Spirit Lost

by Nancy Thayer

  And before he could catch his breath, she came close to him and kissed his mouth, with exquisite skill, not pecking, not lingering, touching long enough that he could feel her lips, her breath. Her sweet breath. His own breath caught in his throat. She whirled away, energetic, festive, triumphant, like a beautiful woman just coming from a party where she was much admired.

  “Will you—will you sit down? Have some cognac?” John asked, uncertain about what to do next.

  “Oh, I wish I could,” she said. “But I’m in a hurry tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps?” She was now at the other end of the room, by the bed, in the shadows.

  “In a hurry?” John asked, speaking the first thought that came into his mind. “But good God, where can you possibly have to go?”

  In a flash her mood changed from gaiety to anger; he could feel it across the distance of the attic. She tossed her head and glared at him.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, and stamped her foot once. “You are so insolent!”

  And she vanished.

  “Well, damn!” John said aloud. He walked toward the place where she had stood. “Hey—Jesse Orsa—come back here! Please. Please come back. Look, I’ve gone to all this trouble. Don’t you like—Oh, shit,” John finished in exasperation. He could not believe that the encounter he had anticipated for ten days now had come and gone with such unsatisfactory quickness. He paced around the attic, hitting his fists together, trying to expel the energy of frustration that shot through him now.

  “This is stupid, stupid,” he muttered to himself. “This is pointless, ridiculous, this is a joke!”

  That night, when Willy came home, she found John in front of the TV. This was a nice surprise for her, because recently he seemed to spend all his time in the attic in the evenings and sometimes didn’t come down until so late that she had fallen asleep in bed with the light on, waiting for him.

  “We had a wonderful meeting,” she said happily, coming to sit next to her husband on the sofa. He smelled strongly of scotch, and she hoped he hadn’t been drinking, hoped he wasn’t starting “to drink.”

  But he turned to her and looked at her with such somberness that she was sure he was sober.

  “Oh, Willy,” he said with an odd sadness in his voice. He pulled her to him and began to kiss her. He began to make love to her, there on the living room sofa with the television still blaring away, distracting her, and she tried to pull away, to tell John, that she wanted to go up to the bedroom, but he didn’t seem interested in pleasing her tonight, but came to her, into her, in a childish, selfish way, as if comforting himself with her body. He removed her sweater, rubbed her breasts, entered her without removing his jeans, wallowed in her, really, while she could only lie there, almost amused, certainly touched and overwhelmed by his silent, powerful need. She lay there cuddling him against her, soothing him, letting him take his time, while the TV sang and rambled and the windowpanes shook relentlessly with the night’s wind.

  John painted every day. He waited in the attic every night.

  The woman appeared the third night. She was wearing a proper, plain daytime dress of gray and had her hair up, arranged neatly. John, seated in one of the brocade armchairs, saw her suddenly standing at the top of the stairs, her hands clasped before her breasts. She wore a cameo brooch at her neck. For all the severity of her appearance, she was still very beautiful.

  “Are you still angry with me?” he asked, standing.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “For many reasons.”

  “But I should be angry with you!” John said. He was speaking softly, for Willy was in the house, downstairs in their bedroom, reading. He was glad that their bedroom was not directly under this part of the attic. “You come and go without warning, you make me wait for you without any clue or hope or arrangement … I’ve gone to all this trouble to please you, and then you come only once in two weeks—I don’t understand. At least let me know what it is you want.”

  “What it is I want?” she repeated his words slowly. She came across the wooden floor and stepped onto the soft, deep carpet. John thought she would touch him now, for she came so close to him, her face serious, her eyes holding his. Then a private sort of smile crossed her face, and she turned from him and went to sink gracefully into a chair.

  “For now, I think, what I would like is some of your cognac,” she said.

  He poured it. He handed her the delicate, etched crystal glass. He watched her bring it to her lips and sip.

  He thought: When the glass is sitting empty on the table, that will be my proof that she has come and drunk and gone, that she does exist. That she can engage in physical activities.

  Her eyes were amused. Then she said, merely, “John.” She sipped her cognac, then gently put the glass back down on the table. She sat looking at him.

  And he rose from where he had been seated in his chair across the little mahogany-and-ivory table from her and crossed the small space between them and took her shoulders in his hands and pulled her up from her chair and pulled her body against his and kissed her mouth while holding her head to his with his hand. She came willingly against him and returned his kiss.

  He kissed her fervently, running his hands over her shoulders, neck, arms, back, pushing her buttocks so that her pelvis rubbed through her skirts against him. He moved his hands against her small waist, up her rib cage, and finally he fondled her breasts through the thick barrier of material.

  He had thought she would resist him, reproach him, for she was angered so easily and she was so old-fashioned, he did not know her rules. But she did not stop him. While she did not stroke him back, she did not push him away, and instead she let him touch her and kiss her while making little moaning noises in her throat.

  “You are real, you are real,” he whispered into her hair, against her neck. Bending down, he nuzzled his face into her breasts. “You are real. My God, I can feel you. You are real.”

  She pulled back a little so that she could look into his face. She was smiling, her eyes sparkling, her face rosy with sexual heat. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. Go on. See how real I am.”

