Leaping (2 page)
Authors: Diane Munier
And
he waited for
her,
surely she would come…back.
He
got further this time. Nearly to the cabins, the place he never wanted to
reach,
stopped before he did, lest they see him and wave…and
expect.
She
was right. He'd resented her first. His anonymity…gone. "I'm Jordan
Staley," he'd said. And from there, the second story…his room…his
books…his bed…his needy sounds and his despair.
He'd
slept. And he'd awakened. Where was she? Where was she with this stupid game?
She came out then, on
her stoop. Her cabin was the first, away from the others but too close, still.
She must have seen his approach from her window. She wore a cotton dress and a
sweater over. Feet
bare
. Scarf in her hair.
She
hadn't expected him…at all…and in his pants…only.
He
walked closer.
"I
have coffee," she said, but no smile.
She
turned to go in, waited holding the door wide, and he followed.
It
was small in here, but not without appeal.
Her.
That
was the appeal. There were drawings on the wall…colored chalk. This was more
than he wanted. He couldn't breathe in here.
"Sit,"
she said and he went to one of two blue kitchen chairs and he sat, and there
were newspapers on the table, stacked and used, and he kept himself away from
them and their black blood.
"Do
you take it black? Do you want cream?" she asked.
Here's
what he wanted, he sat up, raised up and took her by the arm and when he fell
back to the chair she came with him, and he pulled her onto his lap and tore
off her sweater and ran his hands over her breasts…here was what he wanted…all
he wanted…and he had his hand in her hair, he felt the knot on her scarf and he
pulled this off and his hand buried in her hair now, and her head in his hand
and her hair spilling over his arm, and he crushed his lips to hers. Oh soft
and warm and wet and…here was what he wanted.
She
was limp, not resisting, not turning him away, and he insisted with his mouth,
his kiss, he insisted she come to life and give him life, and he kissed her,
and she was open, open and she leaned back and he wrapped his arm around her
back, but she leaned away and they went to the floor and he was barely aware of
how, but they were there on the linoleum, and he had her then, his hands under
her dress and on her and her on him and the kiss, the kiss, and he pulled from
her as he tried to give to seek to know her his hands moving all over her body,
her sweet body that conformed and opened and kept him as close, as close, and
he was frantic and wild and wondering where this life had been hiding, but he
couldn't get to it without her, and she stilled him and he tried to calm as he
laid there and she kept her hand over his heart and she looked at him, into
him, and he needed this almost as much as her flesh. He needed her to look at
him and not run.
"I'm
doing this because of all I know about you," she said and he wanted to
trust her…wanted it more than he remembered wanting anything…since….
"The…the
newspapers?" he panted for he did not understand.
"No.
What I know from all we've shared…through all the days we've spent
together."
Oh.
The crazy.
She was crazy. They'd just met. But they
were leaping. He forgot.
"Don't
talk," he said and he raised and caught her mouth in another kiss, a
frantic, rhythmic last chance kiss that she returned now, and she moved and
they rolled and she was beneath, and he spread over her, like a building storm,
then he took her there, and it hurt to feel her body’s velvet grasp, to be
completely taken by hope and good and…"Cori."
She was quiet as she
stilled and clenched and he gave her this stream of hot sorrow that broke free
to seek some eternity,
faraway
from him.
When
it was over he felt shame. He felt shame for taking so much.
For
reducing her to the impossible task of jump-starting his will…and on the floor.
He
moved off of her. She stayed put. Had she been crying? "Did I hurt
you?" he asked.
"No,"
she said, looking away.
He
sat up and felt the wild hair he hadn't had cut in too long, and she did not
move, not even to pull her dress to respectable length. He had consumed her.
So
he straightened the dress, covered her private self at least. "I'm
sorry," he whispered, her thigh soft.
"For?"
She found her scarf on the floor and
wiped her face.
"This,
of course," he said tersely. He hated stupid explanations…to make them.
"It's
alright," she whispered, a smile of all things. "Tomorrow you say thank
you."
"Tomorrow?"
There was no future in this.
"Yes.
Moving backwards…I can see into the future." She smiled so beautifully. He
grazed her cheek with the back of his finger.
"There's
no tomorrow," he said.
"It's
already happened. Last night…was tomorrow."
"Stop,"
he whispered. "Just…stop."
"We
can't stop," she said. "We put it in motion. We leaped. There are
events which have led to this…and now we have to live them out. Remember…the
pages you don't read…remember?"
