As he felt the anger scorching his soul, his heart, and his face with a blast of heat, he turned and looked to his left. And then — there in the distance, in the middle of a Los Angles street full of people — he saw her.
She was walking slowly, not in any hurry. She had a big shoulder bag. And a dress the color of lilacs that came just below her knees. She’d cut her hair. He saw her coming toward him, looking down, rummaging in her bag. He thought how beautiful she was. Even more beautiful than she’d been when she left. She was a woman now. And all he could think was how beautiful she was, while his eyes filled with a feeling he’d never even imagined. He didn’t care any longer if she hadn’t answered his letters, he didn’t care if she had someone else. She was Ruth. His Ruth. He’d found her.
Ruth was walking home lazily, after a day spent photographing the life around her that she was learning to accept. She fumbled in her bag, looking for her keys. I need to clean this out, she thought. The bag was full of stuff: crumbs, papers. At last she heard the jingling of the keys. She closed her hand around them and looked up, smiling.
The smile stayed frozen on her face. Was it he? Was it really he or one of the dozens she’d mistaken for him over these past four years? Was it Christmas or merely an illusion, a hope that had never been so close? She felt her head spin. She looked harder, as if she’d suddenly gotten nearsighted. She studied every detail. She checked them against her memories. And she felt overcome by an uncontrollable emotion that was suffocating her. Yes, he was there. Right on the sidewalk. A few steps from the door she was going to enter. He was blocking her path. Looking at her. He was there. Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t have run away, she couldn’t hide. She couldn’t even have taken one more step. Her legs had grown stiff. She wasn’t breathing. Like when she’d wrapped up in gauze strips to hide her breasts. She couldn’t breathe, and her heart was beating hard. It had never beat like this, never. So hard that people passing by must be able to hear it. Because he was there. And he was there for her.
Christmas was waiting for her. But Ruth had stopped. About ten steps away. She stood there, perfectly still, with her arms at her sides and her eyes fixed on him. Those green eyes. Christmas couldn’t move either. Now that she was there, ten paces away from him, he couldn’t move. He could feel his eyes burning but he wouldn’t let himself blink. As if he were afraid that in that wing beat Ruth might disappear. And that fear moved his first step. Then the second. Finally he was standing beside her.
Christmas looked at her without speaking. Without knowing what to say.
Ruth was looking at him, too. Not a single word came to her lips, either. She was looking into his pitch black eyes, his blond forelock moved by the air, his high cheekbones. They were more prominent now. He had the look of a man.
“You’re so beautiful,” said Christmas.
Ruth felt something rip inside her, as if the bands that had blocked her breath had been torn off again, dilating her lungs. And her heart leaped, almost painfully. “I feel … funny,” she whispered. “Sick.”
She rested her head on Christmas’ shoulder.
“Come on,” said Christmas. He put his arm around her waist and felt a violent emotion at the contact, like the day he’d carried her in his arms to the hospital. The first and only time he’d touched her since he’d reached out to her at her grandfather’s funeral. He looked around. There was a cafeteria across the street. “Come,” he said again.
Ruth stiffened imperceptibly when Christmas’ hand took hold of her waist. Just for a second. As they crossed the street, she yielded to his strong sure grip, even though she didn’t need it in order to walk. And yet, she thought with amazement, she did need it. She’d always needed it. She didn’t know why she’d said she felt ill; maybe because she felt so well and that was a sensation she wasn’t used to. An even bigger surprise was the joy that had exploded inside her like a pain in her heart. Then, shyly, pretending to lean on him, she put her arm around his waist, too. As they reached the cafeteria, she saw herself beside him, reflected in the window. She thought they looked like any young couple in love. Free. She blushed, but she didn’t look away from the window, not hearing the noise of cars and other people any longer. For as long as she could, she watched herself with Christmas, mirrored in the window, until they went into the cafeteria.
