My freedom from responsibility was no mistake. My freedom from family tethers, from material assets, from even the basic desires to have these things, had not been a plan gone awry. All these things were for a purpose. I had been chosen. I was special. I was to be one of the background people, accomplishing great things with little or no public recognition or acclaim. My kind of assistance would not be recognized in a good light, anyway. They wouldn’t understand. Great things were afoot and I was a minor cog in a mighty wheel. Guided by Her voice.
I felt free, wonderful, and one with Nature.
Surety flooded my soul. I heard lovely strains of the music. I glimpsed through the door of eternity, and I knew that if only I could sit down and contemplate it for a moment, I would understand the elusive concept.
Later. At the moment, I had something important to accomplish.
I stepped from the bushes just as the young man sank back down to the ground, his hands over his face, his shoulders shaking.
KYLE CARMICHAEL: “Sure I remember her. She was hanging around the hall when I got there. Never seen Boyd so taken with a woman before. They flock around him, women do, big, strong, good-hearted boy like that. Flock around him, they do, he could have his pick, but he never seemed to date any of ’em seriously, not more than once or twice.
“Boyd’s daddy and me were old friends—fought the war together. Never had sons myself, only daughters that my wife raised, so I kinda always felt that Boyd an’ Bill were mine, too. The four of us went hunting probably every weekend. It was just a thing for the guys to do, to get together, teach the young ones about life.
“Heh. If Boyd’d taken to girls the way he’d taken to hunting, he’d probably be in a lot of trouble. That boy would not quit. Sundown didn’t even stop him. He bought books and guns and loaded his own. One time he tracked a deer all weekend. Got him, too. Kind of obsessed, it seemed to me, but it didn’t worry his daddy any, and I’m not the kind to interfere.
“Always a gentleman, though, Boyd was. And his brother, too. Good sportsmen. Three of us kind of tired of hunting after a while; at first we stopped the shooting, then we stopped taking the guns, and then we stopped going altogether, but not Boyd. He kept going. Alone, even.
“Yep. Did my heart good when I saw him and that little bit of a blonde look at each other like that. ‘Kyle,’ I said to myself, ‘Boyd’s got something here that’s a lot better than tracks in mountain snow. He’s got a woman to chase now.’ Heh. Nothing like a woman to change a boy’s head.”
10
I know the boy heard me approach, but he didn’t lift his head until I had knelt next to him and touched his shoulder. Then his fingers parted and he wiped his wet face, first on his hands, then on the sleeve of his jacket, grief still flooding his features. As he turned to face me, I saw the cruel bruise rising on his cheek.
“What?” he said, mistaking me for an emissary from his girlfriend.
“Nothing. I just came to be with you. To ease your pain. My name’s Angelina.”
He nodded, sniffing, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. I began to pet him. I ran my hands lightly over his head, his brown hair frosty in the cold. I touched his swelling cheek, and fingered his chin. I unbuttoned the top button of his coat while he fiddled with his fingers in his lap. Then he looked at me, his eyes red and miserable.
“I bought her a diamond for Christmas. What am I going to do with it now?”
I unbuttoned the second button. Underneath was a red-flannel shirt, with a triangle of white T-shirt showing in the neck. I felt warm and guided, happy and healthy, and my eyes filled with warmth and love and gratitude as I held his face in my hands.
“I don’t know. I don’t think she deserves your love,” I said, then unbuttoned my own coat.
“I guess I could just take it back.” He began to wring his hands, cracking his knuckles. “I just really thought . . .” He seemed to notice me for the first time as I slipped out of the sheepskin jacket and unfurled the towel from around my shoulders. “What are you doing?”
“Shhh,” I said, laying a fingertip on his lips. “I’m just going to ease your pain.” I spread the towel on the frozen ground. “Here. Lie down. I’ll make you forget all about her.”
I could see he was nervous, and I gleefully imagined all thoughts of his broken heart fleeing in the face of a seduction. He lay back and I straddled his chest, lightly placing my knees on his arms. I began to rock back and forth, in time to the music in my ears, and I crooned softly to him as I brushed my fingers around his face.
He closed his eyes and a tiny smile flickered across his mouth. I pulled open the throat of his outerwear, exposing the tender skin, so winter-white, so virginal, unspoiled, so beautiful. Not a whisker grew here, not a mole, a freckle, barely a crease. A smooth, wide-open field with the faintest of pulses beneath.
Saliva flooded my mouth as ravenous hunger shuddered throughout my body. I leaned over and took what was mine.
His bucking was a distraction. I wished fervently that he would stop the silliness of a struggle; the victory was mine, was ours together. But soon he settled down and I quenched my thirst, sated my spirit.
The wound this time was small and precise; my technique was improving. I cleaned it with the edge of the towel, and wiped my face as well as I could without a mirror. I turned his peaceful face and traced the handprint on his cheek with a fingertip. The swelling had gone down and it was no longer red but pale blue. Then I tenderly rolled the boy child over on his side, brought his knees up to his stomach, and covered his neck with the towel. I looked down fondly at him, such a child, such a little boy, all curled up like a baby. He was irresistible in his innocence. He was beautiful and had satisfied me so completely. I felt grateful. Grateful and happy and composed; complete and very sleepy. I lay down, snuggled up to his back and slept, succumbing to the softer strains of the music that stirred me, and like a lullaby called me gently to rest.
