by A. R. Hadley
She wanted it without knowing what it was.
She somehow knew he needed her to take it and destroy it, to own it, and she did it all in the way she submitted to him. Freely. None of it was without power. She wasn't weak. It was a belt-on-her-wrists, eyes-on-task strength.
She’d never felt stronger.
And now, they both needed this.
The spooning. The comfort. A peace. Another few moments of only feeling, without talking or articulating or speculating. No microscope to examine every one of their hundreds of motherfucking feelings, because despite some of the things he’d ever said, the way he sometimes tried to disguise his emotions, she knew he was just as much of a philosopher as she was — an old soul, maybe more so. She’d seen the deep wells of a thinking man residing in his eyes from the very first time.
She wanted to swim in the pools of his greens without a life jacket.
She wanted to drown in him and never be rescued.
Everything. All at the same time.
No what-ifs. No future best-laid plans.
Only sleeping, spooning, fucking. Only now, now, now...
The cotton sheets felt wonderful, soft and heavy.
Annie stretched her arm across them, toward the spot where Cal had slept, rubbing her palm over the threads.
It was still warm. Still smelled like him.
A book now occupied his space, its bookmark poking out. And she brushed her fingers over the hardbound spine of Infinite Jest and smiled.
Rolling closer to the opposite edge, she snuggled a pillow and pushed her toes past the end of the luxurious covers, letting a leg slip and dangle over the side of the bed.
Hmmm.
Yawn.
Stretch.
What day was it?
What time was it?
Her phone lay on the nightstand, screen down. It seemed God-awful early. Too early to chance a peek at it.
And it was Friday. Right?
Then, she noticed her suitcase. Not far from where she lay cocooned in the bed where Cal had ravished her with attention and plied her with orgasms was the red thing she’d left near the front door last night. Now it was on the floor, next to her, open, and her clothes appeared freshly laundered and folded.
Annie shut her eyes and opened them, blinking in disbelief, and then she heard … singing?
Dressed only in one of Cal's white T-shirts, Annie peered through the crack of the bedroom door — hiding behind it like a statue — toward the kitchen as she watched Rosa for a minute or two. Music played from a tiny radio on the counter, and Rosa’s body shook, lips and hips moving.
"Good morning." Rosa spun around, finally noticing Annie, or had she always known she was there?
"Morning." A leg and an arm and part of Cal’s shirt could probably be seen from where Rosa stood, and Annie inched back until only her head and neck stuck out, feeling a blush coming over her cheeks, her jaw, a nervous heat. "Thank you for washing my clothes.”
Rosa turned the volume down. "You’re welcome, my dear.” She smiled, continuing to work, giving Annie her dignity. “Are you hungry?"
"Where’s Cal?" Annie gripped the edge of the door and stretched her neck, looking around. The hem of his shirt tickled the tops of her thighs and her butt cheeks.
"He’s on his run. You just missed him.” Rosa set the table for breakfast. “He’s usually out about thirty or forty-five minutes."
"I need to shower.” Annie smelled like sex and Cal. Part of her hated to rinse it off. “But then I want to help you."
“That’s okay, mi querida." Rosa winked. "You take care of yourself. I have it almost finished.”
Fifteen minutes later, showered and dressed, Annie walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. Lingering at the damn fridge, she found herself — the way she had the first time she’d been here — staring at the photographs on it.
People’s eyes and faces — it mattered little that she didn’t know them, and it scared her how much she wanted to — commanded her attention.
The camera captured things the naked eye might not notice at first glance.
The nuance of regret.
The relaxed lines of humility.
…love.
"This is Michelle and her children." Rosa pointed a wooden spoon at a photo. "Cal’s cousin. Ah, and this one is Constance, maybe at Cal's graduation." She indicated a different rectangular print in color. The woman's eyes were blue and just as haunting as they were in the tiny, square, black-and-white photo.
Constance, huh? Constance Prescott.
Rosa was the star of a few pictures too. One that looked like it had been taken the same night, college graduation.
