Paradise (The Erotic Adventures of Sophia Durant)

by O. L. Casper

  Today I fell down in the yard and got a nasty gash on my hand when I reached for a sharp rock to break my fall. It was in the middle of a violent thunderstorm. You may ask what I was doing out in weather like that. Well, I needed to put my bicycle in the shed to shield it from the rain. When I cut myself I bled quite profusely, and, stunned for a moment, I watched the flowing, dark blood mix with water and stir in the shape of a spiral, down into a hole in the walkway. Lightning struck and I suddenly recalled a time when we were kids climbing along the rocks at a beach in Naples when a thunder and lightning storm had come in full force above us. You lost your grip and fell, hitting your head on the rocks on the way down to the sand. I don’t remember much else, but I recall your head bleeding into the sand and something about the blood running through your hair and forming a spiral pattern. I remember you had a headache for the rest of the afternoon and were bedbound for part of the next day. (Isn’t there some significance to the abundant appearance of spirals in connection with life throughout the universe? You’re the smart one and would know more about this than I.) With all this flashing through my mind, it gave me the eerie feeling that all might not be well with you, and perhaps there was something wrong, that being the reason you hadn’t contacted me. You can imagine poor little me, lying there in the rain, thinking about all this as the heavy thunder ripped right through the yard, shaking me to the core. I wasn’t even dressed properly, wearing only a nightgown. I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but is everything alright? I suppose I don’t need to tell you that I managed to get out of the rain and somewhat recover my senses enough to compose this letter.

  I feel that the two of us have a deep connection, deeper than either of us may know, and I’m just concerned and probably a bit lonely. Most likely all this is in my head and you’re doing just fine. I only wish one thing from you, promise me you will make all the right decisions in the near future and do all the right things and return safely to me soon—whenever it is you’re due back in gloomy North Florida. Only time will tell whether the experience I had in the yard was a premonition or if it was just the silly paranoia of a hyperactive mind. Do tell me of your experiences on Eleuthera Island. It must be amazing—such an incredible adventure you must be having. All you have to do is say the word and I’ll pop down for a weekend visit. Imagine the fun we’d have on those paradise beaches. I’ve googled the island to see what it’s like. The photographs of the place are incredible. I’d love it down there, I’m sure.

  I had a dream last night. I wanted to tell you about it before I go since we always discuss dreams. I was like a ghost with an omnipresent view. I wasn’t in the scene but I could see it all clearly. It was a scene on the ocean, somewhere in the Atlantic. There was a gargantuan storm. Waves fifty feet high. And there was an isolated small boat in the middle of the storm. A wooden boat with oars, and you were on it. You were wearing a gray cloak, trying to navigate in the storm. I was curious about what you were doing so far out to sea, all alone, and not even trying to find your way back. You had your eyes closed. I noticed water coming through holes in the bottom of your boat. I wanted so badly to warn you, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t take watching you like this anymore so I forced myself to wake up. As I did this, I noticed your eyes were closed, like you were willfully going down with the boat. I suppose these are the projections of a fevered brain, and a heart that’s missing you something awful. But I wanted to let you know to see what you thought.

  Later—I had to run to answer the phone. I just came back and picked up the pen again. When I’m done I’ll type all this up and send it to you. I just wanted to say one last thing. Just on the phone with Robert George. You remember him, the tall, dark, brooding Texan who does something in the maritime industry out of Jacksonville? I know you’re aware of our casual relationship. Out of the blue, he called me. We haven’t seen each other or spoken in weeks. He called to ask if he could come over. He has something to say to me. Says it’s important. If it’s a marriage proposal, which is what I suspect it to be by the giddy way he was acting on the phone—like a schoolboy—I won’t know what to do. Obviously I have to turn him down. But, ugh, how weird do some guys act? Initially I told him not to come, but he practically begged. I’m a softy. I’ll let you know how that goes, anyway…

  Either come back in a few days or I’m coming down. It’s your choice. I expect to hear back from you very soon.

