by M. O'Keefe
“Oh.” I had no clue what an old-school comfort room was. No clue. And I was suddenly on fire to know. But I wasn’t about to ask her. I didn’t have quite enough courage to reveal my total ignorance.
We sat in silence for a minute.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Too long,” Joan said.
“It seems nice.”
Joan’s silent laugh made her breasts shimmy. “Depends on context, I guess.”
“Oh,” I said, “you’re from someplace wonderful?”
“No.” Joan shook her head and then slid her sunglasses down over her eyes. “I’m not.” She stretched out on her back and didn’t say another word.
After a minute I got back on my mower and rode through the weeds, avoiding the sticks marking unseen hazards.
After locking up the mower and the rest of the tools, I followed the scent of something delicious being cooked over to Ben’s garden.
Part of me insisted that I heed both Dylan and Joan’s warnings. But a larger part of me was tired of taking other people’s warnings as rules. I was done having my mind made up for me by someone else.
Joan had an unforgiving view of the world if she could be angry at Tiffany for being a victim. I wasn’t about to take her word about Ben. And Dylan…I didn’t know enough about him to know his worldview, other than that he was both kind and controlling. I’d never known the two qualities to live in sync like that.
Perhaps Joan and Dylan weren’t looking past the tattoos. Perhaps they were caught up in some black-and-white idea that I wasn’t interested in. Maybe Ben had never given them tomatoes.
I found the old man sitting in front of a fire inside the half-built shell of his brick oven.
“You’ve made a lot of progress,” I said. Through the unfinished top of the oven I could see a cast-iron skillet over a crackling fire.
“Just about done, but I got impatient,” he said. “Thanks for what you finished the other day.”
“No problem. I didn’t want that cement to go to waste. What are you making?”
“Here,” he said, pulling out the pan. Inside, bubbling in oil, were little yellow plants. “Zucchini flowers.” He set the pan down in the grass and pulled off the mitts he’d used to protect his hands.
“My ex used to make ’em,” he said. “She was part Mexican. Fucking amazing cook.”
With a metal fork he grabbed one of the flowers and put it down on a piece of napkin he had with him, and the white paper immediately went clear with grease.
“Want to try it?”
I nodded and took the napkin, still so hot I shifted the little flower from hand to hand so my fingers didn’t burn.
He lifted the other flower out and put it down on his knee.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” I asked.
“Nah.” He held out his palms and I could see the thick calluses on all his fingers. Three fingers on his left hand reminded me of Smith’s hand. They looked like they’d been broken and not set properly.
I blew on the flower and then finally bit into it. It was stuffed with a little bit of cheese, and as I pulled the flower away a long string of it came down and scorched my chin. My tongue was singed.
“Ouch. Ow. Wow.”
“Tenderfoot,” he muttered and tossed his flower into his mouth. He chewed contemplatively. “Not quite.”
I finished mine. It was cheesy and fried, which made it pretty damn great. “That was delicious.”
“My ex’s was better,” he muttered.
From a bowl beside his chair he pulled out jalapeño peppers he’d sliced in half, added them to the still-bubbling oil, and put the whole thing back in the fireplace.
“Are you going to just eat those?”
“Fried peppers? No, I’m going to make cornbread. My wife used to put peppers in hers.”
“You’re a really good cook,” I said. He was thinking about his wife and he seemed sad, staring into that half-finished oven. I wished I knew some way to comfort him. Leach away some of this loss he was so clearly feeling.
He shook his head. “Well, I can’t drink, I can’t smoke. Don’t ride no more. Friends are in jail or dead. This is what I got left.”
“You don’t have any family?”
He pursed his lips, staring into the fire as if trying to remember, and then he shook his head. “Nah. My old lady left years ago. Went west to her sister’s.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, responding more to the grief he couldn’t quite hide under those words.
He shrugged. “It’s done business, I suppose.”
“You don’t have any kids?” I asked. I rubbed at some dirt on my elbow, carefully not watching him. I wanted someone—Dylan or Ben—to tell me that they were related, that Ben was Dylan’s father. Otherwise, I didn’t know why Dylan wanted Ben watched.
“Why are you being so nosey?” he asked.
“I can’t drink, can’t smoke. This is all I’ve got left,” I joked. He smiled into the fire.
“No. No family.” He reached into the kiln with his fork to poke at the peppers.
That killed my theory that Dylan was his son. I’d been so sure.
“You took off your scarf.”
I resisted the impulse to hide the bruises with my hands. “I don’t think I was fooling anyone.”
“No,” he agreed. “Your daddy do that? The bruises.”
“Husband.”
“No shit. I thought you’re too young for that kind of stupidity.”
“That kind of stupidity is made for the young.”
It felt oddly crowded around this fire. Like we had all our ghosts with us.
“He didn’t start off mean,” I felt compelled to explain it to him. Maybe to myself. To Joan. I’d never put any of it into words, never looked at how Hoyt had managed to isolate and hurt me so effectively. How I’d let him.
“They never do,” he said, staring into the fire.