Well
he'd heard enough. He got up then, like an old man, and he righted his pants,
and they were cold and wet and he must look like an animal.
"It's
because of what you've been through."
"I
haven't been through anything. I don't like your game. This was a
mistake," he said and he went to her sink and there was a colander and
potato peelings. He used the glass there and filled it and drank and his lies
wouldn't go down. He set the glass in place as he heard her move from the floor
behind him.
"I'm
sorry," he said again.
"There's
nothing to be sorry for," she said, and he felt her hand on his shoulder.
He
let his head sag then. She was a stranger. This was madness.
He
moved away, to the door. "I won't…," he said,
then
he went out.
He
walked with quick purpose, down her porch, across the sand, along the path he'd
made there. It was going sour, sour, and if it did…there was nothing…and he
knew that…he'd accepted it…and she'd crashed into the gray…still…fog…and she
was killing him.
She
did not follow, she did not call out, "Stop." And that cut him most
of all…the words he did not need.
Before now.
He
would go home. He'd lock his door. He was done.
But
he had not gone far when she came after. He stopped then and waited for she'd
called out and he could take in the air…finally.
She
reached him, holding a shirt, a man's blue one. She was already pulling it up
his arms. She moved so quickly…too quick for him…not quick enough.
She
was buttoning it, a satisfied look, her deep dark eyes darting to his, the
sweet lip turned in a smile. Was this mercy? He wanted it.
More.
He was sick.
"After
today…no more."
"What
was it? Rutting on a cabin floor?"
She
smoothed over his shoulders, the hurt in her eyes. "Not for me."
"What
then? You don't even know me."
"I
do…and I will. Didn't you mean it? What happened between us…wasn't it
real?"
"As
I remember…I left evidence."
"I
mean…it's powerful…between us." She let her hands drop.
"It
is what it is. I'm sorry you had some other idea of it. I'm at fault. I never
should have…."
"Don't,"
she said with such intensity it worried him.
But
he understood something. She needed this…illusion…as much as he needed her…and
that was powerful.
He
cupped her face, her lovely face, with his big hands, and he searched her eyes
and ran his thumbs over her cheeks.
"I…don't
know if you're sent by God or the devil," he laughed softly, and the
despair….
"It
ended in lovemaking. That's what everything we have left leads to."
Was
she crazy? "What do you want from me…really?"
"Tonight,"
she whispered.
Chapter
3
She
was in his head. He tried to read…to be…to do something. Mrs. Palm came to
clean the house that didn't need to be cleaned. It was her
job,
she said when he suggested…perhaps…less often.
He
withdrew. When she left he went in the kitchen, he knew how to make a salad.
Did
Cori eat meat? She was thin…her bones…fragile. He felt something inside
her…body…he'd had the training…his hands laid on every kind of flesh, every
kind of joy and despair in the skin, muscle, blood, the face, the voice, the
posture, the air…and all the stops between, and he looked at his hands, too
soft, too knowing, too willing…too resistant…and now this woman…Cori.
Surrender…was
profundity.
To give over…weighty.
She had given
herself to him.
She
asked nothing…not with words…but the game…the magic of a story in reverse…is
that what she wanted…magic? He knew that role. He surely did know it…but want
it? Oh God he did not. But a fixed end…well…he'd believed in that once…and she
had it orchestrated…or so she thought.
Deadly.
He'd
told her who he was.
Right off.
Years of
habit…transparency…removing the threat of
himself
. I'm
Jordan Staley. I'm…innocuous Jordan. I do not think, feel or bleed like you,
and even if I say I do, fall apart before you…still…you won't believe me.
He
watched the beach and he went to the stove and he fired the grill, the center
of the stove, and he watched, then back to make the salad, and what the heck
did she like…what if she was vegetarian…this was a big hunk of meat…he couldn't
imagine her eating this at all. He wanted…where was she?
And
finally, long after the grill was off and the steaks were thrown, thrown on a
plate, raw and unwrapped and set on a shelf in the refrigerator, and the salad
was in the trash, long after he'd taken to sitting on the porch, in the dark
chill and the roar of the water he watched for her and knew she wasn't going to
come. And he was quiet…and calm…and festering…and expecting nothing at all.
He
didn't stand, but stayed in the chair, tipped back on its two hind legs, he
wore jeans, barefooted, and a sweatshirt from years ago.
She
walked slowly up the stairs, cradling her bag. "I'm here," she said.