"When did you meet Cal?" Annie cocked her head and watched Rosa flip through a directory of memories.
"Hmmm, I met him when he was just a little boy." Rosa's eyes and voice seemed to fill with memories as she walked back to the stove.
Annie could feel her face stretch, knew she looked stunned. Since he was a boy… Jesus Christ. Her heart skipped a beat.
“What can I do?" Annie set her glass down, leaned forward, and breathed in the homemade sauce Rosa had just poured over a pan of lasagna. “It smells so good. I’m starving.”
“This is dinner. Your breakfast is over here." Rosa pointed to a skillet and lifted the lid. A different aroma crept into the air. Omelets smothered with vegetables and cheese. Annie’s stomach growled, and her eyes bulged.
"Could you please grab five or six oranges from the fridge? They're in the bottom right drawer."
"I had no idea you've known Cal so long," Annie said, beginning to wash the fruit off in the sink. “He doesn't speak to me much about his family."
"No." Rosa glanced over her shoulder, noticing Annie’s downcast eyes. "Cal is very private. Be patient, mi querida. I can see you are special to him. Don't give up trying to know him.”
Be patient. How long had Cal been denied patience from the people who knew him and loved him?
"What was he like … as a boy?"
“Cal was..." Rosa smiled and glanced toward the ceiling. "He was … determined." She laughed and began to slice open the clean oranges. The smell of citrus filled the kitchen.
“Then not much has changed." Annie smiled as she took a glass out of the upper cabinet.
“No," Rosa said, chuckling, ready to juice the split fruit. “He always was a little man inside a boy’s body. That’s what I always said. That’s what I always told his mother.”
“How did you meet them?”
Rosa stopped juicing because the sound of the electric machine negated their conversation.
"I was probably around your age. I was newly married, and already had my first boy, Ivan. I had to find work. Times were tough, and my husband…” Rosa’s face flushed. “Well, his cousin was an apprentice for Cal’s grandfather. Everett was teaching him carpentry. He made the most beautiful things, Annie.” She paused, her eyes seeming to catalogue the items he’d once carved. “Anyway, we knew the family, and Constance needed help managing the house. I could bring my son with me too." Rosa sighed. "It seems like only yesterday."
What was that in her eyes? The tough woman looked as though she might cry.
"It was good for me then, and it never seemed like a job, you know? We were family. And now … now Cal takes care of me."
"It looks to me like you take good care of him." Annie put her arm around Rosa’s back.
"Mmmm." Rosa sighed. “Looks can be deceiving.” She shooed Annie away like a fly. "Sit. I have your breakfast ready."
Annie smiled, loving the ease of friendship she’d found in Rosa. True, they’d not spoken much, but some people felt like a place to call home from the start. Some people didn’t need to have shared a plethora of words or experiences to understand they were kindred.
Annie picked up her glass of water and walked to the table. "Does Cal see her often? His mother, I mean?"
Rosa slid breakfast onto her plate with a frown. "He does not
talk of his mother?"
"No." A lump formed in Annie’s throat as a puzzle began to take shape in her mind.
"No, no. I suppose he would not." Rosa shook her head and made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Cal's mother … she … she has Alzheimer's, Annie.”
Jesus Christ. Puzzle complete. Pieces clicked together inside Annie’s head like a Rubik's Cube. The de Kooning print. The swimming out to sea lonely. The guilt behind his stellar grin.
“I … I had no idea." The pain she sometimes saw in Cal’s face etched a portrait in her mind, the pain and sharp remark he’d made when she’d asked about his mother only two weeks ago. I don't have to give you anything, Annie…
“I’m so sorry.”
"She has been sick for years," Rosa began as Cal walked in the front door, slipping off his shoes, taking his ear buds out, and setting his iPod on the desk.
Both women looked at him as he walked toward the kitchen, his hair damp with sweat. He pulled his shirt up and wiped his face with its fibers.
"Morning." He smiled at Annie and kissed her forehead. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No. Just girl talk,” Rosa replied, settling him with a smile. She began to work the juicer again.