“There,” she said, pointing to a corner table across from a big mirror. When they sat down, she turned slightly to the side and out of the corner of her eye she saw herself. There, with Christmas.
“Do you feel better?” he asked her.
Ruth didn’t answer. She just looked at him. She wanted to reach out her hand and touch his hair, the long eyelashes over his dark eyes, his cheek. The lips she’d decided to kiss four years before. She looked at the scar on his lower lip. He didn’t have that then, she thought.
Christmas wasn’t expecting an answer. He might not even have heard it. Because his eyes were fixed on Ruth’s. Because he hadn’t remembered how green they were. Because there weren’t any questions or explanations left. Because everything that had gone before, the past and the thoughts and the worries, were like a child’s drawing on the beach, wiped away in an instant by the impetuous presence of the ocean wave. And they were that ocean. Without beginning and without end.
“I read about you,” said Ruth.
“I've got a program where people talk," said Christmas.
Ruth felt her eyes grow moist. She remembered the day she’d given him the radio. The day Christmas had told Grandpa Saul that he was going to talk on the radio, and then he’d looked at her across the table, shamelessly, to tell her with his eyes that he’d done that for her. “They’re the ones I like best,” she said.
“I saw your photo of Lon Chaney,” said Christmas.
Ruth looked down. “I never got your letters. And you never got mine. It was my mother. I didn’t know till a short time ago.”
Christmas looked at her without speaking. Suddenly it all seemed quite natural to him. The only possible explanation. “It’s a wonderful photo,” he said.
Ruth glanced up and laughed. She turned quickly towards the mirror, saw that the light had come back into her eyes, and that Christmas was laughing with her. As on their bench in Central Park.
But Christmas never took his eyes off Ruth. He could feel her soft breast rising and falling under the lilac dress. He knew that her feet were close to his, under the table. And he saw her hand resting next to his, so close it was almost touching. He looked at her lips. Rosy, perfect. He felt an irresistible desire to kiss her. He felt almost lost, because he knew that none of the women he’d kissed had such lips.
Ruth grew serious, as if she’d been listening to his thoughts, as if they were hers too. She felt something like a cramp in her abdomen, but it didn’t hurt. Warm. Moving. Her eyes paused on Christmas’ lips. And without her noticing, her own lips parted a little, as if she were savoring a kiss that had lasted four years.
“What’ll it be?” said a waiter, coming over to their table.
Christmas stared at Ruth, without saying a word, without turning to the waiter. Ruth didn’t take her eyes off Christmas.
“What’ll it be?” the waiter asked again.
“Nothing,” said Christmas, getting to his feet. Ruth stood up at the same moment and reached out her hand.
Christmas took it and pulled her out of the cafeteria, never looking away from her eyes for even a second; walking backwards, keeping her with him.
As soon as they were out on the sidewalk, Christmas ran his thumb over Ruth’s lower lip, trying to be gentle. But his hand was trembling. Ruth closed her eyes and leaned towards him. Christmas drew her to him and kissed her. He closed his own eyes only when Ruth’s hands gripped his back, clasping him to her.
Ruth felt Christmas’ heat invading her body. She clung to him desperately, not knowing where his hands were or where hers were going. It was as if she were drunk. Her lips were burning, her face was burning, her whole body was
burning. She gulped in air. She was breathing, breathing as she’d never breathed before, not afraid of the air coming in and out of her body. Her heart was beating fast, so fast, but she wasn’t afraid it might break. One hand flew to Christmas’ hair, she spread her fingers through the blond forelock she’d never touched, pulling it; paying no attention to the people looking at them, or to what was happening inside her; thrusting her own breasts against Christmas’ strong chest, trying to make herself one with the man she had always loved. And as their lips mingled, pulled apart, nibbling, caressing, she kept saying softly, “Christmas, Christmas …”
Ruth pulled away, gasping, pushing him firmly away. She cupped his face in one hand and with the other held tightly to him. “Take me to your place,” she said. Before Christmas could answer her she kissed him again, harder, more passionately, and she could feel her body exploding into a thousand new sensations that she’d held back until now.
