“Fine. Can your friend sit with your mother?” We follow Raymond into the house as the tension becomes unbearably thick.
“Nat, can you hang out with Mom? I’ll come get you in a few minutes.” Zach places his hands on my shoulders and smiles sweetly. “Just read her a magazine or tell her a funny story. Be yourself, ma femme.” He puts his hands in his pockets and follows his dad down a long hallway. God, I wish I knew what they were discussing.
I make my way into the garden room just past the kitchen. Claire’s eyes are closed and there’s a beautiful opera melting through the speakers. I approach her quietly, not wanting to wake her, but she opens her eyes as soon as my fat ass plops down on the chair.
“Natalie?” she breathes.
“Yes, Claire, it’s me. Zach and I stopped by because I desperately need your advice about some camels. You see, my new job with Molly requires me to do some crazy stuff. Now, I’ve done some crazy shit in my life, but I never thought I would have to create the Sahara Desert on the Upper East Side.” I pause to see if she’s following and she’s grinning.
“So my mom suggested I just get a bunch of hookah pipes and set up tents and let everyone get really high and imagine the camels. I could even get a couple cardboard cutouts to enhance the mirage. Zach seems to think that monkeys with fez hats would be more fun, but I really don’t want to disappoint Molly or my eccentric clients.” Claire’s chest starts to flail and I’m nervous I did something to hurt her, but she’s smiling and tapping her hand against the rail. I place my hand on top of her frail fingers and she mumbles a few words—
“Il t’adore. Sa femme, Natalie.” She quiets to silence, and the only noise is the pressure of the oxygen tank filtering in clean air. Her eyes close, but her chest is still inflating. Goosebumps invade my skin while I contemplate holding a mirror under her nose.
“Natalie? Are you ready to go?” Zach is standing over my shoulder, sensing my anxiety. “You did a great job. She’s happily resting.” I release Claire’s hand and join him. He leans over and kisses her delicate hand, and then whispers at a volume I, too, can hear. “La vie est un interlude au salut.”
Life is an interlude to salvation.
On the train ride back to Manhattan, I snuggle into Zach and think about the peculiarity of what I witnessed. Claire speaks French. Zach speaks French. And I still don’t know what’s going on.
“She said you loved me,” I blurt.
“She’s on morphine.” Zach smiles playfully and I jab him in the stomach.
“Be serious for one fucking minute! Stop patronizing me. Stop giving me things to distract me. Stop making me assume you’re full of secrets.” I cross my arms and remain firm. He cannot actually think he’s the one saving me.
“Natalie, have you ever wanted something so badly that you would sacrifice a life in order to save one?” He yanks my hand from my chest and pulls it close to his heart. “Can you feel what you do to me? You’re my pleasure from the pain, my distraction from the voyage and the best friend I will ever have.”
I mumble and shake my head, “I don’t—”
“That day on the train, I wasn’t visiting my mom or taking her to treatment, I was getting my things in order. I went to see my physician, update my passport and take care of my trust with the family attorney.”
“Oh god, no! Are you sick? What’s happening?” I cover my mouth in fear and collapse into his strong arms.
“I’m not sick, I’m a Marine.” He strokes my hair and kisses my forehead. “I’m leaving for Afghanistan. Tomorrow.”
“What?” My scream is blood-curdling and every passenger stares in our direction, wondering what could be so horribly wrong between two young lovers. “No! No, you cannot leave me. Absolutely not. What about your family? What about me?”
“This was decided long before I met you and I didn’t realize I would fall so deeply in love with you. But I need you to be okay with this, Natalie, please. Those fuckers impacted our lives but I refuse to let them take our dreams.”
“You’re wrong, so wrong. I’m selfish! I’m a selfish, selfish baby and I want you here. I’m not built like you and I have no honor, please Zach, stay with me, be with me.” My sobbing and hyperventilating muffle my plea, but it doesn’t matter, Zach is leaving tomorrow. So that I, a girl he barely knows, can drink Diet Snapple and interview for high-paying jobs and sleep with as many men as I want and buy expensive shoes and say Shit and Fuck wherever I want and watch crappy television and look for fucking camels to rent for a desert-inspired party. Irony is a bitch.