The sounds of roaring car engines woke me, and headlights flashed at me as I sat up, rubbing my eyes, trying to get my bearings. The dance was over. I was to meet Boyd for a ride home. I kissed my lover of the evening and left him, brushing leaves and grass from my clothes as I pulled on my jacket and ran my fingers through my hair. I could not be certain whether there were telltale stains on my clothing or face, and would not know until I could find a mirror.
Head down, I bucked the exiting crowd and fought my way against the flow to the vacant ladies’ room. I pushed through the door and looked in the mirror. My face reflected the peacefulness in my soul. I looked relaxed, happy, loved. Warm water washed over my hands as I watched my face in the mirror, appreciating my new look. It was the lean look of spiritual satisfaction. I dried my hands on a paper towel and checked my teeth once more in the mirror.
I turned out the light as I left.
Kyle was already sweeping a pile of cigarette butts, chewing-gum wrappers, and assorted trash ahead of his wide push-broom. The snack bar had been closed down, food put away, cleaned up, lights out. The ticket table was stowed inside. Bill and Boyd stood in the doorway, talking with some older men. I walked over.
Boyd saw me approach, smiled. “Ready?” I nodded. “Kyle will lock up.” He punched his brother in the side. “C’mon, punk.” He shook hands with the two men, called his thanks to Kyle, and the three of us went back into the cold parking lot still littered with a few empty cars and plenty of empty bottles and cans.
Boyd’s truck was a big, new pickup so high off the ground I thought I’d need a stepladder to get in. He lifted me by the waist to help me up, and I settled comfortably between the two brothers. The engine roared to life; he turned on the lights, the heater, and the radio, all in one practiced movement. He put the truck in gear and we were on our way.
Boyd was quiet as we drove the few miles to their house. Bill drummed on his legs, tapped his feet, and nodded hi
s Stetson in time to the various songs that came on the radio. He even softly sang portions of one love tune. When we stopped outside his house, he jumped out with a quick thanks, closed the door, and we took off again. Boyd spoke not a word.
I slid toward the door, but not all the way. I had enjoyed being small between the shoulders of the two men. At last I had been in the position I had envied earlier in the evening. But it was so brief—and now there was a vacancy next to me, air around me, and I was anxious, for a moment, afraid that I would lose the feeling of companionship.
But the beautiful voice was with me, in the back of my mind, with me always. I felt fulfilled, and I relaxed.
It was early yet, the night stretched long before us. I didn’t care to go back to Lewis’s house, but what could we do, and would it be proper for me to suggest something?
We drove along, each silent with our own thoughts. I loved driving, being driven. I loved being on the road, on the move, always looking out the window at something new.
And then it occurred to me that Boyd had not asked me where I lived. My spirits lifted. So the evening had not ended. We were on our way somewhere, toward some adventure. The anxieties of facing Lewis’s house alone slipped away and I relaxed. The hot air blowing on my boots made me slightly sleepy. Boyd reached over and turned down the radio, far more perceptive to the nuance of music than his younger brother, and the old songs on the radio spoke their questionable wisdom into our square, speeding universe on wheels.
We continued to drive, on the highway, on the rutted roads, past broken fences, and out onto hard-packed sand and dirt, with the moonlight actually reflecting off the desert. We drove around into town, cruised slowly through the red-light district, then idled around the quiet little neighborhoods with their houses all lined up and inhabitants blissfully unaware of the effect the darkness was having on them, even as they slept.
Still, Boyd spoke not at all. I held my silence as well.
In time, there seemed almost to be a smell in the air. It smelled like well-worn leather. I sensed loneliness mixed with love. There was relief in this togetherness—no, it wasn’t really togetherness, for we were not together. No, the relief was more in discovering a camaraderie. We shared a certain passion for driving, and the night. No words were needed for Boyd and me to communicate. On a certain level, we understood each other perfectly.
The night, the heater, the music, and the eternal movie outside our wide screen bound us tighter together. I was continually surprised by the evolving tour of the town and environs. As we progressed, I marveled at Boyd’s keen perception of me and of Westwater. He presented it to me in a logical sequence that surprised and delighted me at every turn. There was no need for spoken communication. The air was charged with our energy.
After hours, days, minutes, eternities, we ended up back at the VFW hall. It was dark and empty. I thought of the weeded lot in the back, and so did Boyd. But it was dark and empty, too. And so was the shell of the lad that lay therein.
Boyd slowed to a stop in the middle of the deserted street, and looked at the building through his window. Then he rolled his window down a little way, and a frigid lick of air blew in, shattering the mood. He seemed to gather himself up with a shudder, and spoke for the first time that night.
“Out of gas,” he said.
I looked at the gas gauge. The red needle rested on the empty mark.