“I suppose you’re right. My…mom died, and I was really young and I suddenly found myself alone and in charge of a farm. Mom never taught me about payroll or taxes, or how much credit we had at the grain elevator or who we owed money to. I was in so far over my head, I had no idea what to do. And Hoyt started to help me. Told me he’d take care of things at the grain elevator. Helped me pay bills and talk to people at the bank. He’d been working there a few years already, and he just kind of came up alongside of me so I didn’t have to be so alone. And he seemed…solid, you know? And interested. In me. Like…that.” I’d been able to feel him watching me. His eyes under that hat made me blush. Made me…aware. That and a few polite howdys and I’d…God, I’d been so easy.
“Interested in your land, more likely.”
And yes, wasn’t that just a stunning assessment of my appeal?
“Yes, in the end, I guess, that was true. But I believed he was interested in me. And I was lonely.”
“You didn’t have no one else telling you he was suspicious?”
“One man,” I said. “Smith. Our…foreman, I guess.” Smith and his relationship to Mom and to me and the land kind of defied description. “He warned me that Hoyt was bad news.”
“Smart man.”
“You remind me of him. Of Smith.”
Ben looked up, startled at that. “Well, that’s a mistake. I’m not smart, or I wouldn’t be put out to pasture here.”
“Still,” I said, smiling at Ben. “You two are a lot alike.”
“I guess I’m supposed to take that as a compliment?”
“Yep.” Smith had been the best man I knew, despite the rumors about him. Despite…what I’d done to him.
“Fine.” Oh, Ben was so crusty, it made me laugh.
The jalapeños popped in the grease.
“You stay away from that fuckwit Phil,” he said. “In the double-wide by the laundry. He’s bad business. He’d hurt you and not think twice about it.”
“He was here last night, nearly ruined his son’s birthday party, but Joan stepped in,” I sa
id. “Our neighbor—”
“Oh, I know Joan. And that crazy bitch would do something so stupid.”
I bristled at the name and Ben’s tone. “I thought it was pretty courageous.”
Ben’s eyes lifted to the bruises around my neck and then quickly away.
“Sometimes I miss Maria more than I can stand,” he said. “I wake up at night so lonely it’s like someone chopped off my leg. And then I remember how shitty we were together. How we hurt each other over and over. How much I fucked up, and I think it’s probably better this way. Better to be alone.”
I’d had that same thought just the other day, but somehow it was lonelier when he said it.
He wasn’t a dangerous sociopath. He was a lonely old man trying to re-create something from happier days.
“Thanks for the zucchini flower,” I said. “And for listening, I guess.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll save you some cornbread.”
After my shower I lay down on my bed, the cell phone in my hand. But somehow I couldn’t quite turn it on.
I’d had dessert for breakfast. I’d gone skinny-dipping.
I’d expected anticipation and lust and the throb between my legs and the tightness of my skin.
But somehow the world seemed like it was just too heavy a place right now. All the hard edges were out tonight and I felt each one of them.
I turned the phone on and a text message appeared from earlier in the day.
Dylan: I’m really hoping you found yourself some pie for breakfast…
I smiled, and despite the melancholy, something dark ignited low in my body.
Annie: I did. Well, cake. And I went skinny-dipping this afternoon.
I didn’t expect him to write back right away, but within a minute his answer appeared on the screen.
Dylan: You gonna call me?
Annie: It was kind of a weird day…and night.
Dylan: Call me.
There really wasn’t any question. We were doing this his way. And my way left me alone in my bed and sad. His way I got to call him and maybe…maybe come against my hand.
I called him.
“Layla?” Oh, his voice. His voice just killed me. Part drawl, part growl.
“Hi.”
“You all right?”
I took a deep breath, trying to keep the strange comfort of his worry at arm’s length. “I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story…”
“You got something else to do?” he asked.
“No.”
“Me neither. Might as well tell me.”
I flung an arm out across the bed. Night was falling outside the trailer. I could hear the sounds of the kids on the other side of the rhododendron playing at the swing set. Someone somewhere was grilling hamburgers.
“This…is just kind of a sad place, is all. Sad people.”
“And you’re feeling sad?”
“Not very sexy, is it?” I said with a little laugh. “How about I call you—”
“How about you tell me what happened?”
Something sharp and thorny turned in my chest. “A guy showed up and almost beat up his wife. Nearly ruined his kid’s birthday party. I ran away but this other woman just…charged right in. Made the guy leave.”
“Christ, that was risky.”
“I know. But it was really brave, you know? And I ate the kid’s birthday cake for breakfast and that’s my brave and I just felt…stupid. And awful.”
“Well, that’s not really fair, is it?”
“Fair has nothing to do with anything. Ever.” I sounded bitter, far more bitter than I thought I felt. But it was there all along, this bitter and angry sea, dark and awful and full of monsters, just waiting for me to dive in and get eaten.
Dylan laughed. “This is true. My whole life…I just wanted to be like my brother. My whole life. He was the toughest. The bravest. The most badass guy around. And I just followed that guy around trying to do the shit that he did.”
