What is Love?

by Saks, Tessa

  He sat back in his armchair and watched the fire dancing in the fireplace. She dimmed the lights and put on a Glen Miller album, then adjusted her bra and walked into the library. As she approached, Jonathan leaned out of his chair, turned his head and looked at her. She smiled, trying to look into his eyes, but he quickly turned away and again faced the fire.

  “This is cozy,” she said, trying to make her voice sultry.

  “Mm-hmm,” he mumbled while drinking, the sound of the cubes clinking against the glass with each sip.

  “Wow, what a big fire. I love all the crackle. It’s so powerful,” Sam said, sitting in the chair beside him. They sat staring into the fire in silence as the music played several songs.

  “This song,” Sam spoke, breaking the silence. “I imagine you in your uniform, looking handsome and brave, whenever I hear this song.”

  “Those were some times.”

  “You were shot down in enemy territory, right?”

  “Yes,” Jonathan laughed. “Yes, I was, twice.”

  “You were so brave. I can’t imagine …” Sam said as Jonathan took another sip, emptying his glass. “Here,” Sam said, jumping to her feet. “Let me get you another.”

  Jonathan hesitated. “Sure.”

  Sam poured the scotch and added the two ice cubes, swirling as he would. She handed him the glass and he was about to speak, but Sam interrupted. “Tell me about your missions.”

  Jonathan took a sip and cleared his throat. “Well, I flew 104 of them, so where would I start? That’s over six hundred hours logged, and you know, I never had to abort a mission.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Haul’n Ass II was shot up so many times, it was unbelievable, but the old Jug always made it home. And not just flak. One day I had two ME-109s beat the hell out of me. The central controller called me, asking ‘Cobra Leader, do you have contact with Bandits?’ And I said, ‘Sure do, I’ll be bringing them over the field in four minutes, they’re chasing me home.’ ”

  “What’s a Jug?”

  “Come on … only the best plane in our squadron, a P47 Thunderbolt. Great aircraft. Yes, those were wild times.”

  “I bet. What was your biggest mission?”

  He turned and faced her, taking another sip. “Back in ’45, our unit dispatched 170 Thunderbolt fighters against enemy transport facilities and ground artillery. We destroyed or damaged over four hundred targets, and shot down 137 enemy planes. Now that was mission I’ll never forget, in fact …”

  Sam leaned in and watched him continue. She wondered why he couldn’t see her inside this bag of soft flesh. This costume. She put her hand on his. “I am amazed at you. So brave and so darn smart.” She stood, smoothing her satin penoir. Jonathan looked up at her, sipping his drink. “Here,” she said, reaching for his glass. “You need another cube.”

  Sam went over to the bar and dropped another cube in his glass. She walked over to him, swaying her hips and holding her chest forward. She stood above him, holding the glass out of the way, as she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I am so lucky to have a man like you. You really are amazing. I forget how dangerous it was back then.”

  Jonathan grabbed the drink and looked toward the fire. “Yes, those were crazy times.” He took a big gulp and Sam reached down, rubbing his leg. Jonathan laid his head back and closed his eyes.

  “Johnny,” Sam whispered.

  “Yes?” he answered, his eyes still closed.

  “I want to give you pleasure. Is there anything I can do for you that would give you pleasure? You make me so hot … I want to return the favor.” Sam continued to rub his leg in small circles, increasing the pressure. He did not brush her hand away. She bent down, moving her hand closer to his groin. He set his drink down and put his hand on her shoulder, pulling her closer. She felt his growing firmness and whispered, “I want you more than I’ve wanted any man.” What she wanted to scream was, Touch me! I need to be touched. How long had it been? One month? Two months? Too long. Her skin craved contact, any form, whatsoever.

  Jonathan looked at her a moment, then reached his hand up to her cheek and pulled her closer. He kissed her. She returned his kisses, hoping her body was next on the list. She kissed his face, his neck, opening her mouth for wetter, juicier kisses as she explored his. “I want you,” she whispered as sultry as she could.

