Chloe laughed. “No, no. ‘Patriarchy is murder!’ And then you chalked my outline after my death throes stopped.”
“A dozen chalk figures stomped out by pigeons and tourists right in front of St. Louis Cathedral.”
“We should have used spray paint.”
“We would have been arrested.”
“For the cause, Aims, for the cause.”
“What was the point of it all? Nothing changed.”
“If we don’t follow our passions, we die, if only at heart.”
“Quotable Chloe.”
“I should have my own column.” Chloe sat up, akimbo, looking purposeful. The box of pictures remained open between her knees.
Amy picked up a remote control and turned on the radio. She scanned the channels until one played music instead of commercials. That station’s weekend programming always included early jazz. With a pop of air to a button on the receiver, the radio switched to contemporary popular music. Amy mashed the remote, but the channel wouldn’t change. Chloe watched her thrust the control adamantly.
“Didn’t know you were such an old jazz fan,” Chloe said.
“I’m not. It was something to listen to. You know, I can only catch this station during the week. It’s strange. All of our electronic equipment is possessed.”
“Can I ask you something? Where’s Jem?”
Amy held the cup to her lips and swallowed hard. “Rhetorically?”
“He’s not in these pictures. A good number of them are from our college days. He was here then.”
“They’re in another box.”
“Why?”
“That’s the way I separated them.”
“Why?”
“It made sense to me.”
“He was a good guy, that Jem.”
The man smell emanated from Amy as if he had run through the room.
“Say something,” Chloe said.
“Scott is going to cook that chili you wanted tonight. He went out to find some decent avocados. You like those in your chili, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Speaking of Scott. He’s worried about you.”
“You’ve been having secret conversations about me?” Amy paused, scowled. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“How many men would do this? Give him a break and some credit. And FYI, there are no secrets. Not between us. But he knows you’re keeping something from him.” Amy was silent. Chloe leaned toward her friend, intense and serious. “I swear I won’t tell him, but tell me—what’s the problem?”
Amy looked outside the window as she folded herself into the chair. Her little body shuddered with tension, ready to run. “Scott doesn’t know about the baby.”
“You never told him?”
“He would be crushed.”
“You really underestimate him. I mean, he married you knowing you lost Jem.”
“The competition was finally over. He won.”
“That’s not fair. He doesn’t see it that way.”
“He does, deep down. And if he knew that I was pregnant before . . .”
“He’d leave you?”
“No. It’s just that—Chloe, he really wants a baby. And I can’t. Not now. I’m still too ambivalent about what happened, even after all this time. I go through months and not think about it, and then sometimes it flares up. Sometimes I want that baby I lost, and sometimes I’m relieved I lost him.”
“If Scott’s ready for a baby, and you know why you don’t want one—at least not now—you should tell him the truth.”
“What do I say?”
“You just tell him. It’s better than what you’re putting him through now.”
“It’s been so long,” Amy said with a sadness that made the room feel dark.
I AM HIDING something from Andrew. I cannot feel the pessary snuggled and sealed against the neck of my womb, but I know it is there. For several weeks, I have practiced its fit. The strangest secret I’ve ever kept. Before, with others, the desire was only biology and curiosity—my body compelled by instinct, my mind by inquisition. I could have—they were willing—but there was always a moment to pause and turn back. I did not pursue the chance again.
Until now.
Andrew holds the rail of the walking bridge in the park. A beautiful spring sunset bathes the creek below. Small fish pierce the light to kiss the air. He looks at me without anticipation—it is a simple gesture, an acknowledgment that I’m near. He says nothing, but his eyes invite me closer.
“I have to ask you something.” I wrap my arms around his waist, press my face into his back. He rests one hand over mine.
“What is that?”
“We never said we wouldn’t, and I’m not saying we should, but if you want to, I want to. So . . .?”
Andrew remains silent and doesn’t move. Then he stands tall. “Are you—?”
“I’m ready. I’m sure.”
