by A Kelly
But Scipio knew no one treasured the moment more than he and Summer. They’d fought for this union with their blood and tears –– there was no more crying; they smiled victoriously, jubilantly.
With the ring in his hand, Scipio trembled. When he took Summer’s hand, he couldn’t help kissing it. He gazed into her eyes while his lips were pronouncing his vows. Behind those blue eyes he saw the events leading up to this moment in fast-forward: Pierre the green rosella, her silver scarf, her first punch to his face, her palm on his heart, their first kiss, Louise, the real Pierre, Scooter, Bobby…
‘I do,’ he heard her say. And they kissed. Her lips were sprinkled with silvery dust and they smelled like strawberry. He still remembered the first time he saw those lips – red lipstick, smudged. And that sadness. Not today. He had erased that sadness, and she was now his wife.
As they were leaving the church, midway down the aisle, Summer slowed down to look at the gold band on her finger. Before Scipio asked if she was okay, she whispered to him, ‘This is why I didn’t wear any jewellery. So I can leave this church wearing only your ring.’
No one else heard it. He stopped his stride and gave her a long kiss. He hugged her so tight the bouquet in her hand was ironed in between them, some petals scattering on the floor. He swore it was the best moment of his life.
The wedding reception took place at Scipio’s house; informal, low-key, no round-the-table speeches. The bride and groom danced to A Whiter Shade of Pale. Scipio was surprised Summer hadn’t wanted the Edith Piaf song they’d danced to at Carlton’s wedding when he’d suggested it.
When the music changed, Summer loosened her grip on him. She turned to Cornelia, who was dancing with Caine. She gestured Cornelia to change partners.
‘Go on! Dance with your dad,’ Summer said as she let go of Scipio and took Caine’s hand.
‘Don’t you run away with her!’ said Scipio to Caine, who simply winked at him.
‘You look beautiful. Have I told you that?’ Scipio said to Cornelia.
‘Yes, you have.’
‘So what happened this morning?’
‘Louise refused to leave the house. She kept asking for Joseph. Summer was crying her eyes out. I tried to shield her from her mother calling out endlessly for her dad, but of course, I failed,’ Cornelia said. ‘Is that why she never calls you Joseph?’
Scipio nodded. He had had some reservations about Cornelia spending the last few days, and today, at the Beam House to help Summer take care of Louise. The girl had just turned 20, and she’d only met Louise once before – there were only so many grown-up problems she could handle.
‘Are you okay with Louise…?’
‘Dad. I sing at Coroneagh Park. I talk to people with dementia all the time there. I’m okay.’ Coroneagh Park was Penguin’s sought-after nursing home. Whenever she could come to Penguin, Cornelia volunteered to run the sing-along sessions.
‘You’re my girl. I love you, you know that?’ Scipio said, holding back tears. ‘So what changed Louise’s mind? Did you say her husband was already at the church or something?’
‘I thought of that, but… I couldn’t.’
No, she would never lie like that, even to a woman suffering from dementia.
‘I distracted her,’ said Cornelia. ‘I was going to sing Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again but figured Summer would cry her eyes out; same with other Phantom songs. So, I asked Summer what other musicals Louise liked. Summer said Macbeth. So I sang as Lady Macbeth and let her pretend that she was at a play.’
Scipio kissed his daughter’s forehead. ‘You’re amazing.’
‘Did you not remarry earlier because of me?’
Scipio took a deep breath. ‘Partly, yes. Partly because I didn’t know anyone I would marry.’
‘So it was worth the wait?’
‘A hundred per cent.’
‘She really loves you, Dad. I know you’ve said that many times. But I saw it first-hand this morning. Summer didn’t think Louise would pull through. I knew she was going to send me to you to say sorry she couldn’t make it. I showed her a photo of you, the one she keeps near her bed. When she saw the picture, her face changed, as if everything was going to be okay.’
‘And I love her very much,’ Scipio said.
‘That’s perfect then.’ Cornelia smiled and wiped his tears.
