Seneca Falls

by Jesse J. Thoma

  They all chatted idly for a few minutes. Based on how Dylan had heard this evening would go down, Seneca would soon reveal which of them she wanted to sleep with. Other bar patrons were staring daggers at the group, probably jealous that their table had been ignored. Dylan thought it was the most ridiculous display of an intricate mating dance and exaggerated preening she had ever seen. Seneca King was only one woman, a very good-looking one with sad eyes and a damaged leg, but just one woman, all the same. Right, then why can’t you take your eyes off her if there are so many other intriguing women here?

  “Bob?” Seneca asked quietly, pulling Dylan out of her daydream.

  Dylan flushed red and once again glared at Jess. Jess smiled sweetly and nodded toward Seneca, who was waiting for Dylan’s reply. Dylan looked in her direction, gasping slightly at her beautiful face and intense eyes.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  Seneca offered her hand and Dylan took it without thinking. About halfway to the dance floor, she realized dancing with the mysterious Ms. King would send the wrong message. She started to pull her hand out of Seneca’s grasp, but she gripped tighter and steered them onto the dance floor just as a slow, romantic tune drifted from the jukebox.

  “If you chose me tonight, I’m sorry, I’m not going to sleep with you,” Dylan said quickly as Seneca pulled her close and began leading them around the floor.

  “It’s just a dance, Bob.” Seneca’s expression was amused. “And you shouldn’t listen to everything your friends tell you. Sometimes I’m capable of simply asking a beautiful woman to dance.”

  “I’ve been back in the country for less than a month, and already I know you never just ask women to dance. I’m willing to play along though.”

  Seneca pulled Dylan a little closer. “International adventurer? If I weren’t convinced before, now I know I chose the right dance partner.”

  “My adventures consisted of taking as many pictures of dingoes, kangaroos, and koalas as possible. Probably not quite as intriguing as what you had in mind.”

  “I know I’ve got no shot against the koalas, and I’d say my odds are fifty-fifty against the kangaroo, but I’ve got to be cuter than a dingo, right? At least a better companion? I’ve never eaten a baby.”

  Dylan couldn’t help but laugh. This wasn’t what she expected from the overly hyped sex machine her friends had described. “Is dancing hard for you?” Dylan asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

  Seneca stiffened slightly, and Dylan thought she might pull away.

  “Not so much. Just makes me a little jerky. Is it bothering you?”

  Dylan shook her head and smiled, happy Seneca had answered so earnestly. She wanted to know more about her, and she sensed talking about her injury was probably hard. A less loaded question as an icebreaker might have been a good idea.

  “See, now you know what they mean when all the gossipers say I’m a jerk. I told you not to believe everything you hear.” Seneca wasn’t as stiff as she had been, but her expression was guarded.

  Dylan flushed, wanting to assure Seneca she never assumed she was a jerk, even if that’s what everyone in the bar—all of her friends and a few disgruntled customers on the front steps—had insinuated.

  “I never, I don’t even know—”

  “Sure you did. Everyone does,” Seneca said, seemingly unconcerned. “Most of the time it’s true. So on almost any other night you would have been perfectly reasonable making that assumption. Tonight, though, no jerk; just a jerky dancer.”

  “All right, jerky dancer, then you better use one more song to convince me to take your word for the new and improved you. I’m a tough sell,” Dylan teased back, enjoying the feel of Seneca’s arms around her. Even the uneven steps of her partner felt natural, after the initial adjustment. Dancing with Seneca was a wonderful experience, especially now that they had established the ground rules.

  Seneca smiled and moved them further onto the dance floor as another slow song played. The dance floor was crowded, and other dancers bumped into them occasionally. When one particularly exuberant couple rammed into Seneca’s back, Dylan was shocked at the effect it had on Seneca. The impact caused her entire body to recoil, to the point she was almost standing on Dylan’s toes. Her shoulders sagged and she cowered slightly as if awaiting another blow. Her eyes were wild and pain filled, although the force of the bump didn’t seem like enough to hurt her.

