Valley So Low

by Patrice Wayne

  Maude took one step closer. Her calico housedress touched the bib of his hickory-striped overalls as her hand crept up to touch the sleeve of his faded blue chambray shirt. He drew a sharp breath, almost as if he were in pain, when her fingers stroked his cheek.

  “Oh, Maudie,” he said, his voice as reverent as Sunday church. “Girl, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

  “I do,” she whispered. “Kiss me, Harry, please.”

  Time paused and sound stopped. All around her nothing existed but a black void, night and nothing more, until Harry wrapped one arm around her. He drew her close and bent down. His lips claimed hers with fierce fury as their mouths met and became united. The kiss evoked a wild rush of desire as a rhythm older than time sang through her veins. Blood rushed through her body and heated quicker than coffee boiled on the cookstove. With the homing sense of a migratory bird headed south they fused, lips saying without words what both longed to share for far too long. Instead of the pungent tang of the coal oil from the lamp, the familiar fragrance of wood smoke, Maude swore she inhaled the sweetness of honeysuckle. Mischief, magic, and something mystical fueled the kiss deeper. Harry’s fingers undid the dozen buttons down the front of her dress, and beneath the camisole her nipples blossomed hard. He pushed the calico off her shoulders and caressed her, his hands moving with soft surety. His hand cupped her breast and when he bent to suckle the proud nipple, such wild shivers coursed through Maude she would’ve fallen if he hadn’t held her.

  The warmth of his mouth around her tender bud excited her. She wasn’t the green girl she’d been when they courted, but a woman, grown, familiar with pleasures of the flesh. Thing was, she hadn’t experienced this level of pleasure until now. A sense of rightness filled Maude as Harry’s hands moved over her body, touching and caressing with a rich combination of need tempered with tenderness. When he paused, she sighed but he lifted her chin and stared into her face, his eyes bright even in the dimness. “Maudie, I’ll stop if you ask me to,” he said. “I don’t want to but I will.”

  “Don’t stop,” she told him, her voice fierce and fueled with need. “I want this as much as you, dearest Harry.”

  His finger traced the outline of her mouth. “I don’t want you to think we’re doing wrong,” he said. “I won’t have any regrets come mornin’ but I don’t want you to, either. But if I don’t stop now, I don’t think I can, honey.”

  Nothing in so long felt as right as what they did now. Her soul stretched out into glorious realms with loving him, and Maude’s body needed the physical confirmation of the same. Becoming one with Harry, intimate in every way, fit somehow, like the proper sized buttons matched a buttonhole, or how the eternal cycle of seasons yielded nature’s bounty.

  “No regrets,” she replied, her voice husky as it emerged. “I love you, Harry, always have.”

  Harry caught up both her hands and held them fast. “Oh, woman,” he said. He’d never called her so before and quoted a scrap of poetry they’d both learned up at Silver Moon School. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”

  Maude laughed, low and breathless, and said, “Don’t count. Just love me.”

  Before she could catch her breath, Harry lifted her into his arms and held her close to his chest, feet dangling. He carried her up the narrow stairs and into her bedroom without a word. Once there, he put her onto her feet and undid the galluses on his overalls. As the pants dropped to the floor, Harry stepped out of them. His shirt followed and in moments he stood bare. Maude marveled at the lean, muscular torso, the way his body was put together.

  His hands caressed her bare shoulders, then removed her dress. Her camisole and undergarment followed. For a brief moment Maude became aware of the chill in the unheated room but when Harry pressed against her, his heat erased any cold. He kissed her, slow and lingering this time, lips hotter than a July afternoon but sweeter than the first strawberries of springtime. Harry’s mouth erased memory of all other kisses and intimacy in the same room.

  She caught his fever and burned. Maude’s skin became so sensitive each caress spiraled delight through her, and when he laid her back onto the quilt she’d pieced with Granny, she did what came naturally. Maude opened her legs for him in a V, her honeypot wet and ready. Harry stroked her pussy, his fingers light and yet tantalizing. He teased her as pleasure rippled across her like an afternoon breeze on the hottest day. She hungered for more as the need ramped up to almost unbearable levels. When his cock slid between her willing lips, Maude shuddered. He felt so good within her body and he entered with ease. None of the awkwardness she recalled from her wedding night remained, and any inhibitions she’d kept vanished in the overwhelming flood of desire.