Still kissing and touching each other, without letting their bodies lose contact for even a second, they reached the car. Christmas opened the door for her, stroking her hair, touching her face, smoothing her shining lips with his fingertips. They got into the car. Christmas started the engine. Ruth knelt on the seat next to him, put her arms around his neck, kissed his cheeks, his eyes, clinging to him.
“Hurry,” she said. She laughed as she kept kissing him.
Christmas sounded the horn, laughing, and as soon as the street was clear he turned, and kissed her on the lips.
“Oh, please hurry,” Ruth repeated.
The Oakland convertible shot along Sunset and turned into the gateway of Mr. Mayer’s guesthouse. Christmas and Ruth got out of the car, kissing each other, holding each other’s hands, as if they were afraid of getting lost. They ran across the garden, and Christmas knocked impatiently at the door.
“Buenas tardes, señor,” said the housekeeper, opening it.
As she went up the stairs pressed against Christmas, Ruth realized that she had never, not even for one second, thought about the people around her. That she had never considered what they might think. Of what her mother would say about her behavior. She was alone with Christmas, in the midst of a crowd.
But when they really were alone, in the bedroom, with the door closed, suddenly Ruth saw the face of the Hispanic housekeeper who had opened the door. In her ears she could hear her discreet voice saying, “Buenas tardes, señor.” She turned to look at the closed door that isolated them from the world. Then she looked at Christmas.
“What’s her name?” she asked him.
“Who?”
“The housekeeper.”
“I don’t know …”
“She’ll think we’re about to make love,” said Ruth softly, looking down.
“I imagine so,” said Christmas, and he reached out, taking Ruth’s hand in his.
“And she’ll think we have, even if we don’t.”
“Maybe …”
Ruth stared at Christmas. Now she was afraid.
“Ruth,” said Christmas.
She was afraid that she’d think about Bill again. That it would be painful, like it had been with Bill. Humiliating, as with Bill. Dirty, as it had been with Bill. She was afraid she might open her eyes and see Bill.
Christmas looked at her. He held her hand in his, but he didn’t pull her close. He saw the fear in the eyes of the girl he’d loved forever. “I’m scared, Ruth,” he murmured. He let go of her hand, walked to the other side of the bed, and sat down with his back to her. He stayed like that, not moving, in silence, for a few seconds. Then he lay down on the orange bedspread and curled into a fetal position. “I’m scared,” he said again.
Ruth hadn’t moved, stunned. For an instant she felt a stirring of anger, as if insisting on her absolute monopoly of fear. As if to say that fear belong to her alone. But then something changed. Christmas was afraid, she told herself. He was afraid of her. Or of the two of them.
Slowly Ruth sat down on the bed and reached over to caress his shoulder. She fingered his hair. Christmas didn’t move. He’s in a shell, Ruth thought. Then she lay down next to him and put her arms around him from behind, hiding her face in his neck. Christmas’ hand slowly reached back and found Ruth’s. He pressed it to his chest. Then he brought it to his lips and kissed it. Ruth didn’t pull it away. And she didn’t think about it’s being the hand that Bill had mutilated. Because she sensed that it was Christmas’ hand, not hers. Because it had always belonged to him. Because there was nothing to be ashamed of when she was with him. Because she didn’t feel dirty. She pressed against him more closely, letting his warmth permeate her. And she thought about how perfectly their bodies fit. As if they’d been born to lie together like this. As if everything was natural. Then she slid her hand out Christmas’ and found the first button of his shirt. She undid it. And then she undid the second one, and the third. She slid her hand under the shirt, to caress his smooth skin, to caress the scar on his chest, that P that was akin to her mutilated finger. And now their two wounds were touching.