  Dylan pulled her close and steered her away from the offending couple. Her shoulders were still hunched, as though she were trying to make herself as small as possible. Her eyes were slightly closed, and her body was tense. Dylan tried to gently reassure her by stroking her cheek, but Seneca reacted as if Dylan had slapped her. She pulled away violently and opened her eyes, fear clearly blurring all other emotions.

  “Hey, it’s okay. We’re out of the crowd. It’s just me. Bob.” Dylan hoped the use of her silly new nickname would jolt Seneca back from wherever her mind had taken her. Dylan put her hand on Seneca’s shoulder, trying to comfort her, but she only succeeded in making Seneca flinch away again.

  “Dylan, I’m sorry.” Seneca finally seemed to pull herself out of whatever horrible place she had been. The look of fear faded a little, and her breathing slowed to the point that Dylan wasn’t looking for a brown paper bag.

  “Don’t be. Are you okay?” Dylan felt completely helpless. She was afraid to touch her again, so she stood with her hands in her back pockets, rocking awkwardly on the balls of her feet.

  “Fine, I’m fine. I think I might have to cut our evening short though. Thank you for the dance.”

  Seneca turned and limped away without a backward glance. Dylan watched her as she stopped at the bar, said something quickly to the bartender, handed over money, and quickly exited. She looked wound tight, her uneven gait far more pronounced than when she’d wandered over to their table.

  “What happened? Did you tell her the saintly Dylan Walker doesn’t sleep with someone on the first date?” Dylan’s friends asked when she returned. She knew she probably looked shell-shocked.

  “Yes, I did. But that was before we started dancing, and I’m not a saint.” Once again, she wondered where the wonderful supportive friends she remembered from their first two years together at Sophia had gone. They were also drunk, which never helped matters. At least Gert, who had even less patience for this bunch than she did, looked sympathetic.

  “Well, why did she run out of here so fast then?”

  Dylan didn’t want to tell them the truth. Somehow, what she had witnessed felt private. She had a feeling that whatever past events caused her reaction, Seneca wouldn’t want them broadcast to the group of women who routinely spent the evening trying to get in her pants. She invited the attention, Dylan reminded herself. Even so, whatever mysteries her past held, Dylan wouldn’t be the one to lay them out for speculation.

  “I think she got a call. She said she had to go, thanks for the dance, but she had to head out. Looks like she paid for our drinks before leaving though.”

  Dylan stared at the door thoughtfully, trying to decipher the past twenty minutes. She had gone from stating matter-of-factly that she wasn’t going to sleep with Seneca to wondering if she was okay and if she would ever see her again. No wonder women were intrigued by her. Seneca King was a fascinating enigma.

  Chapter Two

  Seneca wound her way quickly through the quiet streets, making it back to Sophia in record time. She searched the shadows as she walked, something she rarely did anymore, and felt uneasy until she was safely back in Razor House. She chastised herself all the way up the stairs for her weakness, repeating over and over that those days were behind her. She was safe now. Despite her own assurances, she still felt raw and her right leg throbbed painfully, a steady reminder of just how much her past had cost her, and continued to cost her.

  She made it to the fourth floor, stumbled through the door, and flopped onto the bed. Britt looked at her curiously.

  “Thought
you were on the prowl tonight. What are you doing here?” Britt looked like she had more questions, but she stopped with the one.

  Britt was the fifth roommate Seneca had lived with since enrolling at Sophia. The first had lasted through a total of three nights of Seneca’s nightmares before begging the housing coordinator for a room change. The three roommates that followed didn’t last more than a month. Seneca was surprised Britt had managed nearly a year.

  After chasing away the fourth roommate, Seneca had been called before the housing committee and her house president. They originally thought she was playing some kind of bizarre joke to get rid of roommates and force them to put her in a single, but they quickly realized the nightmares were out of her control. She didn’t like the terror-inducing, screaming, sweaty dreams either, and they certainly weren’t an act. Each of her four previous roommates had testified for her, saying she wasn’t making anything up. They just couldn’t live in the same room. Seneca didn’t blame them. If she could get away from that version of herself, she would too.