  She had to help him, for her clothes were strange to him and he was clumsy with the small buttons of bone and the strange lacings and ribbons that held together the garments that covered her. She was equally curious, then gleeful about his clothes. But finally they were naked together on the thick, warm rug. They stood looking at each other with the same sense of wonder and awe that all new lovers feel. John’s heart was pounding away furiously inside his body, and he knew that he was trembling—with lust, with fear. But he could feel Jesse Orsa trembling, too.

  “I want to make love to you,” he whispered, pulling her against him. “I want to take you to bed.”

  In reply, she raised her arms around his neck and lay her head on his shoulder. When he picked her up in his arms, she felt as light as a child. When he lay her down on the bed, she simply reclined there and let him look at her. Her eyes were shining, her lips were moist, her cheeks and neck and chest were flushed. She was very small but so very beautiful. She was flawless, without a mark on her anywhere. Her flesh was alabaster, smooth, taut, her nipples dark brown and hard as marbles. She smelled sweet, like grass and spice and flowers. She was warm and moist and giving. He sank down onto the bed and covered her body with his.

  Her hair came loose from its fastenings while they made love, and near her face it curled where moistened by sweat or her tears or his kisses. It fell in coils and clumps against her shoulders and breasts when she rose above him, and when he was above her, it spread across the pillow in deep swirls of fragrant black. He moved against her on and on while she ran her hands over his face and body, whispering his name and begging him not to stop. He did not want to stop, not ever, not while he felt such pleasure, not while he was giving such pleasure to her. At last she called his name, then turned her head and sank her teeth into his shoulder while arching helplessly, ecstatically, against him. He moaned and climaxed and subsided against her
.

  He was afraid for one moment that she might vanish now, but she stayed, stayed with him, petting him, stroking him, kissing him, praising him, rubbing her face and hair and hands against him, thanking him, caressing him, laughing now, triumphant, joyful, released, fulfilled.

  “Oh, John, my John, my love, I love you, I love you,” she said over and over again. “You make me so happy, you make me so happy, I love you,” she said.

  Finally, exhausted, they lay together holding each other, and in spite of himself, not meaning to, meaning not to, John fell asleep.

  When he awoke, he was alone. He was alone, and naked in the bed, which was rumpled and mussed. He raised up on one elbow and looked around. She was nowhere around, nor were her clothes. The attic was quiet, the windows dark with night. He looked at his watch. It was only one o’clock. It seemed to him that it could be any time at all, any night in any century, he felt so disoriented and drained. Slowly he sat up and gathered together his thoughts. He felt absolutely depleted, as if he had just run a marathon.

  On the ivory-and-mahogany table were the two glasses, both half full. But no, how foolish, that could not be proof that she had come—he could have drunk the cognac. What, then? He rose and shook out the sheets, hoping to find something, a pin, a comb, a ribbon, even a strand of hair. Naked, he stalked around the attic, peering at the chair she had sat in, the rug where she had stood, and back to the bed where they had lain together. There was nothing, no sign at all that she had been there.

  It was only when he slowly, achingly, began to dress, forcing himself to move against his exhaustion, that he saw the small bruise she had made on his shoulder with her teeth. He could not have done that himself; he could not have reached that place with his own mouth.

  And tonight, dammit, Willy was awake when he came into the bedroom. The lamp on her bedside table was on, and she was reading, propped against pillows. When he entered the room, she raised her head and stretched and yawned.

  “John?” she questioned. “What time is it?”

  “Late,” he replied. “Go back to sleep.” They both were speaking softly. He had dressed in the attic a few minutes before; now he stood by his closet and took off the clothes he had just put on. He managed to slip into his pajama top with his back still turned to Willy, so that he was buttoning it when he turned to her. So she could not see the mark Jesse Orsa’s teeth had left.

  “John,” Willy said as her husband slipped in next to her and sank down, groaning into the comfort of the warm bed. “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No, of course not,” John said, keeping his voice normal. “I just fell asleep up there, honey.” He forced himself to turn toward her, to look at her. For the first time in his life he did not want to touch his wife, but he made himself reach out and stroke her arm. Her hair was down, falling loose over her plump shoulder, and she was wearing one of her sexy, sheer lacy nightgowns, the sort of thing she seldom wore in the winter when it was so cold. “I know it’s odd,” he went on, speaking to her unspoken questions. “I didn’t know I’d end up working at all hours like this. It’s so hard to explain … how the ideas and the energy come. I—I work awhile, and then I get so tired, and I either sit down and rest, or tonight I just lay down and fell asleep on the bed awhile. Then I woke up and knew exactly what I want to do to finish the painting. I’m almost finished. And it’s good and it’s different.”

  “I’m so glad,” Willy said. She reached out to caress John’s face. She smoothed his hair. “I’m so glad your work is going well for you.”

  She moved closer to him in the bed, nudging her bosom against his chest. Her legs softly slid against his. She brought her face to his, meaning to touch her lips to his, but he drew his face back, turned his head away.

  “No, Willy, please,” he said, more sharply than he meant to. “I’m tired,” he said.

