petting with boys at college, but it had never been like this. There had always been a feeling of alarm and embarrassment, followed by mild irritation. Small pleasures easily forgotten. A feeling, after it was over, that she never wanted to see the boy again.
It had never been like that with Brendan, not from their very first kiss that night at the River Rat Club. Kissing him was like falling, like stepping off a high place, a sense of letting go. And pleasure, too; the softness of his lower lip, the light but insistent pressure of his tongue. Above all, a feeling of familiarity and acceptance, as if she was where she was meant to be, as if everything that was happening to her was long-ago preordained.
And the act itself, when it finally came, was easy, too. Not something they had discussed, not something he had pushed on her (he had always been the one to stop), just a sense of sinking into pleasure, and pain too, an act as natural and necessary as breathing. Once they began there was no turning back. They made love in his car, parked along the river at night, and twice at some travel cabins just across the Georgia state line.
“I’m pretty sure the things we’ve just done are illegal in the Sovereign State of Georgia,” he said one night, driving back to Chattanooga. He looked at her with mock gravity. “I suppose now I’ll have to marry you.”
She laughed.
She was careful not to be seen with him in public places where people she knew might frequent. She told her parents nothing and they didn’t seem suspicious. Unlike Laura, she had never lied to them in order to throw herself at some unsuitable young man and they had no reason to doubt her.
What the future held for them, she did not stop to think. She was happy just to spend the summer in his arms, sinking ever deeper into the heart of love, blithely oblivious to the world and its workings.
The water of the Blue Hole was cold. Breathtakingly cold. The edges were lined
with large rocks but the center was deep and clear, and they swam back and forth, splashing one another and diving into the frigid depths. Despite her cries of alarm, Brendan climbed to the top of the cliffs and dove, his body hanging motionless mid-air, before plunging smoothly into the blue-green depths. He dove several times, and she was relieved, each time, to see his dark head surface, sleek and shining.
Despite the heat, they were the only ones there, although Brendan warned her others might appear at any time. It was a popular swimming hole. This fact gave their lovemaking urgency, and when he pushed her beneath a rock ledge and slid down the straps of her swimming suit, she didn’t protest but laughed and trembled with excitement.
Afterwards they stretched out on a warm flat rock and sunned themselves. They fell asleep and when they woke a short time later, still drowsy with the heat, he rose and went to fetch the lunch pail. She lay on her back and watched him, his wide shoulders tanned by the sun, his spare, yet muscular body. He was not overly tall, but he was quick and lithe in his movements like an athlete.
“Should I bring it to you?”
She dropped one arm lazily across her eyes. “Do you mind?” she said.
He pulled the bucket up and carried it across the rocks to where Alice lay sunning. There were four bottles of beer, and ham sandwiches and hardboiled eggs wrapped in waxed paper, and a tin of olives. She sat up, cross-legged, and they ate in silence, enjoying the whir of the insects and the faint roaring sound of the creek. Overhead through the trees, great white clouds drifted.
He drank two beers in quick succession, but she drank only one, setting the other one back in the pail.
“Have it, if you like,” she said.
She lay down on her back, closing her eyes against the glare of the sun. “I wish I could stay like this forever,” she said.
“We can stay like this forever,” he said.
He opened the last beer and stretched out beside her, raising himself on one elbow. He touched the bottle to the bridge of her nose, the warm spot between her breasts, farther down between her thighs.
She jumped and pushed his hand away. “Behave,” she said.
She hadn’t told him about her plans for New York which, as the summer passed, had grown more and more distant. Clarice had gone up to Manhattan and gotten an apartment and a job as a stenographer for an advertising company, but Alice had yet to answer her last three letters.
“I can’t stay much longer,” she said. “I have to be home before my parents get back from the barbecue. I told them I had a cold and they’ll expect to find me in bed.”
He set the bottle down carefully on the rock. “You could stay if you wanted to.”
She turned her head and put one hand up, shading her eyes. “I can’t. You know I want to, but I can’t.”
He stared at her until she closed her eyes, dropped her hand. “All this sneaking around is beginning to wear on me,” he said.
“You know it can’t be any other way.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“Because your father thinks I’m a social-climbing rogue?”
“Because of my sister,” she said gently. But it was true, although she didn’t like to admit it, even to herself, that she couldn’t bear the thought of telling her father about him. She couldn’t bear the thought of her father’s disbelief, his stern and implacable disappointment.
A troubled look crossed Brendan’s face, followed quickly by an expression of sly exuberance. He sat up suddenly and, taking her hands, pulled her upright. “Marry me,” he said.
She stared into his face, into his eyes which were lit now by a look of expectation and something else – fear, perhaps, or wounded vanity. She smiled foolishly at him but said nothing.