"How was your run?" Annie asked.
"Good." Cal stood behind Annie's chair. He put his hands on the arms and leaned over her head.
“How was your sleep?”
Annie stopped chewing and looked up at him, fighting a smile as she rolled her eyes. The way he’d said the word was code for sex. He’d given her two more orgasms after the three.
Five.
One after the power nap and the other in the middle of the night when she’d woken to pee. She literally had died the little French death, and she was sore. She could walk, though. Barely.
God, his energy — last night, always, now — ignited her. Even the smell of his sweaty body so close to her skin did not inhibit her desire.
"I'm going to take a shower." Cal put his chin on Annie's head, and then he moved his lips toward her ear and kissed her neck.
She giggled and squirmed.
"Juice." Rosa signaled, arm in the air, palm around a glass of bright, pulpy orange stuff.
"Just girl talk?" he asked Rosa as he took the glass and raised his brows.
"No sabes todo." Rosa poured coffee into a mug. "You know?"
He finished in seconds, made a loud “Ah,” a little burp, and a thunderous "Thank you," then went toward his bedroom. "I do know everything." He grinned. "Todo." He emphasized the word as he smirked at Annie.
Rosa scoffed in jest.
"Have you been brushing up on your Spanish, Ms. Baxter?" Cal asked.
Annie smiled. "You are tonto."
"Ah, a good one, Annie." Rosa sat at the table, cup of coffee in hand. "He does not know all." Rosa waved her hand in the air, dismissing him.
Cal closed the door, but not before he’d scolded Annie with his swell green eyes and all-star motherfucking grin.
"No, and he's ridiculous." Annie covered her partially full mouth.
Rosa nodded and mmm'd.
"Thank you for breakfast."
Rosa patted Annie's arm, speaking her you’re welcome with her eyes as she sipped her coffee.
"You mentioned you have a son," Annie said. "Where does your family live?"
"Four sons. Three of my children live in California. One is in New Mexico. Three grandchildren." Rosa made a W with her fingers. "And my husband, well"—she tapped her nails on the mug—"he passed away a few years ago."
“I’m sorry." Annie feigned a smile, the smiling frown often accompanying death. “What was his name?”
“George." Rosa exhaled his name like a song. "Not long after my husband died, I started to do things for Cal — little things that turned into bigger things. And before I knew it, I’d offered to move to Florida.”
“You offered?”
Rosa gave Annie a sharp stare, indicating whatever reason they’d moved here might possibly have been due to some sort of desperation on Cal’s part. It had to have been if Rosa had just offered to pick up and temporarily leave her family.
“Luckily, he found me my own place right here." She tilted her head toward the front window.
"Here?"
"Yes. Across the courtyard." Rosa chuckled. "And Carl … well, he’s had good luck with him too."
Luck or timing? Annie knew exactly what Rosa meant. Annie recalled the conversation she’d had with Carl in the Tesla on the way home from the airport.
"Ah, yes, he told you this?"
"No, Carl did." Annie smiled. "But I told Cal we talked. He was really modest about the whole thing.” Hiring a veteran. A man suffering from PTSD. “And quiet. He hasn't always been so quiet?"
"Not what I would say, ‘quiet.’ Pensando. Thinking. Reflecting."
“It must be difficult being away from your family,” Annie said while admiring Rosa. The way she carried herself, the grace with which she held her cup of coffee, and the way her eyes always seemed to do an intimate dance with her words.
"Cal is my family, too. My hijo." Rosa looked Annie square in the eye, drilling home the point, and then she looked at her mug as she brought it to her lips.
Annie finally did the calculation in her mind.
Forty years of friendship?
More than friendship.
Cal is her family. Hijo. Son? She is a second mother to him. Or a mother to him? This woman moved across the country, away from her children and grandchildren to be here. Why? It was more than having to take care of the bigger things.