  The easiest solution would have been to place her in a single occupancy room, a pleasure usually reserved for upperclassmen, but Razor House didn’t have any available rooms and Seneca wasn’t eager to transfer to a new house. She had moved around enough in her life and didn’t relish the idea of starting over with another group of young women. After a couple months, the residents of Razor House had welcomed her into the fold, allowing for her oddities, and encouraging her to socialize. For the first time in a while, she felt the glimmer of belonging.

  Just when moving seemed like the only option, Britt had come along and actually volunteered to room with Seneca. Seneca’s fourth roommate got Britt’s single, and Seneca got a friend. She didn’t know why they hadn’t given her the single and had the other two women share a room, but she was happy it had worked out the way it had. Seneca wasn’t sure how she managed, but having Britt’s calm presence in the room each night had eventually helped quiet the nightmares, and many nights they both slept peacefully.

  “Got turned down.” Seneca shrugged, rearranging the sheets and her pillow, trying to find a comfortable position. She finally gave in, yanked the pillow from under her head, and shoved it under her right knee and thigh. The pain diminished enough that she thought she might be able to sleep.

  “Excuse me?” Britt asked, incredulous. “You, Miss Queen of the Sleaze Bar, got turned down? By who?”

  “By Bob.” Seneca enjoyed the memory of Dylan blushing crimson as her friend rudely suggested the comparison. Seneca cringed, realizing Dylan might not like being called Bob. See, they told you I was a jerk, Bob.

  “You picked up a guy named Bob and he turned you down? What was a guy doing in your gay chicks’ bar, and when the hell did you start to hit on men?”

  “Her name was Dylan,” Seneca said.

  “You hit on a girl named Bob Dylan? Good Lord, Sen, how much did you drink tonight?”

  “Bob’s not her name. Her name is Dylan. Dylan…I’m not sure what her last name is, actually. A friend of hers said her name was Dylan, like Bob, and I thought it was cute. We danced. I came home,” Seneca said, remembering the feel of Dylan in her arms. “One drink, Britt, only one. You know my limit.”

  “Only one drink, just a dance. Tell me, Sen, what does this surreal creature, Dylan-I-don’t-know, look like, and when are you seeing her again? I want to meet her.”

  “She’s about this tall,” Seneca said, holding her hand just under her own nose, “has red hair just below her shoulders, really bright green eyes, and the best curves you’ve ever felt.” Seneca sighed. That just about summed up Dylan on the outside, but there was something about the way she looked at her that had her more unsettled than being bumped on the dance floor. She remembered the dance floor incident and flushed with embarrassment. “I’m not seeing her again. I don’t date, remember?” she said regretfully. “That sort of thing only leads to getting hurt. And she strikes me as the kind of woman who dates.”

  Seneca rubbed her damaged leg absently, used to Britt’s scrutiny when she was thinking about something. Britt let Seneca chew things over, but she was the only one at Sophia willing to push her, a little. Again, Seneca could tell there was more Britt wanted to ask, but she kept quiet. Britt was the only person she considered a friend, but tonight it felt too raw.

  “You might need these tonight,” Seneca said as a way of good night, tossing a pair of earplugs across the room without looking at her. She had bought a figurative lifetime supply, hoping to offset some of the strain being her roommate entailed. “I had a bit of an incident at the bar.”

  Seneca heard Britt catch the earplugs and sigh at Seneca’s withdrawal. She also heard Britt shove the unopened pack next to the other twenty pairs she had accumulated since moving in. Seneca had found them one day while looking for a pen in Britt’s desk. She hadn’t asked about them because she didn’t know how to. But it lent credence to the feeling that in the midst of her nightmares, it was Britt’s voice that helped her find her way back. Seneca had no idea why Britt would do that for her. Or how to repay her. Maybe one day she’d figure it out.

  Chapter Three

  Seneca lay on the grassy hill overlooking the Sophia soccer field. The athletic fields were ringed with trees, each one beginning the annual competition of outdoing the others with brilliant displays of fall foliage. It was still early in the season, but a few of the trees had jumped the gun and were blazing red and orange against the backdrop of blue sky and green fields. Past the softball field was the school pond, good for lazy rowboating and illegal skinny-dipping. It was a remarkably beautiful setting. She felt at peace in a way that was rare.

