by Chip Cheek
After a bit of silence she asked, “What kinds of things does she do to you?”
“What?”
“Effie.” She tugged at his hairs. “What’s the wildest thing you’ve done together?”
“Why would you want to know that?”
She shrugged. “I just do.”
She got up and straddled him, guided him into her, began rocking her hips. The light was growing brighter outside. He didn’t care. He held her hips and told her about the night they’d walked naked together down the street. How he thought they’d seen her, Alma, from afar, walking along the promenade, and how seeing her had excited him. She smiled at him and moved his hand down her stomach and pressed his thumb to her little bulb. He told her they’d had sex on the neighbor’s lawn, in the bright moonlight, and that part of what had made it so exciting was that she might see them—that she would have seen them, if she’d been walking down the street. That was the wildest thing they’d done, he said.
“We’ll be wilder,” she said.
“We already are,” he said.
* * *
It was almost eight in the morning when he returned to Clara’s, but the house was still, and upstairs, Effie was fast asleep. He slipped into the bed beside her. He’d meant everything he’d said to Alma, every promise, but now, away from her, beside his wife, he felt lost and afraid. He saw the sanctuary of Signal Creek Methodist, the white crepe ribbons running down either side of the aisle, the pews filled with people in their finest clothes. Hoke and Maynard looking awkward in their suits. His mother in the front row on his side, beside Uncle Carswall. Reverend Miller smiling at him. He would never be able to face these people again. He could never go home. He couldn’t imagine Alma there. Maybe years and years from now.
He fell asleep.
When he woke, Effie was gone, and it was the middle of the afternoon.
Alma was downstairs on the sofa in her green dress, reading. She beamed at him. “Look who’s alive.”
He was in a fog. A film lay over his eyes. He came down from the landing. “Where is everyone?”
“They took the boat out, per usual.”
He didn’t understand. They’d gone—Effie had gone—without him? “Why didn’t anyone wake me up?”
“They tried. And then Effie said you’d been having a terrible case of insomnia or something.” She laughed. “She said maybe it was a good idea to let you sleep.”
“But…” He was still confused. Effie—with Max and Clara—had gone without him. He would never have gone anywhere without her.
“You look adorable right now, do you know that?” Alma stood up and came to him, put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“Why aren’t you with them?”
“I didn’t feel like going out. I mean, enough with the boat.”
“You love the boat.”
“I love you more.”
He smiled at her, slipped his arms around her waist. They were alone—he understood now—these were stolen hours.
“I told them I’d stay here until you woke up. Better than a note.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“They’ll be another couple of hours at least. Want to fuck?”
“You’re going to kill me.”
“You’ll die happy.”
They showered upstairs, and she brought him into her room. It must have been Scott’s old room. Model airplanes hung from the ceiling. He recognized a Hellcat and a Corsair. On the floor was a small valise, which was empty, and Alma’s clothes and underthings were scattered all over. He recognized all of it. She hadn’t packed much.
She wanted to draw him. She took up her pad and pencil from the little desk by the window and made him pose back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, one knee bent, the foot of the other leg hanging off the side of the bed. She sat Indian-style at the end of the bed and began to work. Sunlight streamed through the open windows. Her breasts glowed. For the first time in days, he felt clean and well rested. For a long time they said nothing. He loved the look of concentration on her face, as she scratched the pencil on the paper, how intensely she looked at him. His penis wouldn’t stay still. She laughed. She told him to hold it in place, where it naturally fell when he was on his back: angled slightly toward the right of his belly button. He held it, and then it was hard, and stayed there on its own. Perfect, she said. When she was finished she showed him, and he was shocked: there he was, exactly, lying back on the bed, legs spread, everything exposed. He’d never been drawn before. It made him shy to look. It reminded him of the view he’d had of himself when he was younger, with the hand mirror. She’d even got his tan lines, the shading, his mussed hair, even the furls in the sheets where his weight pressed into them. “That’s amazing,” he said. “Really. You’re incredible.”
She was pleased. “Thank you.”
“I hope you won’t leave that lying around,” he said.
She gave the drawing an appraising look, closed the pad, and tossed it back onto the desk. “Don’t worry. It’s for my eyes only. I’ll keep it forever.”
He pulled her to him.
* * *
By the time the others returned, Alma had left the house, and Henry was lying on the sofa under the afghan, reading the book of H. P. Lovecraft stories.
“Baby, how are you?” Effie cried. “You’re not angry we went without you, are you? I hated to leave you.”
He wasn’t angry at all. He’d needed the sleep. “I don’t know, but I might be coming down with what you had.”
“No!” She sat beside him on the sofa and pressed her cheek to his forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”
He told them Alma had gone out, he didn’t know where. They’d stopped by the fish market and would have fried cod tonight. They were all exhausted. They’d overdone it last night. Tonight would be an early one. That sounded good to him.
Effie was tired but radiant. “Let’s never leave,” she said. “Let’s just stay here forever.”
“This is Circe’s island,” Clara intoned, “and I am Circe.”