Christmas eased out of her embrace and sat up, looking at her. Ruth lay back on the bed, with her arms open invitingly. Christmas undid the top button of Ruth’s dress. Then he stopped to look at her again. Ruth never stopped looking at Christmas while she unbuttoned the rest. Christmas stood up and pulled off his shirt. His chest was bare now. Ruth slipped off her dress. They looked at each other, neither of them looking away even for a second.
Christmas took off his pants. Without ever losing sight of one another — one of them standing, the other stretched on the bed — at last they were naked.
Again Christmas lay down beside her, on his side, without touching her.
Ruth turned on her side, too, still lost in his eyes. She reached over and touched his hair, his blond forelock.
Christmas’ eyes were half closed. He took a lock of her dark hair between two fingers and arranged it behind her ear. He caressed the earlobe, going all around the perimeter.
Ruth’s fingers traced the arch of his eyebrows, then rested on the straight line of his nose before moving to his chin.
His fingers followed the line of her jaw, came to her chin, moved up to her lips, stroking them, pushing inside them.
Ruth’s fingers seemed to follow his. When she felt his fingers between her lips, she reached inside his, too, closing her eyes.
Christmas’ fingers moved down Ruth’s face. They flicked her neck, moving along the collarbone to her shoulder and then coming back to the center, down the breastbone, between her breasts, not touching them.
Ruth’s hand retraced his movements, but on his own body. She lingered over his chest, delicately circling his nipples. She squeezed one of them, gently. She wanted to absorb all of him; everything, the strength of his pectorals; she wanted to sketch caresses that then he repeated. Drawing the map of her body on his. As if she were stroking herself, but with his hands. As if they were one person.
Ruth’s touch moved away from his chest, down his abdomen, silently inviting his hand to follow; guiding him — by caressing his body — to the place where she could feel a warm languor increasing. There where she had never dreamed that such a burning desire was waiting, such an overwhelming pleasure. And as she felt Christmas’ hand reach that secret place she had feared and denied for years, now that she had embraced herself as a woman, she could hear all her own fear flowing away, dissolving in a heavy liquid; inviting, heightening every sensation.
63
Los Angeles, 1928
It was dark when Christmas got out of bed. “I’m going down to the kitchen to look for something to eat,” he told Ruth, smiling. He went to the door and stopped. He turned back, jumped on the bed, and took Ruth hungrily in his arms. He kissed her lips.
Ruth yielded to his kiss.
“I’ll be right back,” he told her.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Ruth, and feeling an odd sensation as she heard herself say those words.
Christmas laughed, g
ot up from the bed, and went down the hallway.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Ruth said softly. Gravely. As if those words were intimately important for her. Much more intimately than she could have thought. Now the clash of emotions that had brought her to that bed, that had made her forget about fear, suddenly was subdued. And in that new unnatural silence, Ruth felt her own thoughts and her own awareness awaken and emerge. “I’m not going …” she said again, even more softly this time, as if she were trying not to hear those words which had opened a breach in her. She felt an unpleasant shiver down her spine. Something uncomfortable. Her throat tightened and her heart, rather than beating faster, seemed to vibrate, as if it were being tickled, as if it felt itchy; like an echo of dread, a prologue to panic. She sat up. She pulled her knees up against her breasts, hugging them. She hid her face against her knees. She took a deep breath, with her eyes closed.
For the first time since she’d seen Christmas on Venice Boulevard, she thought of Daniel. She hadn’t called him. She’d disappeared. She hadn’t thought about him, not even for a second. Her tepid feeling for Daniel had been wiped out by her raging passion for Christmas. She’d lost all control. She thought back to the kiss on the beach. That chaste, innocuous meeting of lips, tasting like the ocean. She thought about Daniel’s shy hands resting on her shoulders. About how frightened she’d been. And then she saw herself with Christmas, between the sheets, without the slightest shame or modesty, famished for love. Crazy with love. Naked, with her skin still burning from Christmas’ kisses.
The Boy Who Granted Dreams Page 56