He turns around, breaking my hold. “Now?”
I exhale a nervous laugh. “No, not this minute.”
He stares at me. “What if something happens?”
“Remember, I know about these things.” My hands flatten against his warm chest.
“Are you absolutely certain? This is serious. More serious than anything that has happened between us before. As serious as marriage.”
My reach descends to the front pocket of his trousers. As I expect, his body gives me the answer that he will not reveal with words. “Andrew, say yes.”
Not here, I tell him, the magnolia scent is too strong. We continue to walk farther on the property than we’ve ever been, where grass grows to our thighs and the green stirs with startled mice. He holds my hand and lets me lead. A chirping red flutter darts past, followed by its tawny reply. This will be no different, I think, except for the way what I’ve held will touch me. I look behind. Andrew doesn’t smile, but his face changes, especially his eyes, moon nimbus blue, calm and luminous. Over his shoulder, he carries a bundle of blankets corded together, cushioning a thermos and a little box of cookies.
What about there? I ask, and he agrees. The ground is mossy under the oak, whose tannin will not let grass compete with its roots. As he finds a flat, shady spot to lay the blankets, every nerve hums unfamiliar. I am no stranger to his body, or mine to his, and although what is about to happen is no casual affair, no moment of free abandon, I should not feel so anxious, so innocent. An early summer gust catches the back of my neck, and I shiver.
Andrew tucks his socks in his Oxfords near the tree. He walks up with his arms open and holds me gently. His chest is damp from the shadeless trek. I smell a marsh breeze—it’s him, hot green salt—and the kiss I plant at his throat comes away more wet than it was given.
We lie on the palette on the ground, so cool there, and we work our way through zippers, buttons, and buckles. Once naked, we twine our hands only, facing each other. I want to tell him that I love him, but I don’t have the air to say it. Instead, I kiss him on the mouth, his lips warm and lissome, slow, cautious, they part, his tongue at the edge of mine, we join through the element of life itself, I gasp as he draws in and out, anticipating a coming rhythm.
I push him down. He watches as I run my hands over him, alternate pressure feather light and muscle deep. When I move where he enjoys it most, his eyes close, he sighs and groans, bending into the touch, wanting. My lips join the travel, moist trails blown cool by the wind, and then taste that virgin part of him again, the last time it will be, his soft fold curled under the firm cleft above. He urges me away, not now, wait, it’s too soon. He grips my arms to pull me down, but I refuse. I’m not done yet. Let me touch you. The quiet springs that rush underneath, they rumble when I find them.
Andrew grabs my wrists and pins me to the ground. That light in his eyes, promethean, melts me to the spot. He kisses me, roughly, but his power has no harm, only desire. His mouth accepts my breasts in turn, tremors of his tongue stir my flesh to peaks, I call without words, don’t stop, and I release a
t my core, a ripple of heat arching me into him. Slowly, so slowly I ache, he carves wet paths down my belly and legs, his hands slip from my ankles to my thighs. With a nudge, he lowers to the center where my legs meet, his firm tender incendiary kiss turning my breath to smoke, my body rolling under him.
He leaves his hand below my navel as he reaches for the box on the blanket. Andrew looks at me. I bend my knees and check that the pessary is in place. We’re safe with this alone, I say. Feel, so you’ll know. Gently, he reaches into me, pauses, withdraws. I open my arms to him. Andrew holds me tight, kisses my face, and whispers that he loves me. I know.
When he moves into me and I surround him, the fullness where we meet consumes my body. Each movement urges me deeper into him—an impossibility by design—we are only flesh—but that desire will not go away—I want to reach a place under his skin, under mine, I know it’s there—now he kisses me, our voices muffle—I smolder, but I am not quite ready—then he thrusts, back tense, a wondrous noise in his throat.
Andrew pulls away. Oh, that couldn’t have been right, he says with an apologetic glance. I laugh. Sweetheart, you just need practice, I say. You’re not upset? he asks.