“What happened?”
“I learned I’m not that badass. And that some people just don’t give a fuck what happens to them. And I don’t know if that’s brave or just crazy.”
I thought of Joan beside the pond today and how she seemed to have a thick armor of I-don’t-give-a-shit. And how lonely that was.
And Ben. God. So lonely it hurt. So lonely he was like a feral mountain man or something. Cooking food that reminded him of a woman he’d driven away.
“I’d rather care,” I said, thinking about the night I ran and the dozen nights before that, when I felt myself slipping, slipping, slipping into not caring. I’d run away so that I could find something to care about.
That was my brave, I realized. Risking everything so I could feel something again. And I suddenly felt proud of myself.
“Me too. Every time. All the years I spent not caring. Or pretending I didn’t give a shit—they were bad years. I’m not saying she wasn’t brave trying to protect that woman. I’m just saying what she did doesn’t make you not brave.”
“Thanks,” I said, more sigh than anything else.
“No problem. But the dessert…what was it?”
“Yellow cake with chocolate frosting.”
“And?”
“Can’t say I loved it.”
“You gotta try tres leches cake.”
“I have no idea what that is.”
“It’s pretty much the best thing going.”
“Noted,” I said with a smile.
“So dessert for breakfast was a bust,” Dylan said. “How about skinny-dipping?”
I smiled and rolled onto my back, eager to think of something else. Eager to not be lonely. This connection with Dylan was strange. But it was real. And the world could be a cold place without connection.
“Skinny-dipping was awesome.”
“Yeah?”
“It was so hot today and I’d been working hard and the water was so cold. So…perfect.”
“Sounds like you did it right.”
“There was another woman there.”
His chuckle lit me up from the inside. “Do tell.”
“We just…swam. You know?”
“Tell me swam is some kind of code word for making out.”
I laughed, but I couldn’t lie; I felt hot at the idea. A blush rising up my body making me dizzy. “No…but I saw her kind of naked and…she has an amazing body. She’s a stripper.”
“Oh Jesus, baby…”
Somehow, somehow I’d gone from uninterested and sad to hot. Hot and wet in no time. A chuckle from this man and I was ready to go, my hand in my underwear, testing the swollen edges of my lips.
“I want you to touch yourself tonight,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because…I don’t want to do this alone. Alone…isn’t the point when I’m with you.”
“With me?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Baby, you can’t be building any fantasies around me. Around this. I’m not…”
He trailed off and I held my breath, waiting for him to reveal something about himself. “You’re not what?” I prompted.
“Anything a girl like you should build fantasies around.”
“A girl like me?” I asked.
“Innocent, young…”
“You’re only twenty-nine,” I said, because if there was one thing I didn’t feel most of the time it was young.
“On the outside,” he said. “Inside I’m ancient.”
Inside I’m ancient. I totally got that. Maybe that’s why this thing we were doing worked. Because we were ancient on the inside.
“But what we’re doing…this is all this is. All it’s ever going to be.”
“How do I know you’re not building fantasies around me?”
“Oh, I am,” he laughed. “I’ll be thinking of you and a stripper swimming later on tonight. But a man’s got to have rules, and I know nothing comes out of breaking them.”
“I know.” Because I’m lying to you and you might be lying to me, and I’m breaking every rule there is because I’m married. “But I still want you to touch yourself tonight.”
He was silent for a long time, as if he were sizing up the reality from his side. God, he might be married too. And he said he wouldn’t lie—but he could have been lying. “Okay.”
“I want you to do it right now.” I bit my lip, incredulous at my boldness.
I heard the clink of a belt, the loud undoing of a zipper.
The connection between us buzzed and I wondered if he was waiting for me to tell him what to do—like he’d done the other night.
Good lord, if he was waiting for that, this would take forever.
“I don’t…Tell me what you’re doing,” I whispered.
“Where’s your hand, baby?”
“Between my legs.”
“Good. Keep it there, but don’t come…”
“What?”
“Not till I tell you. Not until I let you. You feel yourself about to come, you pull your hand away.”
Sweat broke out across my body. Between my legs I was wetter than ever. “Okay.”
“Say yes.”
“Yes,” I swallowed. “Yes, Dylan.”
“You been doing this all week?” he asked. “Touching yourself.”
“Yes.”
“You figured some stuff out? Shit you like?”
“Yes.”
“Details, baby. You need to give me details.”
“I used my underwear the other day, between my legs. It hurt a little—”
“Good hurt?”
“Yes. Good hurt. I got so wet. So…it was all down my legs and my underwear was soaked.” His groaning laugh made the hair stand up on my body. “Now, you tell me.”
“I’ve been hard all day thinking about you,” he said.
I doubted that was true, but whatever. It was hot.
“And it’s quiet here now. Quiet and dark, and I got you in my ear and my cock in my fist.”
My breath shuddered in my throat.
“You like that word?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I stroke myself slow, because that’s how I like it. Hard and slow. Bottom to tip.”