October 24, 2002
IT’S A GORGEOUS OCTOBER day in the city that I love. The leaves are turning copper and everything smells like an apple orchard. Fall fashion is probably my favorite, and I look fantastic in jewel tones and boots. My job is fantastic, all things considering, and I even pulled off that desert party for The Russell family. Molly and Mr. Ross are officially a “shield your eyes” item and she has scaled back on her event commitments, leaving me with plenty to fuck up.
Zach has spent three weeks in basic training somewhere in Germany and soon he will be dropped front and center on the Afghani battlefields. I hate him and I love him, but mostly, I miss him. After my Metro North Meltdown, we spent the entire night in each other’s arms, talking and laughing . . . ignoring the pain. We made love one last time, honest and real, no joking and no silly banter.
I shaved his head as we talked about nothing and everything, but promising to never say goodbye. Sometimes when I’m deep in my thoughts, I wonder if I imagined him – like a little prince that fell from the sky in search of a friend.
When I get to the office, the UPS guy is waiting for me, so I sign his clipboard quickly and grab my little package. I see the Deutschland stamp and I know it’s from Zach. Ripping open the brown paper, I find a single key – I know exactly where to go!
I run down the four flights of stairs and out onto the street. I’m booking it down Broadway and leaping over anything in my way. He said he would get a short leave and he’s here! I shove past some tourists and manipulate my boots like Nancy Sinatra . . . I’m almost there.
Out of breath and flushed, I take the elevator to the fifth floor and nearly attack the door to 5G. My hands are shaking, but I manage to finagle the key in the hole and swing open the door and it’s . . .
Empty.
Not one piece of furniture. Not one tack left on the wall. No Zach. I walk to the middle of what used to be the living room and stomp my feet. I jump up and down and scream and curse.
Fuck! Shit! No!
And then I see it, Le Petit Prince, resting on the kitchen counter. It’s calling me and I go to it, that stupid book I will never fully understand. I open the cover and run my fingers over his handwritten addition to the title page.
La vie est un interlude au salut.
~Zacharie Pascale Parker
There’s also a note.
Natalie, ma femme:
First of all, stop carrying on and be quiet. These are your new neighbors and you can’t have them thinking you’re a wanton hussy. That’s right, the apartment is yours. I had the lease transferred to your name and you’re paid up for the year. All my stuff is in storage; ask Wayne (the doorman) for the key and help yourself to anything you want.
Secondly, I bet your tits look great in tight sweaters. Oh yeah, I promise not to bore you with long letters from the battlefront. From what I hear, times can get pretty bleak and there’s no sense in documenting that kind of shit. However, I can receive mail, and I expect full-frontal pictures at least twice a week.
I slept with a girl named Heidi. It’s freaking Oktoberfest! So after you get done calling me a dickweed or whatever, go find yourself a nice guy. I would be your wingman if I wasn’t busy doing push-ups and shooting guns. Seriously Nat, live your life how you want and never apologize for being you.
One last thing. You should really read this book.
I love you.
I place the note in the book and p
ull it close to my chest. Life is made up of millions of destinations: some alone, some with friends, some in fear and some chasing dreams. And this silly book about the little boy that meets a stranger, enjoys an interlude with a fox and dreams of the salvation in the desert of tears, is my guiding star.
I close the door to my new apartment and wait for the elevator, thinking about the way destiny plays a role in the smaller picture. The doors open and I step inside, running my fingers along the brass rail. I hum an upbeat song and watch the descending numbers flicker. I step into the pristine lobby and wave to Wayne, my new doorman. This all belongs to me now, this is my life!
Outside in the crisp, autumn air, I contemplate my options. I’m a modern woman living her fantasy in the best city in the world. I’m free and independent and surprisingly, optimistic. The emotions start to build inside of me and I want desperately to throw a hat in the air like Mary Tyler Moore . . . but I’m not That Girl, I’m Natalie LeGrange, and I will need an orange beret. And if I’m going to work a bold accessory like that, I will also need a new bag from Tory Burch. And some shoes . . . and I should really consider warmer highlights . . . oh, and a French dictionary.
Zacherie
“Non, je ne regrette rien!”