No. Have a cookie before we try again.
Andrew lies on my belly and eats five cookies. I stroke the wavy black strands away from his brow. At his dark thatch below, there are gold filaments that I have left on him. I curl to pull one free. What holds me to him now is no more and no less tenuous than this thread that coupled us.
ON CHLOE’S LAST NIGHT with them, Scott made the chili he had promised.
“Can I have a clone of you, Captain Jigsaw?” Chloe dropped into her chair. “I want a man who can cook.”
“We’re a malleable half of the species. We can be trained as long as it involves precise measurements,” he said.
“You were never trained. You’ve always cooked.”
“Survival. My mom didn’t. She hated it. Dad used to say that was why they split up. He starved for fifteen years and got tired of it.”
“New line for wedding vows: in feast or famine.” Chloe reached for the bowls filled with salsa, cheddar cheese, red onions, avocado, black olives, and sour cream. On a heavy trivet, there was sweet cornbread kept warm in its iron skillet.
Scott drank the last mouthful of his fourth beer and rubbed his glassy eyes. “Want another brew?”
Chloe nodded, her mouth full of chili.
He returned with three open bottles and placed them on the table. Amy sat next to Chloe, and Scott settled across from them. They loaded their bowls with toppings and silently downed the first spoonfuls.
“Raise up. To old friends and what ties them,” Chloe said. They clinked bottles.
“We haven’t done this in years,” Scott said. “How long has it been since I cooked and we got drunk?”
Chloe crumbled a wedge of cornbread into her bowl. “No one’s drunk, but we’re on our way. But to answer your question, it was the summer after we finished college. The clinic protests were over, you were about to move to Ruston, I was about to move to Virginia, Aims had her new job, Jem was packing for Tennessee.”
“Just us? No, I remember lots of people there,” Scott said.
“Turned out that way. Somebody showed up unannounced, and then in a matter of a couple of hours, your apartment was packed. Is that right, Aims?”
“You’re right,” Amy said.
“Hey, I saw your puzzle under the guest bed. What kind of masochism is that?”
“It’s a challenge. I have to focus on the junctures instead of the big picture.”
“Remember when Jem used to hide pieces?” Chloe asked. “You’d tear up the apartment looking for them. And then, like magic, the missing bits would appear in place when you weren’t looking.”
“At least it didn’t happen as often when he moved out. The bastard.”
“You got him back good, though. Remember that time you put a roofie in his beer? He was so sensitive to stuff like that. Passed right out. You spent about an hour giving him this Bo Derek meets Bob Marley look.”
Scott laughed. “He blamed you. What guy braids another guy’s hair as a gag?”
“That was so goddamn funny. You remember that, Amy?”
“No.”
“No?” Chloe scraped a gummy crust of cheese from her spoon. “Oh, that was before I introduced you to them. First year of college. I was living across the hall from you boys with that redheaded cheerleader. She had such a crush on you. She only dated nerds because she believed they made better husbands. Smart, never cheat, good providers. You so could have had her.”
“I’m not—I wasn’t a nerd.”
“You’re a nerd. And you know, Amy looks like her, the same complexion and nice, balanced features and petite build—sort of like that girl in the pictures we found last night, too. But my roommate—what was her name?—anyway, she had green eyes and big fakey knockers and no control with the eyeliner. Maybe that’s why you didn’t like her. She wasn’t natural, like our girl here.”
“Amy was natural from the first time I met her,” Scott said. “You two were handing out condoms in front of the student union. You introduced us. We were having that get-to-know-you, what’s-your-major, you-know-such-and-such conversation. Then a guy who was screaming about twenty feet away stopped preaching to people walking by and started yelling at her. The Jezebel rant. Remember what you did, Aims?”
“I walked up to him and said. ‘That’s no way to talk to a virgin.’”
Chloe choked on her beer. “You did that? I don’t remember that at all. And I’m sure he believed you, with that little innocent face.”