  Willy pulled back, all the way back, removing every bit of her body from his. The expression on her face changed completely. She had been soft, loving, lovely; now she looked puzzled and angry and sad.

  “Johnny—” she began.

  “Please, Willy,” John said, forestalling her. Again he forced himself to reach out and touch her arm. “Please understand. I’m exhausted. Wait till you see what I’ve done, I think you’ll understand then. Or maybe I’m coming down with a cold. Don’t be angry. I just have to sleep. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Willy said, but her eyes were worried. She pulled away from John and turned out the bedside lamp.

  John immediately fell into a churning dark sleep. Willy lay beside him, staring into the dark night, wondering.

  The next day, John finished the night harbor scene and started a new canvas. Again it was a night scene, an ocean scene, this time from the perspective of a boat approaching land, approaching the town of Nantucket where the land rose in a gentle sweep, with the gold dome of South Church crowning the arch. In this painting all the houses were gray shingle, and it was late, dark, and foggy, so that the houses on land seemed to float and fade and waver with the same sliding insubstantiality of their reflection in the dark water. Everything was gray or black except for the gold dome of the church, which was washed in a cold sweep of moonlight that deadened the gold sheen to a gloomy near white.

  Willy came up to see what John had done. “Oh, John, this is quite powerful,” she said about the finished canvas. “And this—it will have more color in it, won’t it? Doesn’t it seem a bit … dark as it is now?”

  “It’s meant to be dark,” John answered. “I like it dark.”

  It was after dinner. They had eaten in a friendly silence, drinking lots of wine, and John, relaxed, yet anticipating the night when Jesse Orsa would come again, had invited Willy up to the attic to see what he had accomplished. So she would know he was working, he thought in the back of his mind. So she would understand why he was so preoccupied, so tired. So she would leave him alone.

  Now Willy came up behind John and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her face against his back. “Mmm,” she said, nuzzling him. “You’re so warm. Come down to bed now, sweetheart.”

  “I can’t, Willy,” John said, tensing at her touch. “I want to work some more.”

  “But you’ve worked all day,” she complained. “You’ve done so much. Come relax for just a little while.…” She moved her hands down his torso until they touched his crotch. “Come down to the bedroom just for a while. Then you can come back up to work.”

  His body did not respond to her touch. He stood very still, feeling cold and distant from his wife.

  “Willy,” he said, “I want to work. If I come down now, I won’t be able to; the impetus will be gone.”

  Willy let her arms fall away from her husband’s body and stepped back. For one moment she was tempted just to walk off down the stairs in complete silence, letting that silence speak for her anger and pique. But she loved him so, and he had been working so hard. These pictures he was doing now—she might not care for them, she might find them dreary, even unpleasant, but she was no judge of art, and she had no idea how much this work was taking out of him. She had promised herself that she would help John in his attempt to work; that meant being good-humored even now, at times like this, when he was ignoring her.

  “All right, Johnny,” she said, keeping her voice pleasant. “I’ll go down and let you get back to work.”

  As she turned, she saw the other end of the attic, which was in shadows now that the lights were off; she saw the two glasses on the table. She saw the rumpled bed. A cold spasm constricted her heart, a cramp of fear. But what was it she was afraid of? She warned herself against foolishness and went on down the stairs.

  John painted for a while, though he was not wholly concentrating; he kept looking at his watch. It was after nine, then after ten—she had come last night around ten. Then it was after eleven. He stopped painting, for he could think of nothing else but whether she would come or make him wait another night. He cleaned his brushes, straightened his work
area.

  Finally, when he heard the town clock striking midnight, twelve golden strokes, he looked over to see Jesse Orsa seated in one of the chairs. She was wearing a dressing gown of dark purple velvet with black fur cuffs and collar. And nothing underneath. Her hair was tied back with a purple ribbon.

  He crossed the room and knelt before her, taking her hands in his.

  “I was afraid you weren’t coming,” he said.

  “I meant not to come,” she replied. “I meant to stay away. I don’t want you to get tired of me, bored with me,” she said.

  “Oh, Christ,” John said, “Christ, Jesse Orsa. You know I could never get tired of you. My God.”

  He untied her robe and parted it away from her naked body, and as she sat there, he kissed her all over, burying his head in her sweetness, breathing in the scent of her as if it were the breath of life.

  In the next two weeks, she came to the attic seven times. The nights she didn’t come, he fell asleep on the bed to awaken at three or four, cold and stiff and disoriented. He would go down to the second-floor bedroom to finish sleeping with Willy. The nights she did come, they made love for hours, so that he stumbled, nearly sick with love, into bed far after midnight.

  Willy did not question him. He was grateful for that; gratitude was the best emotion he could muster toward Willy these days. He was wild with lovesickness for Jesse Orsa; he was overcome with lust.

  Some nights they talked a little before they fell asleep or while they were making love. It was John who initiated the talking, every time.

  “Tell me who you are,” he would beg, holding this small woman from him for a moment, searching her face.

  “You know who I am,” she would say, smiling, her face all innocence and love.

  “But how can you be here? I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to understand. Why must you understand? Isn’t it enough that I am here?” she would ask, and pull him to her so that he would cover her with kisses in answer.