  Jonathan rubbed her breasts, his other hand pressed against her back. She opened his shirt, kissing his chest. “You are so amazing,” she said breathlessly, aware of the full extent of his excitement, his readiness. As her hand rubbed him, he looked up at the ceiling and moaned.

  “My God, you are so hard, take me,” Sam begged.

  Jonathan pulled her onto his lap. Sam removed her lace panties and lifted up her nightclothes. She wanted to be excited and thought she was ready, but somehow, the response inside her wasn’t working, like a tap that still needed to be turned on. She sat above him as he fumbled to make it happen. He fumbled again. She was dry. She couldn’t feel any pleasure. She looked down at Jonathan, who was pumping his hips hard and fast.

  She pretended to enjoy him. “Oh, that feels so good, give me more …” He opened her nightie and rubbed her new breasts. Thankfully not the old ones, she thought. Then suddenly he stalled. Another pump or two and he stalled again.

  “Damn it! He covered his face with his hands. “I lost it.”

  Sam pulled his hands away from his face and kissed his cheek. “It’s okay, we can—”

  “No,” Jonathan yelled. “Damn it, no!” He pushed Sam off his lap.

  Sam stood and adjusted her nightclothes as he buttoned and zippered his pants, then tucked his shirt into his pants. “I’m sorry,” Sam said in a soft whisper of a voice. “It’s me, isn’t it? My body?”

  “No, it isn’t you, it’s—you know.”

  “But can’t you—”

  “Leave it, Ellen.” Jonathan put his hand up as if to say, Stop talking, then buttoned the remaining buttons on his shirt. Sam motioned to touch his arm but he pulled away. “Just stop,” he said, unable to mask his annoyance.

  Sam found herself wanting to hold him. To have him hold her. Some contact. “Will you lie with me and hold me tonight? I need you to hold me, just for tonight.”

  “I want to be alone.” He turned to leave. “I’m sorry,” he said, as he walked away, the sound of his heels fading softer until all she could hear was the fire crackle and the album, stuck at the end, spinning endlessly.

  Sam stood, staring at her panties on the floor. “You’re not sorry,” she said aloud. “If you were sorry, you’d know how I feel. You would want to make me feel better. You would take me in your arms and hold me. You would comfort me. You are not sorry. You are selfish and not sorry at all.” But who was she talking to? She bent down and picked up her panties, tossing them into fire. Then she walked over to the bar and poured herself a scotch, with three cubes.

  She sat, sipping her drink and staring into the fire. Her thoughts turned to memories of being held, to the comfort of big strong arms wrapped around her body. A heavy body pressed tight against hers, so tight she could feel a second heartbeat. Of strong legs intertwined with hers, tangled flesh. Of breathing in unison, breathing against each other, together, as one. The image of Rory lying beside her appeared, comforting her.

  Would she ever feel that again? That comfort? That strength? She felt an empty stillness deep in her heart, a longing. She recognized what was missing, what she might never experience again. As the fire smoldered, one of the logs fell and broke apart into smaller chunks of embers, glowing softly, almost blinking. Then slowly, the fire faded, depleted of vigor and feeble, reduced to nothing more than a hint of light, a soft luminous red, winking through the charred remains.

  The house was now silent and cold. Sam felt a shiver and pulled a blanket over her body. She wanted to feel something. She knew she should feel something, but all she could feel was cold. She shivered and wondered if she would ever feel warm and comfortable ag
ain.

  CHAPTER 25

  Early the next morning, Ellen sat in the coffee shop waiting for Rory, wondering what his surprise was. She imagined it had to do with his paintings and hoped it was a visit to his studio. He arrived on time, carrying another helmet and a large backpack. After a quick coffee, they left the coffee shop and got on his bike, then headed out of town.

  They rode out in the open countryside, zipping along back highways and through small towns. The sun was rising and the long shadows created contrasts along all the trees and fields. It felt good to be out in the country air, in spite of the wind whipping at her face and the occasional bug hitting her teeth when she smiled. Ellen still had no idea where they were going, but at a certain point in their journey, they pulled over and stopped, and Rory was certain she knew exactly where they were headed. Ellen, once again, claimed the fever excuse.