~Edith Piaf
2002-12-15
New York City
Operation Eggnog
1900 hours
THE MISSION IS SIMPLE: retreat into the darkness, then attack.
My extensive training back at Camp Lejeune prepared me for every type of combat, but what my training officer failed to mention is how difficult it would be to keep quiet and focused on my very first mission. I’m anxious and a little nervous, but I’m also smiling like a dumbass.
I shiver in the corner, trying to perfect a realistic smoke stack with my hot breath, and think about my training officer – good ol’ Captain Blowhole. He was always yelling at me for being too tall and goofy and relied heavily on nonsensical name-calling like: sausage gobbler, pencil dick, fanny fucker and my personal favorite, homo-retard. How could I not laugh? But I bet that pompous prick would be impressed with the stealth-like tactics I pulled off tonight. Sneaking in here without being detected by any guards or civilians – maybe Lt. Pussy Parker would be more of an asset doing covert operations instead of reorganizing the unit’s pharmaceutical distribution like a Navy geek.
Operation Freedom is an entirely separate war from my fucking assignment – I like to call it: The War on Drug Dispensing. I’ll be stuck in Kabul at Camp Hammond for another six weeks taking inventory, labeling, administering placebos, implementing a complete computer overhaul and wearing a fucking lab coat – exactly like the one I vowed never to wear again. Eventually I will be moved to Tora Bora to defend the Afghani mountainfolk from those Taliban fuckers (which I hear entails a lot of goat-herding.) But being part of the Marines, no matter what my task, is an honor and a job I take very seriously.
Shit. Someone’s coming.
I bunker down among the shadowy confines of silence and control my rapid breathing. Adrenaline is such an intense rush, but I’ve waited too long for this precise moment to screw it up now. Keep quiet. Be still. And don’t knock over the stack of DVDs.
Booted footsteps tap against the wood floor.
A key jiggles in the door.
The door swings open as she stumbles into the apartment with a raspy cough. Her foul mouth ejects her go-to sentiments, rousing my attention and forcing me to swallow back my laughter.
“Fucking shit. Fucking cold,” she mumbles.
I rise from the corner, excited that my target will be easy to overtake. She punches the light switch and a string of white Christmas lights dangling from the mantle twinkle in my periphery. I smile, comforted by how warm she makes me feel.
I reach out my arms and calmly say, “Hey, Natalie.”
Before I can give her the embrace I’ve been dreaming of, her large purse swats me in the head. And in the arm. And damn, she’s a lot stronger than I thought. She squeezes her eyes closed as she digs inside her bag, her hands trembling, her cough taking over her body like a spastic maniac and her legs firmly planted in some sort of girly defensive stance.
“Ma femme, put down the weapons.” I hold my hands up to surrender (I am half-French after all) and she instantly opens her gorgeous blue eyes. That suspended moment of recognition and longing is better than any television drama because a) she’s fucking hot, and b) she’s my fucking hot piece of ass.
Tears cascade down her rosy cheeks from what I hope is a sign of happiness – or maybe she’s pissed I surprised her like that? Thankfully, she drops her bag and throws herself at me. I hold her tightly, bringing her legs around my waist to spin around the foyer of my former apartment, knocking over a few picture frames and an empty wine bottle.
“Motherfucker! You scared the shit out of me – I was prepared to chop off your balls with my nail clippers,” she says in a deep, dry voice. Natalie coughs into my shoulder as I caress her back. She feels so warm and natural in my arms that my temporary leave may result in permanent desertion.
“What’s with the cough, Nat – are you smoking again?” I ask as I lower her legs to the ground.
“I don’t smoke! It’s called a cold, ya jerk. Besides, my voice is,” cough, hack, “Super sexy, n’est ce pas?”
“Mmm, very,” I say while rubbing her perky round ass and moving us toward the bedroom. I have exactly forty-four hours before I report back to duty and I plan to spend most of that time screwing her brains out – and possibly a quick stop at Virgil’s for some brisket. That’s all I need for the rest of my life – Natalie, Virgil’s, the Giants and beer. Shit, I also need my Playstation 2 and the Die Hard movies, and then I’m golden for the rest of my life.