“He started waving his Bible at the crowd again,” Scott said. He looked at Amy until she returned the attention. He smiled softly.
“Scott dropped his book sack and had his arms raised to fight,” Amy said.
“You didn’t need my help, though,” he replied.
“Hell, by then, we knew how to push their buttons on and off,” Chloe said.
“You both should be ashamed of yourselves,” Scott said without conviction. “Torturing those pious people like that.”
“No way. You know how misogynistic and holier-than-thou they were. Now speaking of shame—” Chloe flicked her spoon in the air. “Someone didn’t have a gram of it when that book in the living room was purchased.”
“What book?” Scott asked.
“You know. That hold the orgasm, hours of bliss, tantric sex book.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said.
“Any book that refers to a man’s wand of light—Scott, come on.”
“There’s nothing light about my wand. And I’m not allowed to do that.”
Chloe and Scott nearly asphyxiated. Amy shook her head but grinned a little behind her almost full bottle.
“That’s not entirely true,” Scott said as soon as he could speak. “That last part. It happens, but it’s supposed to be different. No fluids involved, if you get my drift.”
“So how’s it working for you?” Chloe asked. “Aims, give it up. Has your sacred temple lit up and new heights of passion been achieved?”
“He’s just reading, Chloe,” Amy replied.
“Well, the cover is still clean,” Chloe said.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Amy said. Scott began to laugh again.
“Sorry,” Chloe said. “Anyway, I looked at the pictures mostly.”
Scott took a full draft. “Figures. Really, I read about it in some other books and thought I’d see what it’s about. It’s not a religion, but some people do it as a religious practice. I think it’s interesting. The idea that two people can achieve such a level of connection through something so primal. A transcendence, I guess. And it’s sort of scientific and psychological, too. The couple shares their energy, but it builds as they keep going. Lots of emphasis on breathing and eye contact. They lose sense of time and place, sometimes go into other states of consciousness. Like a runner’s high maybe. That’s how I make sense
of it. Anyway, it’s pretty deep.”
“That’s the kind of sex I have when I’m stoned,” Chloe said.
“This doesn’t require drugs,” Scott said.
“Quick way to the same end.”
“It’s not the same,” Amy said. “It’s spiritual, Chloe.”
“How do you know that?” Chloe traced the top of her beer.
“Yeah, how do you know? Have you been reading the book, too?” Scott’s pupils were dilated so much that his irises were simply outlines. A rush of heat escaped his skin and flashed across the table. Amy flushed and returned his gaze for an instant, without the reciprocity of intent he certainly wanted.
“I’m more aware than you think,” Amy answered. She bent her head toward her bowl. Scott looked at each of the women in turn. When Chloe met his eyes, her expression showed that she had no idea what had prompted such a reply.
“Anyone for seconds?” Scott asked as he left the table.
ONE AFTERNOON, when the two of us were supposed to study, Andrew spent almost two hours listening to Grams proselytize. He wasn’t being polite. He was interested. Because he didn’t express outward disdain, like me, or kind tolerance, like my parents, Grams felt she had her first captive audience in years. While I concentrated on organic chemistry, she told him about mediums and spirits and the manifestations of evidence she had seen. She tried to goad me into joining them when she said spiritualism was a scientific religion—those who practiced collected proof that the veil between our worlds was very thin indeed.
Grams has a terrible crush on him now. When Andrew comes to my house to study, I kiss him hello, take his jacket, and settle in the dining room alone. On those days, Grams mysteriously has no visits with friends or one of her four remaining children. She drifts into the parlor, coiffed and coutured, as if she’s surprised to see him. Their voices drone in the background for half an hour or so, until he graciously excuses himself from the conversation. I tease her later. He’s too young for you, Grams. What would the neighbors think? She brushes the air, but with a coquettish twitch.
This Saturday afternoon is no different. We have exams soon, but Andrew doesn’t miss court with my grandmother. I eavesdrop as they enjoy each other’s attention.
The Mercy of Thin Air Page 18