Scipio turned to Summer who had stopped dancing and was now chatting to Mary, perhaps discussing her plan to donate more to the shelter. Summer had told Scipio about that extra money her dad had left her; she’d said it would be the best way to avenge what Bobby had done to Molly and Milo, and Rory (her Melbourne neighbour’s kelpie).
‘It’s a shame Carlton couldn’t come,’ said Scipio.
Cornelia looked down.
‘What?’ Scipio said.
‘I’m not supposed to say… but, he’s getting a divorce.’
That broke his heart. Scipio had thought the boy had finally found happiness.
Cornelia continued, ‘I think he’s coming back to Australia.’
Scipio’s heart jolted. Would his stepson continue his quest for a revenge? What would be on the line – Cornelia, his house? Or had he thought of something else? Summer? He remembered the lust on Carlton’s face when Summer, braless in her tight T-shirt, was jumping fence from the Beam House, and at the wedding party his stepson had said, ‘I’ll see you soon, Joseph.’ with a devilish look. Scipio didn’t want to think further about this on his own wedding day, so he simply nodded.
Late in the afternoon, Scooter, who had been her docile self throughout the day, came to Scipio. He offered her a handful of treats. She didn’t move.
‘Walkie walkie?’
She twirled around then walked to the door while her eyes were fixed on Scipio. It wasn’t Scooter’s usual ‘walkie’ expression.
Outside he found Summer running to the street.
‘Summer!’
‘Scipio…’ she said in panic. ‘I can’t find my mum!’
‘She was in the kitchen, wasn’t she?’
‘No…’ she cried.
‘We’ll find her,’ he said and hugged her. He thought about what he’d do if he were Louise, in Penguin. During his visit to St Therese, Louise beamed when she’d showed him the photo of her, Jake and Summer in front of the Big Penguin. ‘I think I know where she is.’
Scipio was right. Down at the Esplanade, Louise was staring at the Big Penguin. Wearing a midnight-blue gown and a hat, she was attracting attention from passers-by. Her posture was so much like Summer’s, he could’ve mistaken her for being her daughter from behind.
‘Mum!’ Summer ran to her.
‘There you are,’ Louise said. ‘Remember when we had our holiday here? We had a picnic right there. Your favourite cream-cheese sandwich with strawberry milkshake, and Jake had a hotdog and chocolate shake. Then you two nagged me to get a penguin toy. There were a lot of penguin toys at the market but none of them was anything like Sam.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Summer said. She attempted to smile as wide as she could to mask her growing sadness.
‘You look beautiful in that dress,’ Louise said, admiring her daughter from head to toe. ‘Are you going to a party?’
Summer answered, her voice trembling, ‘It’s my wedding, Mum, and this is Scipio, the man I married.’
‘Oh, this handsome man!’ Louise said. ‘I thought you were the singer.’
Must’ve been his tuxedo, or –– he couldn’t help but wonder if he had made such an impression on Louise that she remembered him as a singer.
Louise’s remark sparked a bit of joy in Summer. She put her arm around Scipio and said, ‘Yes, he’s a lovely singer, and he is my husband.’
The three of them took a detour on their way back to the car. Walking leisurely, Summer hung on to her mum while Scipio held on tight to Summer; he noticed his wife limping more heavily, even though she was now wearing flats.
Out of the blue Louise asked him to sing Sinatra’s Ne
w York, New York. On a normal day, for other people, he’d say hell, no. But it was Louise’s request, and her request was Summer’s request –– so he sang it. People on the street who heard him must’ve thought he was drunk. But Scipio couldn’t care less. His audience comprised the most important people in the world, and they appreciated him the way no one else could. The reward was worth it: Summer, usually tense and sombre around Louise, was free – her arms spread, her face tilted to the sky, absorbing the last light of the day, sometimes she played conductor as her mum was swaying as if she was on a dance floor. They were all free.
Scipio looked at Summer’s tired face. ‘She’s asleep,’ Summer told him of Louise.
Cornelia had gone back to Hobart for a show tomorrow, so it was only him, Summer and Louise in Scipio’s house. When Summer was about to take off her wedding dress, Scipio said softly, ‘Let me see you in it for a little longer.’