* * *
They didn’t stay at the Bishops’ house that night. It was still early—just after one in the morning—and the night was warm and clear. Henry wanted to go outside, under the stars, and Alma had an idea: they should go down to the beach and skinny-dip in the ocean. Henry still hadn’t been in the ocean.
They left their clothes where they’d dropped them in the living room and went out the front door, and as they made their way down New Hampshire Avenue, toward Philadelphia, the same way he and Effie had gone—ages ago, it seemed—he felt the twinge of his betrayal. This had been their secret, and now he was reenacting it with someone else. But the air on his skin was wonderful. The night was darker this time, the sky was teeming with stars. They came to the streetlights at Philadelphia and turned toward the sea, walking through the shadows of trees, over lit patches of exposed sidewalk—walking easily, without a care.
Beach Avenue was bright with streetlights and traffic lights, the lights along the promenade. They kept to the shadow of a motel on the corner and peered up and down the street, to make sure no one was coming. Then they dashed across the street, up the steps to the promenade, and down the long, sloping ramp into the darkness of the beach.
On this side of the promenade the sound of the waves surrounded them, though the tide was out, and they walked over a vast moonscape of soft, dry sand, cool under their feet. The darkness wasn’t impenetrable. By the lights of Beach Avenue, and by the brighter lights of the hotels farther down, their pale bodies were illuminated and exposed, and yet it wasn’t until they were almost upon it that they saw a large rowboat half-buried in the sand, the words “Cape May” painted on its side in blue letters. The light was deceptive out here. Henry could see its sources, brightly, and by it he could see Alma vividly beside him, but if she walked a few paces ahead she was almost entirely lost in the dark. They were hidden here, and safe. The faint glow of the Milky Way arced down tow
ard the horizon. Finally they reached the smooth, damp, cold sand that was easier to walk over, and they made their way quickly to the edge of the surf.
It struck their feet, icy cold, and Alma shrieked and took hold of him, pressing her body against his. The surf was high but not frighteningly so. It crashed and made a glowing field all around them. They waded farther in, the depth varying with the waves: now it was at his shins, now it was halfway up his thighs. The water stunned him. The first time it struck his balls he cried out, and Alma laughed and dragged him farther ahead, but by then the water was going out and it was only to his knees.
“You just have to dive in,” she said.
“It’s freezing,” he said. “I can’t do it.”
“Of course you can. Be a man.”
She bounded in up to her waist—one last flash of her behind—and dove headlong into the next wave. The same wave struck Henry’s middle, shocking his skin with cold, and a moment later he saw Alma’s head and shoulders several yards ahead of him. He forged on, all of his muscles seizing. The water here was an element entirely different from the creek where he’d skinny-dipped back home, where the water caressed his skin in the summer. There the water was domesticated, here it was wild. The next breaker hit him square in the face, tumbled him over in darkness, and for the first time he tasted the heavy salt of the ocean in his mouth and nose. The saltiness, the intensity of it, surprised him. He got his footing back and stood up, and still he was only waist-deep, and Alma was an indistinct shape beyond the breakers.
“Come on,” she cried, “swim for your life.”
“I’m trying,” he shouted back.
“Get past where it breaks. You have to dive into it. It’s calm out here.”
He let the next wave hit his chest, waded farther in as the sea drew back again, and when he saw the next wave coming he dove beneath it, pushed forward with his feet, and swam as hard as he could against the current.
When he surfaced, the ground had disappeared beneath him. The sea swelled, lifting and dropping him, and he treaded furiously to keep up with it, until he willed himself to relax and rode the pushing, jarring waves—stroking up the slopes, gliding back down. For a moment he couldn’t see Alma, he faced the open sea, thousands of miles of it ahead of him, above him nothing but the stars—but there she was, farther out now, up on a swell: he could just see her waving at him. He swam toward her, working against the current. Already he was out of breath. His skin was numb. He rolled onto his back and kicked and pushed—he could swim more powerfully on his back—and a few minutes later, finally, he was level with her.
“I thought you’d never make it,” she said.
“It’s”—he felt like he’d been in a sprint—“it’s exhausting.”
They were twenty, thirty yards out past the breakers. The lights along Beach Avenue glowered at them.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she said.
“It’s amazing. Yes.”
His voice trembled, his teeth were chattering, the salt water stung his sinuses. She told him to lie on his back and catch his breath, and he did.
The sea was gentler here. He moved his arms and legs easily and his body rode the swells. The stars seemed not so far away now: an arbor of luminous, low-hanging grapes. When he’d caught his breath he pitched upright again and dove under.
They floated, dove, treaded water close enough to see each other’s faces. On one dive she found him and took hold of him, their limbs intertwining, her skin as slick as an eel, and he panicked and kicked free. When they surfaced, she was laughing. He laughed too, but kept his distance. Out here, he thought, the elements meant business. He thought of undertows and riptides, he thought of sharks and giant squid, he thought of the immense spaces hidden in the dark. In an instant any one of these things could erase him.
Alma treaded close to him again. “I’m peeing at this very moment,” she said. “Can you feel it?”
He laughed wildly. Everything felt exaggerated. “You’re disgusting,” he cried.