  It was the first day of classes and the last tune-up practice for the soccer team before the season. Seneca had been coming to watch practices, and sometimes games, since her first day on Sophia’s campus a year earlier. After her first roommate had abandoned ship, Seneca had sought solace in the one place she had always found it in the past, the soccer field. Seneca thought perhaps she should try her hand at coaching one day. She loved watching a team grow through the practices, suddenly understanding what their coach had been saying over and over as they came together as a sporting family. She imagined it would give her great satisfaction to be the coach who helped that happen.

  She settled against the soft hill, content to focus on the intricacies and strategy of the beautiful game. By the time practice ended, she was so lost in the flow of the scrimmage, the shouts of the players, and the thump of foot on ball that she didn’t notice the new athletic trainer approaching until she was standing next to her.

  “Seneca King?” It didn’t really sound like a question.

  Seneca jumped. She didn’t like being snuck up on. “Yes.”

  “Follow me,” the trainer said, before heading back down the hill at a steady pace. She headed toward the small field house, clear on the other side of the athletic complex.

  Seneca scrambled up and followed, much to her annoyance. Always following. A woman snaps at you to follow and here you are tagging along like a good little puppy. Shit, she hasn’t even slowed down or turned back once. She knows I’m going to follow.

  Although it was a little annoying that the athletic trainer assumed she would follow, Seneca realized how important it was that the woman hadn’t slowed down. She didn’t do what almost everyone else did when they knew about Seneca’s limp, which was to taper her pace to an absolute crawl. Either the athletic trainer didn’t know about the injury or she didn’t think it was an excuse to slow things down. Intriguing.

  When they reached the field house, the trainer opened the door to the small, stuffy training room and motioned for Seneca to take a seat on the rolling stool. Seneca did as directed and took a moment to study the athletic trainer, who was busy fumbling in the scorching water of the hydrocollator for a hot pack. She wore a navy polo shirt tucked neatly into a pair of khaki shorts despite the chilly evening. A blue Red Sox cap covered closely cropped, dark curly hai
r and a small black bag hung cross-shouldered in front of her body. When she finally extracted the hot pack with the help of the hook end of a coat hanger, she handed the pack and two towels to Seneca.

  “Put this on your leg. Use the straps to tie it on. You’re going to need your hands.”

  “Excuse me?” Seneca asked, completely confused and defensive at the thought of someone else telling her how to treat her damaged leg.

  But the woman’s smile was kind, and completely devoid of pity. She leaned down and gently wrapped the hot pack around Seneca’s leg, almost directly over the injury.

  “Did I get the placement right?” she asked, her blue eyes gentle and nonjudgmental.

  “Almost,” Seneca said, shifting the pack slightly higher. “Who are you exactly, and what am I doing here?”

  Seneca needed some shred of information to calm her churning mind because the heat felt amazing, and despite her misgivings, the woman was quite likable and had an air about her that Seneca found hard not to trust. The combination of being in the dark and being, paradoxically, comfortable, was making her distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Kate Smith. I’m the new trainer. I assumed you would have known that already. Sorry for not introducing myself. I wasn’t sure I could get you to follow me if we spent time shooting the shit on the field.”

  The laugh escaped before Seneca could censor it. Kate had an infectious smile and had easily assessed Seneca’s standoffishness.

  “Oh yeah, it’s all fun and games now, but wait till the little monsters come in from the field. You, go over there.” She shoved the rolling stool Seneca was perched on with one foot, sending her flying across the tiny room toward the ice machine.

  “What am I doing here?” Seneca asked.

  “I needed some help today, and I thought you might be the woman for the job. I would explain it all to you in great detail except I see the first of our tormentors on their way now. Bags are to the left, that big roll of plastic. One scoop of ice and make sure to suck the air out before you tie off the bags.” Kate demonstrated the correct ice bag making technique and left Seneca to begin her task. “Make about ten and we’ll go from there. No telling how many are going to need ice tonight.”