He let go of her hands and rose and walked to the edge of the rock, taking the beer with him. He stood with his back to her, gazing down at the shaded pool, tipping his head to drink. She knew she had hurt him. There had been times, in her early daydreams, when she had imagined a life with him, scenes of ironic domesticity, wedded bliss, but as their passion grew, she had let go of those daydreams. It was the price she paid for her guilt, the knowledge that the affair would end and she would go on without him. It was the only thing that made these meetings possible; her acceptance that they must eventually stop. She could not hurt her sister. She could not disappoint her parents. To marry him was unthinkable.
And yet there was a part of her that, even now, stirred with subtle anticipation and selfish possibility. Staring at his wide back, the graceful narrowing of his hips, she thought, Why not?
He leaned and began to collect his scattered clothes.
“We better get back,” he said. His manner had changed; he was suddenly brisk and business-like.
She stood and walked over to him, letting her hand rest for a moment on his shoulder. “Don’t be angry,” she said.
“I’m not angry.” He smiled down at her, pulled his shirt over his head. He had the air of a man who fears he has made a fool of himself and must compensate now by a show of measured indifference. They dressed in silence, their backs to each other. The sun had begun to sink above the distant ridge tops and the heat of the afternoon was dying down. Long shadows lay across the pool. The day, which had begun so bright and promising, had turned dim, oppressive. Alice shivered as she buttoned her dress. She hoped her parents had not returned from the barbecue. The last thing she wanted on this day, of all days, was a scene with her mother.
He said, “There’s a place I want you to see.” He tucked his shirttail into his trousers. His face and neck above his white collar were burned red by the sun. “Have you ever heard of the McGuire Farm?”
She ran her fingers through her wet hair. “Of course I have.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“Once. When I was small.”
“I’ll take you.” He stepped into his shoes and leaned to tie the laces. “When we first moved here from Kansas, my father was the caretaker. The family had moved into town but they still used the Big House on special occasions, and my father and I lived in the caretaker’s cabin in the back. I still have a key.”
“Won’t they mind?”
He rose slowly and looked past her at the pool. “No. I’ll ring Frank McGuire to make sure it’s okay.”
“All right.” She was glad there was no more talk of marriage. Glad and a little disappointed, too, that he’d given up so easily. “When will we go?”
“Sometime next week.” He continued to stare at the water, his eyes narrowed, considering. His dark hair curled wetly above his ears. “You’ll like it there,” he said. “It’s the best spot in the valley for looking at the night sky.”
And without touching her again, he leaned and picked up the pail, and started slowly up the path.
Alice managed to arrive home before her family got back from the barbecue. She hurried to her room, undressed, and climbed into bed, quickly drinking the chamomile tea that Nell had left on her bed stand. She was sitting up in bed reading when there was a faint knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Laura entered, dressed in a faded housecoat and a pair of old slippers, her dark blonde hair hanging limply around her face. She was carrying a book in her hands. “How are you feeling?”
“Rested. Although a bit feverish.”
“Oh? Shall I call mother?”
“Please don’t.”
Laura smiled, advancing slowly into the room. In the lamplight she looked pretty, but pale.
Alice said, “How was the barbecue?”
“Horrible. Mother seems determined to throw me at the Timmons boy.”
“Oh God.”
“Yes, exactly.”
Alice grinned. “Well, it’s nice to know she’s taking a rest from throwing me at Bill Whittington.”
“Oh, she hasn’t given up on Bill. She still fancies him for a son-in-law.”
They could hear their father’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. The wi
de central staircase carried sound easily from the floor below. He walked down the long hallway and into his room, closing the door behind him. Faintly, in the distant reaches of the house, they could hear their mother’s shrill voice.
Alice looked at Laura. “She isn’t coming up, is she?”
“Not for awhile. She’s planning the menu with Nell.” Laura made a wry face. “The Timmons are coming for dinner next Friday.”
“Lucky you.”
“Yes. Lucky me.” Laura sat down on the edge of the bed. She held the book out with both hands.
Alice took it. “Anna Karenina,” she said, turning it over carefully to look at the spine.
“Have you read it?”
“Yes. Well, no. I got through War and Peace and that was enough Tolstoy for me. What’s it about?”
Laura hesitated, regarding her mildly. “Love,” she said.
“Love?” Despite her sister’s mild expression, Alice could feel her face warming.
“Unrequited love.”
“Oh.” She set the heavy book down on her lap.
The tinny roar of the radio reached their ears. Adeline was in the library below, no doubt listening to The Adventures of Gracie, her favorite show. Laura turned her head, listening. Alice put a hand out and tucked her sister’s hair gently behind one ear. “Laura, are you all right?”
She gave Alice a brief, piercing smile. Dark crescents bloomed beneath her eyes. “Well enough,” she said.
“The new medication seems to make you tired.”
“Oh, yes. Very sleepy. I sleep all the time but I don’t have dreams. Isn’t that odd?”