  Harry worked in and out of her, slow and fast, stiff and yielding. The deeper he drilled into her, the more wild physical delight Maude knew. She gave back by caressing him and pushing her bottom higher to keep the connection. Maude stroked his back with her hands, savoring the solid reality of his flesh beneath her fingers. She loved the way his skin felt, the soft white skin seldom revealed. When she dared to rub first one, then his other nipple, they hardened and she gloried in her ability to gain reaction.

  When he penetrated as far as he could, his bucking movements distracted her from conscious thought. Maude gave over to pure sensation, the sweet, wild coupling. She adored the sound their skin made as it slapped against the other’s flesh. Harry’s breath caught short and he moaned in a long, low noise of pleasure, not pain. Until he did, she hadn’t realized she cried out too, small yips. As the sensations increased and her body pushed harder for release, Maude knew she’d scream to release all she experienced but even in her rush of need, caught up in desire, she thought of her son. If she shrieked, she’d wake George and he might be scared. To stop the outburst rising in her throat, she vented by biting Harry’s shoulder instead. Her teeth met his skin and crunched. He reacted with a sharper sound but he didn’t stop the rhythm he’d made.

  She’d watched him play guitar and piano so often, admiring the graceful way his hands created music. Now Harry played her with the same skill but with an added sense of caring. He cherished her, she thought, even as he used her hard to gain what they both sought.

  Body to body, he pumped her full and rode with increasing speed toward climax. When it came, he swept her along, her senses caught up in the wild swirl of pleasure, the burst of sensation, and the fire which burned all else away. Maude did scream then and Harry silenced her with his mouth ground against hers in a harsh but satisfying kiss. They came at the same moment, their loins and lips joined. She clutched him and held on tight as he bucked and spasmed. After the longest, final wave, Harry shuddered and collapsed. He slid out of her and lay beside Maude, panting. His grin sparkled.

  He’d done her every which way but loose and she loved it. Jamie never made love with such enthusiasm or zeal. Her husband never touched her with a respect bordering on reverence, either, or used her with such abandon. So, that’s the way it’s meant to be. This is the way of a man with a maid, and I like it. Her body tingled with the fading heat of their coupling and his seed trickled between her legs. Maude curled against Harry and he wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. “Aw, Maudie,” he said. “I love you, honey. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “Not a bit,” she said. “I love you too. It’s never been like that for me before.”

  She felt him go still and knew he thought of Jamie. “Never?”

  “Not ever.”

  After a pause the length of several breaths, he said. “I’m glad, honey. I reckon I might as well tell you—it’s never been like this, the way it was with you, for me neither.”

  Maude nuzzled her chin against him and sighed. Sated and happy, she longed to sleep but if she didn’t clean up, she’d wish she had. And if she slept in her skin, she’d come down with a cold or pneumonia or maybe the influenza. She stirred and he asked, “Where you going?”

  “I’ll freeze without my nightgown,�
�� she said. “And I need to wash up a bit.”

  The thought of heading all the way downstairs to the kitchen to wash lacked appeal but Maude couldn’t sleep without cleaning up. Her reluctance must’ve shown because Harry reached for his discarded overalls. “I’ll go bring up the soap and some water,” he told her.

  In his absence she smoothed out the rumpled, tangled bedclothes and basked in her newfound joy. This happiness wasn’t a wild, fleeting thing, but something deep and abiding, like the rugged hills. After Harry returned, she washed up and donned her nightgown. By then he’d put on his union suit, a larger version of what George wore to bed, and joined her beneath the quilt. Having a man share the bed didn’t feel strange at all but nice. They lay awake and talked in snatches, sometimes trading endearments or simply sharing a few words.