She climbed into bed fully dressed and lay next to topless Scipio. She stroked his chest and pinched his right nipple.
‘Argh!’ he said. ‘What was that for?’
She smirked and kissed the lucky nipple, half chewing it. Scipio held his breath. That felt good.
Lying on her side, using Scipio’s chest as her pillow, she fell asleep; and he wasn’t far behind.
When Scipio woke up a couple of hours later he saw the wedding gown hanging on the wardrobe door and Summer was not by his side. The bathroom was lit. He entered warily.
‘Hey…’ he said.
‘Sorry… I needed a bath,’ she said.
‘I didn’t get to unzip your dress and do those things that a husband’s supposed to do on a wedding night.’
She giggled.
‘I’m old-fashioned, you know,’ he said, playing with her toes when she poked her feet out.
‘You can unzip my dress tomorrow or the next day,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it better to find your wife naked in a bath instead?’
Scipio stripped himself and joined her. She sighed when she felt him.
It had been a while since they felt each other – like Summer and Scipio. Since what Bobby had done to her in that cottage, they hadn’t made love. The physical therapies she’d gone through were gruelling. She’d tolerated pain, she shook but carried on, and sometimes Scipio had wanted to shout, ‘Stop it!’ to the physios and doctors for what they’d made her do. The intensity had left her shattered. So when he was alone with her, he dared not touch her. His fear of getting her pregnant again had resurfaced – and perhaps he’d somehow used Summer’s pain as an excuse. And Summer had never asked him to touch or hold her; she’d even scrunch her shoulders when he put his hand on her back. He’d never asked why; he didn’t want her to push him away or look at him as if he was a monster.
It had been a lose-lose situation. But after today, after seeing her in that white dress, whispering she wanted to leave the church only wearing his ring, he had to be her man again. He searched for that urge within him, without the fear of hurting her or losing the fruit of their love.
Tonight, Summer was divine, the rose water smelled divine, but he couldn’t smell her. His lips were on hers now but he couldn’t taste her.
‘Scipio…’ A cautious whisper.
He could already see her shaking her head. Was it only his imagination? Or was she really going to reject him?
She gracefully lifted her legs to allow him to lie against the veneer surface and lean back. She knelt in between his legs and let herself fall forward, onto him. ‘Just stay here with me,’ she said.
‘I miss you,’ he said and hugged her.
‘Ssshhh...’ she said. He remembered the first time she sshhhed him when he was asking whether he hurt her. Just now it had been a different sshhh. She had changed, and the sshhh felt strange and somewhat unattractive, as if she’d had enough of him but didn’t want to say it.
But he loved her and he wanted her; that hadn’t changed. He slowly rose from the water and pulled her up with him. Perplexed, she followed his steps. He wrapped a towel around her and dabbed the drips of water.
She smiled, revealing the gap in between her teeth, but her eyes unveiled deep trepidation.
Scipio reached for the wedding gown. He encircled her tiny waist with his free arm and begged, ‘Put it on, for me, please.’
Summer slipped the dress over her. Her wet hair fell onto the satin fabric, leaving damp spots around the shoulders. Scipio zipped the dress up and pulled her close, kissed her, and tasted her –– that exotic, intoxicating flesh of an exotic fruit. Yes, he could taste her this time.
‘Can I make love to you?’ Scipio said.
‘You’re my husband, of course you can.’
‘Will you make love to me?’
She closed her eyes and sighed, yes.
‘Look at me,’ he begged and caressed her cheek. He took her left hand, brought it to his left pec and kissed the ring on her finger. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too, Scipio. More than I can ever show.’
He ran his fingers through her hair, kissed her neck and slowly unzipped her dress. The satin dress fell to the floor. Still holding her left hand, he placed his other hand on the biggest scar on her back.
She cried, pulling her spine in.
‘Don’t close your eyes, Summer. Look at me.’
This time she didn’t hide. She faced him, almost confronted him. With that she confirmed he’d found the essence of her pain.