  After two and a half hours of the uncomfortable, numbing bike ride, they arrived at a wooded lake area, the uncivilized kind with no amenities or cabins. Ellen got off and stretched her wobbly legs. They vibrated as if someone had thrown her into a paint mixer and shaken her endlessly.

  Tall fir trees surrounded them, with only the entrance road and a narrow path carved into the denseness. They left the bike and Ellen followed Rory, walking the trampled path through the trees until they reached an open sandy area cresting a large lake. It had a dock, boathouse, fire pit and a flat gravel area, appropriate for a camper or motorhome, although Ellen couldn’t imagine how anything would ever get through the overgrown path. Rory went into the boathouse and proceeded to pull out chairs and tables, a tent, a fire grill and a collection of blackened pots and pans. Ellen walked to the boathouse to help Rory and peeked inside. It was old, worn, and had a strong musty smell, like an ancient rotting barn, that by some miracle held together in spite of its age and appearance. The boat inside looked to be in better shape, more of an uncomfortable fishing type than luxury cruising.

  Rory asked Ellen to collect twigs for the fire while he set up the tent.

  “We aren’t staying the night, I hope you understand,” she scolded, but Rory just laughed and continued to pound steel tent pins with a large rock, like some savage caveman.

  Ellen spent the first hour complaining about the heat, the bugs and the lack of facilities. Imagine urinating in the woods! Once she realized it was either that or go in the green algae-filled lake, she kept quiet.

  Another hour passed before she accepted riding in the boat and fishing. The whole thing seemed an absurd waste of time, and by the time she finished helping Rory bring the boat out of the boathouse and setting it in the water, she was tired and cranky.

  “What can we do with the fish, anyway? We have no ice or sanitary method of cleaning even if we do catch any.”

  Finally, Rory pulled her aside and said, “Sam, this is why you can’t have sex. You are as uptight as an overwound clock. You have to relax and enjoy what is here. Be right here, not back in the city. You need to be in the present, soaking up life in the moment, whatever that moment brings. Smell the air. Feel the warm breeze on your skin.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the water’s edge. “Here, dip your hand in the lake. And try it as we troll along in the boat. Be part of the world, connected. Listen to the sound of oars in the water. Look at the birds. It’s all here.”

  Ellen put her hand in the cloudy green lake water. “It’s cold and slimy. Look at all that sludge, it’s probably teeming with bacteria and disease—”

  “You used to love this. Come on …” Rory put his arm over her shoulder and led her to the boat dock.

  She reluctantly climbed into the small boat and sat on the middle seat as he pushed off, placing his oars into the water and then started rowing. “I don’t know what big-city life has done to you, but it’s taken the fun out of you. I know you like money; so do I. It’s just that money doesn’t give you power, it takes it away, and the trouble is you don’t realize you’ve lost power until it’s too late. You chip away, giving away your own power, little by little, in a sort of trade. As you gain money, you change yourself to impress people—you try to be more like them. You constantly worry what they think, what they’ll say. You worry about losing your spot. Little by little, you give up who you are until you are no longer yourself, you are a clone of all the other clones who need you to be just like them. That’s the price of admission to their club.”

  He stopped rowing and let the boat drift. “It’s a game. I don’t want to see you lose who you are. I like who you are. I’ve always liked who you are.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I see less of you and more of the other, more of the clone.” He looked directly at her, piercing her with his eyes. “In fact, I barely see the real you at all. You’re so different now. It’s as if you already traded all the bits of Sam for some society—I don’t know …” He resumed his rowing. “I don’t see you as happy as you used to be. You used to find pleasure in so many things, in everything really. Like today, you would have brought your camera and taken pictures of the bugs instead walking around all day griping about them.”

  “I didn’t know this was what we were doing, I would have brought it if I had known,” Ellen fibbed. “And I would have brought bug spray and a port-a-potty.”

  “That’s true.” Rory smiled and raised his eyebrows to mock her. “But I never imagined you could forget my parents’ lake, not after all we did here.”