  Harry yawned. “I’m about ready to go to sleep now,” he told her. “I’ve got to get up early come morning.”

  “Why?” Drowsiness settled over Maude with slow, delightful languor.

  “I’m goin’ hunting turkey at dawn,” Harry said. “Tomorrow’s the day before Thanksgiving.” She’d almost forgotten. “You don’t have to, Harry,” Maude said.

  He laughed. “Don’t you want your roast turkey, honey?”

  “I do.” She could almost taste the rich flavor of a wild turkey, so different from the flock-raised birds she’d eaten in town. “Are you takin’ George?”

  “He’s too little for this,” Harry replied. “It’ll be too cold anyhow.”

  Maude drifted to sleep planning what she’d cook for Thanksgiving. Until recent days, she hadn’t looked forward to the holiday but now she did.

  Although Thursday dawned cloudy and chill, the house warmed from all Maude’s cooking. She parboiled the turkey Harry’d shot, then roasted it. Despite the fact there’d be just the three of them for the holiday, Maude made a pan of cornbread dressing, roasted some sweet potatoes, made light bread, cooked a big pot of green beans seasoned with bacon, mashed Irish potatoes, and made pies, two pumpkin and one apple. She whipped cream and sweetened it for the pie and churned new butter. Everything turned out perfect and although she’d seen Thanksgivings with far more food, the table and stove groaned with the abundance.

  During the morning, as she cooked, Maude recalled other Thanksgivings, her girlhood ones spent in town with her mother when they opened home and table to many, the years on the farm with Granny and Granpa, and celebrations marked at Uncle Tommy’s. Over the past few years, the farmhouse had filled with family and kin. A huge mob gathered at the kitchen table and overflowed into the living room, so many that Granpa set up boards on sawbucks to serve them all. There’d been plenty of love, laughter, and fun. If it hadn’t been for Harry’s presence and the way he’d enriched their lives, Maude and little George would’ve had a sorry kind of day.

  If it hadn’t been for the flu, some of the kinfolks would’ve come, but with so many sick, everyone kept close to home. Maude missed their presence but she made up for it with Harry and her son’s. Since they made love, she and Harry were open in their affection. He kissed her whenever he came in from chores or the woods. Sometimes when she stood at the stove, he wrapped an arm around her waist or caressed her as he passed. Maude often lingered behind Harry as she served his dinner or poured coffee, her hands resting on his shoulders or his back. Neither hid their feelings from George, but the toddler accepted their relationship and basked in the shared love. Harry often made music in the evenings, and he rocked George to sleep as often as Maude. Whether she read or mended or sang along, they ended together, sometimes on the couch spooning, often before the fire dreaming.

  More than once Maude undid her long hair before bed and Harry brushed it out for her, something which both delighted and titillated her. She enjoyed the way the brush strokes swept through her locks and raised goose pimples over her skin. They seldom quarreled and their thoughts ran along a similar path. Each night he shared her bed. Sometimes they loved, sometimes not. No one outside the valley knew about their relationship but Maude didn’t plan to keep it secret. For the moment, though, she savored these sweet days when they dwelled in a world of their own making, a happy and safe place. Sooner or later, something or someone would intrude, but Maude never doubted their love would endure.

  On the first Saturday in December, Harry headed to town. Some of their supplies were low, things the farm couldn’t produce like coffee and sugar. Maude looked for a letter from her mother, too, so although she worried about the Spanish influenza, she agreed he should go.

  “I could go too,” she suggested. “I could use a packet of needles, a spool of thread, and some buttons.” Maude hadn’t been to town in a long while and she craved a change in scenery. On a deeper level, she wanted to show off Harry and be seen as a couple. She wasn’t one for secrets or for hiding the truth.

  Harry frowned. “Let’s wait until this epidemic runs its course,” he said. “I’d hate for you to come sick with it, and they’re saying it’s worse for little ones. We wouldn’t want George to take it.”

  “What about you?” Maude asked. Anxiety crept into her thoughts like a spider, slow and there to stay in a corner. “Maybe you’d best wait awhile too.”