Natalie painfully coughs into my armpit, and although I know it’s nothing serious, she’s making me uncomfortable. Lately, sickness (even the tiniest of sniffles) threatens my rational thinking to the point where I become an obsessive idiot.
“I’m so sorry Zach. I look and feel horrible,” she says in a dry whisper. I kiss her forehead and squeeze her tightly.
When we reach the bedroom, I gently move her toward an iron bed – damn, that would have been fun to explore with some light bondage – I sit her down and lower to my knees. She blinks slowly with red, swollen eyes, but there’s also a glimmer of lustful sexuality. Typical Natalie, always the tease – even with phlegm and irritated nostrils. That’s it, it’s decided – I need to take care of her so she can take care of me.
I remove her boots and ugly wool socks and help her into her flannel pajamas. “Natalie, why is it so cold in here?” I ask as I lay her down and place the comforter over her weary body.
Cough, hack, choke. “I don’t know how to work the thingy,” she whines. Jesus, she’s been going to bed in the cold every night because she’s too stubborn to ask anyone about the thermostat – tenacious seductress, that’s what she is.
“What am I going to do with you?”
“Don’t leave me,” she whispers.
I lean over to kiss her cheek but her arms wrap around my neck so tightly that I lose my balance and land on her delicate chest. She flinches in pain and pushes me off. “Nat, let me get you some medicine. I’m going to Duane Reade – I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” I take her hands and place them by her side. She closes her eyes and snuggles with the top layer of the bedding.
“Zach, I need some pistachio ice cream. And your cock.” She smiles without opening her eyes and giggles.
2300 hours
Natalie is snoring loudly in my arms. After I fed her two bowls of ice cream alongside my special blend of Vitamins B, C and Nyquil, we cuddled on the couch to watch A Christmas Story. She barely made it to the Fra-gi-lee scene before her eyes closed and she was drooling on my neck. Fuck – it’s going to be impossible to leave her.
I turn off the television and carefully stand without waking her. She looks miserable on the small sofa, so I scoop her into my arms and
carry her to the bedroom. Natalie’s eyes flutter open and a sly smile invades her peaceful face.
“You’re so strong,” she purrs.
“You’re so beautiful,” I respond.
I place her on her feet and rest my hand on her cheek. It’s not as flushed as before and she hasn’t coughed in over an hour. She moves her hands to my wrist and peels my palm off her flesh, taking her time to kiss the inside crease of my thumb. Her supple lips glide along each of my fingers until she lingers on the middle one, sucking it slowly . . . “Natalie, I—”
“Shh . . .” she whispers as she moves her hands to my chest.
Natalie lifts my t-shirt over my head and tosses it to the floor. She kisses my chest, licks my nipples and bites my ribs, making me shrill like a ticklish little girl. I unbutton her pajama top (the one with the tiny bulldogs) and run my hands underneath the warm flannel to massage her tits. Fuck – I love her nipples. Women think that men love boobs no matter what, like we get horny just by the cover of National Geographic or paintings of naked women, but perfect tits? Natalie broke the mold.
I run my finger over her hard nipples while raising my eyebrows like Groucho Marx. She smiles devilishly and reciprocates. We’re both rubbing and tweaking each other’s nipples like blind people discovering a new object. “Ow, shit that hurts, Nat,” I say, pinching as hard as I can. She’s so fucking feisty and I love it.
A police siren wails on the street below, reminding me that time is in fact real outside this room. But I will never get enough of her and it’s my job to make sure that inside this room, time doesn’t exist.
I lower my sweatpants in one swift tug to reveal the giant impact her naked body has on me – Nat salutes my crotch and curtsies. “Stand down, soldier,” she teases.
I use my dick to trace the outline of her panties. “I’m a Marine, not a soldier,” I say while taking a fistful of her hair in my other hand and yanking it gently. She exhales in pleasure and mumbles something inaudible. “Shh,” I say. I press firmly against her, creating a rush of warmness that saturates my tip. I slowly drop to my knees, kissing every inch of her body on my way down. My tongue skims the outside of her panties, trailing along the contour of her delicate pink lips. I squeeze her hips and then with one quick tug, I rip them off – sexy, red lace, an image that will be stored in my spank bank for future use.
The Album: Book One Page 8