He turned to me and looked right into me, then drew back and smiled.
“Where do you live?”
I told him.
“I never believed in soul mates or reincarnation or any of that hype, never did, thought it was all baloney, until that night. And then when Angelina and I started to talk, I recognized her. I don’t mean her face, or her body, or anything, but her soul. I recognized her soul. Now I don’t know how that could be, but it’s true. We knew each other so well, inside and out, that we drove around—you know, after the dance?—we drove around in the truck all night long. Westwater had never looked shabbier to me. I guess I knew then that I’d be leaving, and that kind of added to the excitement.
“It was an exciting evening, all right, at least for me. We drove around until the gas stations were all closed and I had barely enough gas to get home. And we never said a word to each other. It was like the night was just so magic; it was like we were sealed in a cell together, just staring out at the world together, watching this incredibly bizarre movie of the world around us, a little microcosm of society, and we were separate from it all. We were together: No, together is not exactly the right word, we were more like one with each other in a purely gut-level sense. Soul mates, I guess, is the only way to describe it.
“When I dropped her off, I told her I’d pick her up the next night at eight, and then I drove home.
“It was funny. My whole life emptied out right there onto her driveway when she got out of the truck. On the way home, I somehow knew that not only had we known each other in the past, but that our paths would cross many times in the future. I was already impatient. I wanted to get her and sit down with her and talk for years, and maybe uncover that . . . what is it? An attraction? I don’t think so. And yet when we had the chance, when we were together that night, there were no words for us. We didn’t have anything to say. We were beyond words, somehow.
“Yet the passion remained. A passion to know her, because somehow I felt that she had a lot to teach me about myself. Almost as if she were my other half.”
11
I slept all the next day, until sundown, when the ringing of the phone awoke me. Again, it was Lewis. Again, he professed his love for me, but this time, I didn’t respond. I couldn’t respond. In light of the new love that had touched me—a deep love, an eternal love—I couldn’t respond to Lewis’s shallow words. My silence worried him and he threatened to return immediately. I had to think quickly, to assure him that I had been distracted for the moment, and that he should stay as long as he was needed. I was fine and would be fine, and anxiously awaited his return.
It troubled me to lie like that to him. To Lewis.
I wandered into the living room and sat on the plastic sofa, grateful to Lewis for waking me up in time to watch the darkness surround the house and fill the sky. The music played a mantra of calm, and time slipped away as I began to meditate, realigning myself, coming into balance with the eternal, and the next thing I knew, it was seven-thirty and I had to be quick to make ready for Boyd.
He arrived promptly at eight, dressed much as he was the night before, in jeans, plaid-flannel shirt, and corduroy jacket with tan Stetson. He stood uncomfortably inside the door of Lewis’s house, and the sight of him there horrified me. Boyd did not belong in a house like this. He belonged in a barn, in a rustic ranch, in a little cozy den of some kind, next to a campfire maybe, but never in a quasi-modern, up-and-coming, awaiting-appreciation tract home.
I hurried to the hall, opened the coat closet, then paused. Feeling a little bit strange, I opened the linen closet and took from it a blue-flowered towel and draped it over my shoulders before putting on the sheepskin jacket that I had worn the night before.
In two steps, Boyd was helping me with the jacket, and he asked, “Why the towel?”
I paused again before answering him, because I didn’t know exactly how to respond. I wanted to pour all of it out to him, all about my mission, my place of calm, the feelings that were mine when I lived up to my potential. But I dared not. Then I wanted to explain about the meditations, and how sometimes I heard voices in my ear, and sometimes I just instinctively knew things, and one of the instinctive things I knew was that tonight I should have a towel around my shoulders. But that explanation sounded crazy in my head before the words got out.
So instead I said, “This jacket is too big and sometimes the cold goes up my sleeves and settles on top of my shoulders.” He smiled at this, as if he understood m
y deception.
The truck was still warm. I climbed in the passenger side by myself, and could feel Boyd smiling behind me as he watched me hurry to do it; to establish once and for all that I was able to care for myself, that he needn’t lift me in and out like a child. The solid door closed behind me and I centered myself on the bench seat as he walked around the front and got in. When he shut his door, the familiar space closed about us and all my anxieties fled. We sat in the silence, in the darkness, for a long time. Then he reached up, fired the ignition, and turned on lights, heater, and radio in that same grooved motion. I was fond of it already.
Acceleration pressed me to the seat as we escaped Lewis’s neighborhood.
I resisted the impulse to ask where we were going. I knew that I could trust Boyd, that he would find something for us to do that would be mutually pleasurable. As we drove toward town, I began to pick up a difference about him, a bit of emptiness. There swirled about his head a trouble, so I sat next to him in the warm cab and tried to ease the space around us.
Eventually, he spoke, his deep voice startling in the confined area. I knew Boyd’s silent conversation; his speaking voice was foreign to my ears. I took a moment to digest the sound before what he said had any meaning. And then I was quite shocked.
“A kid was murdered at the dance last night,” he said.
Murdered!
“But we were the last to leave,” I said.
Black Ambrosia Page 7