  He shook his head back and forth. “Naw, we need a few things and you’re hoping to hear from your ma. I’ll go. I won’t dally, though, and I’ll stay away from sick folks.”

  So he went early next morning. Harry rode the mare, Star, and Maude didn’t figure to look for him back until after dinner at the earliest. Without him, the house echoed too quiet and the farm seemed lonesome. George moped around the house and stared out the window until Maude thought she’d scream with frustration. She’d like to suck her thumb and watch for Harry, too, but she couldn’t. Instead, she put the soup beans she’d soaked overnight on to boil and baked a pan of cornbread. She hoped Harry might make it back by noon so they could eat together, but when twelve o’clock came and he didn’t, she fed George but didn’t eat.

  As fall wound down toward winter, the days grew shorter and by four, the long shadows brought darkness to the hollow where the farmhouse sat. Maude’s stomach clenched into a tight fist as she worried what might’ve waylaid Harry so long. Unable to concentrate, she gave up trying to mend one of Harry’s shirts and joined George in his vigil at the window.

  The baby missed “Pop” but Maude’s mind tormented her with every horrible mishap possible. Since Harry had to cross Shoal Creek to reach town, she feared he’d got swept away and drowned even though the water wasn’t high. If he’d come down with the Spanish influenza, he might be sick or dying. She’d never know until it might be too late. Star might’ve thrown him or trampled him or run off to leave Harry afoot. Maybe a fight broke out and he got his head busted again. If the horse dumped him, he might be limping bad enough to slow him down or he might provide a meal for a wolf, bear, or other predator. The Jones brothers could’ve caught up with Harry and caused trouble. Maude’s list of possible tragedies was long by the time she caught the approaching sound of hoofbeats. Despite the chill in the air and the light drizzle falling, she wrapped George up in a blanket and threw her shawl across her shoulders. They waited on the porch until Harry rode up from the creek. He lifted a hand in greeting and slowed Star to a walk. He eased the horse up to the porch. Maude knew from the way fatigue lines cut deep into his face he carried bad news home. “I’ve been so worried,” she cried. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve got lots of sad news to share,” he told her. “I wish I didn’t. But I’m home now, thank God. Let me put Star up in the barn and I’ll be in. I hope you got something made for supper. I ain’t had anything to eat all day.”

  Fear tightened the knot in her gut. “I’ve got soup beans on the stove and cornbread,” Maude told him. “And I’ll make some coffee.”

  “Thank you, honey,” Harry said.

  Ten long minutes later he came into the kitchen, the hitch in his step more pronounced the way it became when he grew weary. Maude st
arted toward him in need of a hug but he held up one hand. “Let me wash first, Maudie.” He scrubbed his hands with the lye soap several times and wiped them dry on a towel. Then he opened his arms and she walked into his embrace. He held her tight and she calmed a little. Whatever else had happened, Harry seemed all right but very tired. “Come sit down and eat,” she said, when he released her. “Whatever tidings you’ve brought, they can wait.”

  His blue eyes met hers with appreciation and he nodded. “I ought to tell first but I’m hungry and wore out. Thank you, Maudie.” She served him the beans and dished a bowl for herself. Although cooking all day long enhanced the flavor, Maude ate one small serving and no more, dreading whatever Harry had to share. He didn’t say much while eating, just praised the food and answered George’s prattle. Afterward, Harry held the boy on his knee while Maude washed up. By the time she finished, her son snoozed in Harry’s lap. “Do you want me to take him up to bed?” she asked. Harry shook his head. “No, the little feller’s fine where he’s at. Maude, I gotta tell you some things.”

  A sigh pressed upward from her lungs and out. “How bad?”

  “Bad as it gets,” Harry said. “And I’m sorry, Maudie.”

  Despite the lingering warmth in the kitchen, she shivered and wrapped her arms around her torso as if her belly hurt. It did ache, some, with the tension of waiting, the anxiety of the unknown. Although the two people she loved above all else were in the same room, Maude thought whatever he said would be past imagining, something unthinkable and horrible.