Summer recoiled.
‘Please... Let me...’
‘I can still feel him, Scipio.’
‘Let me erase it. Just look into my eyes. It’s me. You’re with me.’
Her hand trembled, but she had relaxed her back. He spread his fingers and stroked her scars as if feeling the texture of a precious marble. She whimpered and at times tried to look away, but her eyes kept coming back to him.
‘Did he touch you like this?’
She shook her head.
As her breathing fell into a gentle rhythm, he turned her around. He swiped Summer’s hair like opening a curtain. She took a deep breath as he dragged his forehead and the tip of his nose along her spine.
‘Scipio...’ she cried.
Had he rushed it?
He rested his chin on her shoulder and breathed into her ear. ‘It’s me, Summer.’ Both his hands were on her breasts now, gently rubbing her nipples. ‘Did he touch you like this?’
‘No,’ she said.
His hands didn’t move, but his lips started kissing what she referred to as her patches of hell – some looked like splashes, some were rounded blotches; most of them had faded to almost the same colour as her skin, some were pinkish cherry; the small ones were smooth but the big ones were corrugated and crinkly. He kissed them as a lover, not as a torturer.
Her neck twisted and turned and her lips mouthed please. He met her lips with a gentle kiss and a whisper: it’s me. So she hung on to his hands that were still cradling her breasts, as she forced herself to stay in his embrace. Through her struggle he rediscovered that lost connection, the reason why her sshhh had become unattractive. Their wedding – romantic. Their vows – solid. But reality was full of things they’d rather forget, and they couldn’t forget. So they had to accept it head-on.
In his hands her breasts swelled and he could feel her heart gradually calming down. Slowly he guided her forward until her knees touched the edge of the bed. He pressed his torso against her back, pushing her to bend down and lay on her stomach.
‘Scipio…’
‘Please, take me,’ he said. ‘I want to feel you.’
She angled her face to feel some part of him on her lips, like a drifter in a desert who was frantically gabbling for the last drips of water from her canteen. ‘Tell me it’s you,’ she panted.
‘It’s me,’ he said and met her lips.
He placed his hand on her neck with open fingers, gently massaging it. He wanted to erase Bobby’s touch, Bobby’s whispers, Bobby’s smell.
As her writhing
eased, he continued travelling along her back. There were eight scars in the patches of hell, and he licked them all — he could taste her past, he could taste her present. As he arrived at the biggest one, she shifted, she turned around, she found him – her Scipio – so she lay on her stomach again and breathed out long. He’d like to think she was releasing the ghost of Bobby.
While she absorbed the calm, he entered her.
She gasped.
Scipio wriggled on top of her and stretched his neck to reach for those parting lips and he greeted them with a deep kiss – thanking her for giving him a chance.
She moaned, a hungry moan. And her wetness didn’t lie.
He blanketed her whole body with all he had. He went inside further, slowly, savouring every squeeze of her muscles. Her lower body rose and fell following his thrust. His lips were never far from hers as their necks twisted, desperately trying to cling on to each other. She silently gaped following her first climax. He wished she’d said his name then.
Her sweat mingled with her wet hair. She looked wild like that, and he kept her wild by pushing through, despite her grimaces and squirms. He listened to her call, a distinct cry that begged him for the pleasing pain, and he was rewarded with her second. She cried loudly this time. ‘Scipio!’
Her scars rubbed against his chest and she let it; in fact she searched for the friction. She even lifted her hips, allowing him to glide further. She resisted the pain and in doing so her muscles wrung his manhood. He held his climax while letting her enjoy hers. Knowing he was responsible for it, as her man, as her husband, made him want to please her forever. He would have that chance again, so for now he released.
He held her hips when he felt her moving; he still wanted her warmth and wetness.
For a while they were two connected bodies, lying weakly, bobbing up and down trying to catch their breaths. Then, slowly, Summer crawled forward; they parted. As if she was just awake from a blissful slumber, she stretched and then languidly turned around to face him: her face radiant, her eyes glowed, half moaning she begged: ‘Once more?’