  “Rory, I do want to be happy again, I do. Help me.”

  “You want it back? Well, here it is.” He let go of the oars and held his arms out as if to share the world with her. “It’s all before you, waiting. Relax and allow it to take over your busy mind. It’s easy. Take in all these little bits, look at the smallest details, the leaves, the grass, the birds—relish them and they will give you power, restore your power. Forget about everybody else, all your problems, all your plans, just erase everything from your mind and feel this moment, right now.”

  Ellen looked out at the vast lake, rimmed with a jagged row of deep green pines along its edge, at the blue cloudless sky and the sunlight dancing on the water, and knew he was right. There was so much beauty surrounding them and she was too uptight to notice any of it.

  But as the day unfolded, Ellen found herself loosening up, allowing herself to stop the internal critic and just go with everything. She felt free to be herself, and for the first time in many years, she knew who that person was. The fact that she was in someone else’s body seemed unimportant.

  They ate their catch for lunch, along with the food he packed in the backpack. The fish was better tasting than she had imagined. In fact, the smoky grill gave it a unique flavor, like something she would actually want to have again. He brought along cheese and crackers, water and wine, some vegetables to grill—red peppers, zucchini and potatoes. As a special treat, he opened a can of ravioli, stating that it had always been her favorite, but Ellen couldn’t imagine anyone enjoying cold ravioli. She tried a mouthful, and while it was edible and not distasteful, she admitted that she had grown past that and was willing to share some with Rory.

  At three-thirty, he pulled her to her feet and said he had another surprise. He led her back up the trail to the motorbike. They traveled down the road for fifteen minutes and pulled into a parking area by a river. A few people were getting out of their cars and heading to the shore.

  “More fishing?” Ellen asked. “Fly fishing, perhaps?”

  Rory grinned and handed her a windbreaker from the bag on the back of his bike. “Here, put this on, you’re gonna love this.”

  Ellen put the jacket on, watching as he put one on as well. More people were standing by the river, wearing helmets and lifejackets.

  “Come on,” he said, pulling her to the water’s edge.

  Ellen looked at the sign by the small makeshift dock. “You must be joking.”

  “Surprise!”

  She stepped back, holding her hands up in protest. “White water rafting? No way!”
r />   “You love it.”

  “No. No, Rory, I don’t …” Ellen felt her lunch from two hours ago about to resurface in a most unpleasant way as her stomach twisted over with cramps. “I’ve never done this, I can’t.”

  “Sam, you do this all the time—at least you used to.” He pulled her arm, coaxing her toward him. “Come on. Sam, I never said anything before, but ever since you met Jonathan, you’ve stopped doing all the things you used to love. What’s happened to you? You don’t go rock climbing or hiking, or waterskiing or sailing, do you?”

  Ellen shook her head, unable to imagine doing any of those activities. Perhaps sailing … in a nice, long elegant craft, like the one Greta’s husband owned, the Maiden Mist.

  “I don’t think it’s healthy to lose yourself completely in a new relationship. A little bit of Sam is a good thing. Come on, be yourself again … let go and enjoy, just once.”

  Ellen resisted, but in the end, Rory strapped the helmet on her head and tightened the straps of her lifejacket and won.

  ***

  That night, as they sipped their wine in front of the roaring fire, she laughed at her fear and the extreme challenge she just completed. She had to admit it was crazy—she had never had such an invigorating, terrifying yet thrilling experience. At one point, one of the waves soaked her so badly, she thought for sure she had fallen out, but Rory was right there, hanging onto her.

  She looked at him now, as the fire cast a warm red, glowing outline on his face, highlighting his chiseled features. He turned and smiled at her, and she returned his smile, knowing she would kiss him. She wanted to. And to her surprise, she wanted to do more, much more, but a sense of duty to her husband dangled in her head, casting those thoughts aside. She had no idea what she looked like now, how her hair looked after all that water, and as she looked down at her rubber boots and wrapped his plaid jacket around herself, she knew it didn’t matter.