  JULIE

  Email, Sophia Durant to Julie Cameron

  August 7

  Best Friend,

  I think you need to stay inside during stormy weather. I’m sorry you’ve been so lonely. Truly wish I could be there to comfort you. I keep expecting to return soon. But this stay keeps extending into the future. Originally I thought we were staying for one meeting my boss randomly threw together down here. It turned into two meetings and now maybe more. I’m truly sorry and I refuse to believe that you can miss me more than I miss you. My heart aches just thinking about you. You’re right, it’s been quite an adventure so far. A lot of things I can’t really go over in an email, but I’ll definitely bring you up to speed when I see you. I feel I need someone desperately to talk to to get my head sorted out. I’ve got so many conflicting feelings, so many conflicting thoughts, I don’t know where to begin. I am afraid for some things. Some clouds have appeared on the horizon, but I can’t go into details. It’s not the appropriate time or place. I’d just make you worry more and I don’t want to do that. Inveterate worrier that I know you are. Believe me when I say everything will turn out alright in the end. It’s just that a lot has happened since my arrival on the island and I haven’t had time to process it all. My employer’s stranger than I could have possibly imagined, he’s a fascinating man, but there are complications now between us. I have a lot of loose ends in the workplace and I don’t know quite what to tie up where, or how to do so for that matter. I really wish you were here. If there is no news about travelling back to the mainland in a few days I’ll let you know and see if I can arrange accommodation for you if you really want to visit.

  Looking back over your letter, I am surprised at the detail of your childhood memories. Your mind is crisp and clear as ever. I remember that day on the beach, though I do not remember my blood travelling in a spiral. I do remember conversations we’ve had about the appearance of the spiral in nature. As for writing things down to discuss, at the risk of sounding pompous, I have no need, for everything is locked safe in here. (Picture me tapping my forehead with a silly grin.) The description of your dream was fascinating to me. More fascinating are the connections you make between various images. And no, I don’t think you’re paranoid or have a fevered brain. All your visions and concerns were pretty much right on the money in more ways than you could possibly know. But soon you will find out. I’m thinking of sending some of my diary over to you so you can catch up on all that has happened of late in the Sophia Multiverse.

  Re: Robert George. The description vaguely rings a bell. Let me know if you are tying the knot any time in the near future. You know I’ll be there.

  Your one true love

  SOPHIA

  Sophia Durant’s Diary (continued)

  Evening—returning to my diary after replying to Julie’s email, a new sense of perspective and the feeling of having communicated intimately with a caring, dear friend calms me deeply after what was something of a harrowing day. I haven’t quite decided how I will react to what I saw or how it changes things between Stafford and me, if it does, but I feel a definite need to step back, take a deep breath and get a clear view of the situation. No more Hindu Kush to relax for at least a while, anyway. Life’s crazy enough, I don’t need the dope right now. Thinking of this, I received a text from Anna.

  ANNA: Are you in your room? I need to see you now.

  SOPHIA: I’m in my room. Is everything okay?

  ANNA: Stay there. I’ll be right there.

  She must’ve been right outside the door, the knock came a second later. When I opened the do
or she appeared pale, eyes puffy like she’d been crying.

  She had to force the words out: “There…there was a plane crash. Isabella…was on it. There were no survivor—no survivors.” She corrected herself.

  I was stunned. I replayed what she had just told me two or three times in my head as we both stood in silence. “There…there was a plane crash…” echoed in my mind. For some reason I wanted to ask her if she really meant Isabella was dead, even though quite clearly she was if there were no survivors. I just couldn’t believe it. Maybe there was some misunderstanding somewhere.

  She could see I was shaken and she hugged me, but only briefly, and then she left. I debated whether or not to text Stafford about it, offer my condolences. This was a hard decision to make. In the end I decided it was better to wait. I’m sure he would be bombarded with messages now. And to be among those who communicated with him about it implied a certain intimacy I’m not sure I wanted to share with the man. I really was very curious as to what was going through Stafford’s mind when he found out. I tried to block out sick thoughts of him being relieved at the news.