“This is what disgusts you?” she said. “We’re in the sea. We’re nothing but animals.”
He relaxed, and let himself go too, and felt the warmth of it spread up his abdomen. Alma leapt on him and pulled him under again.
They were drifting, fast—they were even now with one of the big hotels. It was a strong current, Alma said. It would play itself out. Or they could swim in, walk back up the beach, and go in for another ride. They treaded in the current until they were almost to the town center, before one of the large piers, and started in. Heavy swells again, and then the pounding surf. It was impossible to see the waves coming out of the dark, from behind—one struck him and toppled him head over heels. But he made the beach, and found Alma waiting for him. She took his hand, and they made their way back up to where they’d started.
They rode the current again and again. A half-moon rose—giant at first over the sea, the color of a paper lantern, then smaller and brighter as it rose higher, casting a broad silver river over the ocean. The stars dimmed, the sky brightened with moonlight. He could see Alma’s face in the water now, her nipples when she floated on her back or leapt from the waves like a mermaid. He’d become acclimated to the cold, but gradually the heat left his body, until he was shivering constantly. But he didn’t want this to end—he’d let himself die of hypothermia.
Back on the beach she hugged him, rubbed his arms and back as the surf ran over their ankles, cupped him until his scrotum relaxed in her palm. They sat on the smooth, wet sand, just out of reach of the surf, huddling close. He had never been so in love with anyone. His voice trembled, from the cold, from his nerves. Their bodies were silver. They were nymphs of the sea. “We can just run away together,” he said. “There doesn’t have to be a scene. We can just go.”
“We can go tonight,” she said.
“Not tonight,” he said. “We need to prepare. Pack a bag. Meet at the house tomorrow night, maybe, like usual.”
“There’s tons of clothes and things there.”
“Yes. Meet there and get whatever we need, then go to the train station.”
“We’ll need to go to New York first. I have things I want at Max’s.”
“I’ve never been to New York.”
“From there we could go anywhere. We could take a ship to Europe if we wanted.”
“I don’t have much money with me.”
“I have some. Max would give me more—as much as I wanted.”
“Do you think he would? Do you think he’d approve of this, I mean?”
“He’d think it was all funny, probably. He’d be glad to get me out of his hair.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“I can’t believe my luck. That we found each other.”
“I love you so much, Alma.”
“Say it again.”
“I love you, I love you.”
She smothered him in kisses and he ran his hands all over her, trembling, and pulled her on top of him. When he came, he didn’t pull out but pushed into her deeper, squeezing her to him, feeling their hearts thumping together.
They watched the moon rise, hypnotized by the sound of the waves. The wind picked up and the surf crept toward them, reaching their feet. Alma said, “Oh,” and sat up, and he sat up, too, to see what she saw: a haze of light stretched over the horizon, and everything around them—the sheen of the sand below the tide line, a lifeguard’s station close by, the big pier to their right, the hotels behind them—was clearly visible.
They ran to the surf to wash the sand off of them and started back up the beach. They were at least a quarter mile from where they’d entered, and as they jogged back along the smooth part of the sand, the sky grew brighter until, by the time they reached the ramp up to the promenade at Philadelphia Avenue, the sun had pierced the horizon and they were two naked people in the clear morning. Alma covered her breasts and crotch as they streaked across Beach Avenue. Henry saw headlights approaching from afar, down
near the town center, and they ran down Philadelphia until they reached New Hampshire, rounded the corner, stopped to catch their breaths. No more cars. They had nothing to fear. It was a beautiful morning. They strolled easily the rest of the way down the street to the Victorian house. He took her hand. She smiled at him.
It was after seven. It seemed impossible that so much time had passed. Effie was likely up already, but it didn’t matter. They ran a hot shower and lingered in it for a long time.
“Tonight, then, my love,” she said down in the foyer, seeing him out.
“Yes. Tonight.” He kissed her.
“It’ll be torture until then.”
“It’ll only be a short time now.”
“Are we really going to do this?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t come, Henry…”
“I’ll come. I’ll be here. Just wait for me.”
Eleven
He could hear them laughing in the kitchen when he arrived. It was after nine. He went up the stairs. The guest room smelled like Effie now, the light cedar that hung around her and suffused the Tarleton household and that still reminded him, when he noticed it, of their first days together as a couple, only last year, when he’d visit her at her house. He sat on the bed and stared at his open suitcase. She’d done their laundry yesterday and hung it out on the clothesline in the backyard, and now his clothes, even his underwear, were folded and placed neatly back in the suitcase. As if she’d packed for his departure. The care she’d taken broke his heart. He felt, suddenly, sick to his stomach. He couldn’t think about this right now. When the time came, he wouldn’t think at all. He’d just go. He’d leave the suitcase behind.
“There he is,” Clara said, smiling brightly, when he came into the kitchen. The three of them were sitting at the table, the remnants of breakfast in front of them.
“I guess you aren’t sick,” Effie said, “if you were out walking.”
“No,” he said, “I think I’m fine.” He bent down to kiss the top of her head. She didn’t move her hands from her coffee cup. He sat at the table.