He
felt nervous, frustrated. "I gave up," he said.
"You
were waiting?"
"You
didn't think I was?"
"You
never said for sure. I…almost didn't come. But…I made soup."
"Soup?"
That angered him more, the thought that
she had stayed away to cook.
"I
had food here," he said.
"Oh.
This is still hot."
"I'm
not hungry," he lied. "It's too late. I'll bet you never think about
time."
She
stood there, staring. "Do you want me to go?"
He
slowly lowered the chair. His heart hammered with her so near he could smell
her food, he could smell her skin, her hair, over the sea, because he knew her,
the slightest trace of her.
He
stood now, their eyes locked and he couldn't hold
her gaze,
couldn't, wouldn't send her away
. The house had grown so empty. She
shouldn't have made him wait.
This
was her idea. She wanted tonight. What was it about? He should send her home.
He
went in and held his door wide as she'd done for him earlier.
She
followed him, and he veered off at the table and she went to the stove. She set
her bag on the wooden countertop and lifted a green pot with a lid. She set
this on the stove and she lifted the lid and he smelled it and he was right
there by her.
"
It's
potato soup," she said, offering it to him, her
eyes…just like when she undressed…or laid with him…those eyes….
"I'll…I'll
take some," he said, swallowing loudly.
Bowls.
They needed bowls. He couldn't remember
and he stupidly opened two cabinet doors looking. Damn Mrs. Palm, this was
somehow her fault. He saw the crockery and took two bowls down and slammed the
door harder than he meant to.
He
had to be with her. He wanted to be with her.
She
laid the lid on the counter. She pulled a drawer and found the ladle. She went
to stirring and he got right beside her and set the bowls.
Two
of them.
One for her…one for him.
Two of them.
Her
hand was on the counter as she stirred the soup.
She
had stopped stirring. He looked at her.
Deep, dark silence.
"Where is he?" he said.
She
shook her head. "Not with me," she whispered.
"Were
you going to tell me?"
The
dark silent look.
"You wouldn't ask this close to the end," she said. "You would
know by now."
"You're
a damn married woman," he enunciated.
"I'm
not," she yelled back, and he was surprised at the sudden emotion, but
he'd seen that before, that morning in fact. "It's over."
He
waited for more.
"Don't,"
she said.
"Don't?
Don't ask who you are?"
She
started to stir the soup. "Cori Weston," she whispered. "Google
it if you must."
"Should
I go?" she said again.
He
turned away from her and ran his hands through his hair. He looked around, the
dark, the still and the uncountable tons of water shifting beyond…she was
playing havoc with…everything. He was a wreck and she seemed to plug right into
it. "I happen to respect marriage. Give me a choice at least."
"I
knew that. I…imagined that. I wouldn't do that to you."
"Really?"
he said, but it wasn't nice.
"Should
I go?"
He
wanted to send her away, wanted the drama, wanted to hurt her, reject her on
the chance she
lied
, so he could prove to himself he
was so upstanding he wouldn't continue to use her now that he'd dropped lower
than ever.
But
did he want her to go? Was there a shred of honesty in him? Would he put all
his sins on her? He hadn't asked…if she was married. He hadn't cared.
"No," he all but croaked. "No."
He
let out a breath and went to the fridge, popping it open and grabbing two green
bottles of beer.
She
was watching him, taking her
cue,
she started to stir
the soup again, filling one bowl then the other.
He
yanked out a chair and sat, and she served him first. That calmed him. More
than he liked. He was letting her call all the shots, turn him inside out. He
was begging for more.
She
went back to the stove for her bowl and brought it to the table.
He
noticed her hands shaking as she set it on the table.
All
the anger was out of him. He reached and circled her wrist with his long
ridiculous fingers.
They
looked at each other, and she was quickly moving to him and he pushed against
the table and the soup rocked like the waves and he was barely aware as she fell
on him and he wanted it…wanted her, and he rose, his arms around her and he
lifted her off her feet and her legs went around him and he held her there, and
his hand moved to the back of her head, the other arm shelved her ass and she
locked her ankles and he carried her a few paces one-way and the other, and she
held on, her face buried against his neck, and he thought, my God, even like
this…even if…I want her.
They
slept on the couch that night, and he held her…and she held him…and outside, a
storm, and rain pelted the porch roof and the windows and the soup cooled on
the stove and the table and maybe the floor and he'd never closed the door…and
it was downright cold and still…he held this woman.