  Simultaneously, I felt extreme guilt and also relief at the thought of her passing. I hoped she had died quickly and painlessly—lights out. But I immediately found my thinking reprehensible when I first thought of Savannah in the context of what had happened. The poor little girl would never know her mother.

  Sophia Durant’s Diary

  August 12, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas

  I went to check on Savannah at about nine o’clock that night. She was in her nursery with one of the assistant nannies attending to her. I told Elise, the assistant, I would take over and cradled little Savannah in my arms. She was drifting off. What a terrible day for this little one, I thought, with tears forming in my eyes for the first time since I’d heard of Isabella’s death. I thought about how hard it would be to grow up without a mother and with such an elusive prick of a father. Images of Isabella, sitting upright in one of those island hoppers, flying through a storm flashed in my mind. I imagined some technical failure—an engine malfunction perhaps—and the plane dipping down into the violent waters below. In slow motion I saw the water enter the cabin, the lights flickering before shutting off completely, the expressions of fear on everyone’s faces as they were met with sudden death. I could smell the fear. That fear lasted mere seconds, perhaps a couple of minutes. The fear caused by lacking the comfort of growing up with a mother lasted a lifetime. I was sobbing so hard, I had to set down the baby.

  I started crying profusely and backed into a corner of the nursery, slinking down to the floor. Setting my hands in my hair, I ran them through it and pulled on the ends. I looked at Savannah. She was lying on her side, staring at me through the side of her crib. Those curious blue eyes brought a bittersweet joy and sadness to my heart. The feelings were overwhelming. I had come for selfish reasons, primarily to snoop, but had been overcome by genuine feeling. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this so, after Savannah fell asleep, I turned the lights off and crept back to my room.

  What a hell of a day, I thought as I changed into my pajamas. It had been the most exhilarating, terrifying, fascinating, adrenaline-charged, and now saddest day of my life all rolled into one. I suppose I was getting more than I bargained for in my plan to live life all the way up. And what topped off the day was something that had nothing to do with my sphere of influence—Isabella’s death, the crowning spike in a crown of thorns, completely beyond my control. Nothing I could do about that. Out of left field, entirely. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell into a deep, dark, dreamless sleep.

  Morning—I found a new text on my phone when I awoke. It was from Stafford.

  MARK: Please come see me when you have a chance. I’ll be in my room for the next half-hour.

  This followed with directions on how to get there. The text was decidedly odd. The message was so matter of fact. Why would he want to see me so soon after what happened? I feared someone—anyone else seeing me on my way to his room. I did not want anyone to have cause for spreading rumors. Regarding his grief, he would have to express that in person, wouldn’t he? And even that would be hard. It would be hard for me to bear and I didn’t want to hear it. Why the hell would he want to see me now? I contemplated texting him a refusal to visit. Was I being over analytical? Going off the deep end? Bat-shit crazy? Everyone reacts to grief differently. Stafford was nothing if not unusual. I decided I was reading too deeply into it. His response was perfectly normal—if there was such a thing as a normal response to the death of a spouse. Clearly I didn’t yet have it as together as I thought I did after conversing with Julie in email the day before. I wondered increasingly why I second-guessed myself so much after all that had happened. I felt out of sorts, like I was losing my grip, almost delirious. As the world began to spin around me, I sat down on my bed to try to calm down.