Rosa must have been a constant, steady presence in Cal's life. A mother, an aunt, a sister. And maybe she loved Cal more than anyone. God, what a thought. More than his own mom? Maybe Rosa’s love was just different, varied.
Rosa kept him grounded.
Annie was confident Rosa reminded Cal of where he came from, who he was, keeping the loneliness he hid from attempting to whisk him away. She keeps Cal whole. No wonder he needed her.
Did Cal Prescott need anyone?
The women spent several minutes making their own kind of quiet. Fulfilling their own needs via the comfortable silence. Annie eating. Rosa slurping. Annie thinking about photographing Rosa — her face, her spirit, her love.
It could be captured but not contained.
Annie longed to illuminate Rosa’s rare qualities through the scope of her lens.
"Excuse me, love." Rosa reached next to Annie's leg under the sink, grabbed a few supplies, and stood. "I told you, you don’t need to do these dishes.”
“I want to.”
“You’re a sweet one,” Rosa said, and Annie smiled and shut off the water. "I'm going to get out of your way and do some work up in the loft.” Rosa winked.
"You’re never in the way."
"Well, I see that look you two had in your eyes this morning, and I should be out of your way.”
Cal's look. The I'll-be-eating-Annie-alive look.
“Rosa..." Annie dried her hands on a towel. "Really."
“I remember what it's like." Rosa paused at the table and set her supplies down. "I remember what it's like when you first meet someone. I may be old, but I remember how I felt when I first fell in love with George."
Love...
Fuck.
Annie couldn't move. Her feet grew roots. Her throat tightened. Her stomach twisted.
Love.
The boy-man-guy she’d thought she’d loved, Daniel jerk-face Westerly, had never made her feel like this.
Roots. In. The. Ground.
Upside-down rollercoaster.
Mind in the sky.
Stifling.
Wind knocked from her chest.
Crazy.
Unable to make sense of words or questions or anything.
The temperature… Was it hot in the room?
Talk, Annie. Speak. Respond.
“Come here, my child,” Rosa said in a sweet hush.
Annie moved forward withou
t ease, uprooting herself, pressing her fingers into her dress, pressing and walking, terrified of the four-letter word applying to the just the summer just the summer just the summer. The June, July, and August of no relationship plans or what-ifs. No room for love. No sequoia trees. No safety. No thinking.
“George, my husband, he was older than me too, you know?" When Rosa spoke, she meant business. Her eyes told the stories. Her hands followed. "Don't let anyone give you a hard time about that."
“How much older?” Annie asked, a lump in her throat, elated Rosa was validating her feelings, her fears. Things she couldn’t or refused to articulate. Whatever they were.
But they couldn’t have been love. She wouldn’t even think the word. Love love love love love love love. Stop!
“He was almost ten years older. He was…" Rosa trailed off, eyes wet with memories.
Annie rubbed her fingers across Rosa’s upper arm, but the fearless woman pretended to regain her strength.
“Mmmm. My George was a pistol, and I loved him all the more for it. I was never afraid to love him. Time is precious, Annie. You will see.”
“I know." The two words contained the grieving and sorrow, an exhausted breath. Her voice may have cracked.
“Who have you lost?”
God, Rosa might have been the wisest woman Annie had ever met — and she’d met a lot of people she considered intellectual — but Rosa took the cake.
“My brother,” Annie replied, swallowing her tongue.
“What was his name, mi querida?”
Annie met Rosa’s eyes. Say it. Now. Say it.
“Peter." Annie pronounced it with a stark boldness despite the fissure in her voice box.
“Ah, Peter,” Rosa said in her thick, beautiful accent. Did every word she pronounced sound like a symphony? “This name means rock. He was your rock, yes?”
Annie’s eyes gave Rosa the answer she desired. They lit up with fire. They drowned in the ocean. They filled with all the tears she numbed with pills — and her father's grief, and her mother's faux concern — but she contained it all behind the dam she’d built many, many months ago.
It won't break.
Not now.
Rosa spoke several sentences in Spanish as she looked heavenward, eyes and head tilted up.