  I stand in silence a moment before knocking. Closing my eyes, I tell myself I will not say anything dramatic. I’ll keep calm. I will not cry. I open my eyes and knock. A few moments later Stafford opens the door. He’s holding a Blackberry in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. To my dismay two porters are packing suitcases in his room. As he walks away, I get a look at the spacious room for the first time. It is elegant, if spare, in décor. Large bay windows give way to an exquisite view, the most exquisite I’ve seen from the villa, of Anse Lazio and the surrounding hills and trees. The room is on the top floor of the villa. This is the highest vantage point in the villa, perhaps apart from what you might see from the roof. I find the beauty and peace of the room in extreme contrast to the grim emotional pallor now enveloping the whole of this mighty Xanadu. The sepulchral feel of the place seems to smile at me in tremendous mocking evil. I realize I’m getting carried away, and quickly return to my senses.

  Stafford waves at me, having set down his coffee though still on the phone, as if to usher me back to reality. He is a picture of serenity. But why? Was the torpid appearance of Anna at my door last night simply a dream? The porters leave and I examine the boisterous Anse Lazio as Stafford finishes his call.

  “Yes…yes…I understand…well how deeply considerate of you…outstanding, spectacular…I don’t know what else to say. No, my mother passed away in my youth.”

  I glance at him, he has his back to me.

  “No, really…I understand. I must be going now, Arthur…business will go on…one day, one day…bye, bye.” His voice trails off.

  There is a chill at the back of my neck as though a ghost has just entered the room. I hear him set the phone down on a table behind me. Goosebumps break out all over my body. I don’t know why. I snap my head round, look at him. His diaphanous eyes burn into my soul. It feels searing. I haven’t slept enough. This is all in my imagination, I realize. I will say as little as possible, I tell myself—avoid trouble that way.

  “Have you heard the news?” he asks after what seems like an eternity.

  “About Isabella.”

  This was a statement, eyes downcast.

  “It’s horrible. There are no words.” So why did you call me here?

  I immediately curse myself for such selfish thinking.

  “You don’t have to say anything…”

  “I have no words,” I say, eyes still downward.

  I feel two such contradictory emotions, I didn’t know my brain was capable of accessing two such diametric points simultaneously. I am the definition of dichotomy. The outward expression I bear is the result of one of these feelings, the other feeling is pure joy and I am deeply ashamed of it.

  “I have always had a way of looking forward. Of moving on. My parents died in my youth…after some time passed I forced myself—programmed myself to just move forward, to do everything as I always had, as I always dreamed of, without any feeling. I had no feelings left. I just went on, never expecting to feel happiness again.”

  This explains a lot, I think. You’re marriage to Isabella for one. I curse myself. Tears swell
in my eyes.

  He looks at me tenderly. Looking at the floor I can’t see it, but I can feel it. I don’t want to love him, especially not now, but I do. I love him more than ever. The sensation it causes is overwhelming. My heart overflows, spills out on the floor, like it has in so many visions.

  His even keel speaking, almost inhuman, continues: “The funeral is in three days in St. Augustine. We’re leaving this afternoon. I can’t bear to be here any longer. Not for a good while.”

  He coughs. There is no feeling in his voice.

  “I want you to be at the funeral. For Savannah, but for me too.”

  I don’t really understand the meaning of these last words. In fact, all of the events of the past few days are just washing over the periphery like some distant, incomprehensible dream. A thunder and lightning storm over a distant desert plain, an annoyance I’m almost not conscious of, a storm in a tea cup. And where am I in all this mess? Lost in a haze, a ghost without a face, a gray blur, the quintessence of stoic. Stafford and I are too alike. But where is he since clearly the rain isn’t touching him?

  To discern the answer to my thoughts I look up at him. He’s looking back at me with an expression of curiosity on his face, as if to say—I need to know where we stand. Or is this just another figment of my imagination? His questioning look could be about anything at all.

  “You’re not wearing any makeup,” he says.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Appropriate.”

  “Now you get to see the real me; plain, pale skin, big bug-like eyes, like a reptile.”

  “You are more beautiful without makeup. One can’t honestly say that about most women. Your skin is has a nice, somewhat faded tan. The face is porcelain. The eyes are large, hypnotic. The hair is lustrous, so smooth. You have the appearance of one who is very much in control. A woman who knows her own mind.”