“Um … I have lemonade or pop. Which would you like?” I asked hoarsely.
“We call it soda here in this part of Pennsylvania.”
“Okay, wiseass.” I buried my face inside the refrigerator. “Do you want lemonade or soda?”
“Lemonade is fine.”
In fact, everything was fine. My divorce was final, pending a court date. Sam was injured perhaps, but okay and happy. And I would be alone with Travis all day. I smelled the familiar scents of the earth in full flower and the promise of waters. It was the prelude to a dance that was older than the ancestors, yet viable and current.
I had no doubt that I would share my bed with Travis before the day was over. I had even gone so far as to make the bed with fresh sheets. While I still wasn’t sure if I was prepared emotionally for such an exchange, I knew what to expect: the arch to meet each other’s expectations, the shy morning, the plan for a new rendezvous. I set the stage with the grazing touch of my arm and a certain edge to my voice when I made offers of drinks and sandwiches.
Travis felt the momentum, too. The boat outing was just a convenient way to pass the time until the polite, darker hours of consummation. And it would be dark regardless of the hour. I almost wished that Travis didn’t mean anything to me so I could fully experience the anger I felt toward Bryce and relish the sweet relief as I evened the score in my shattered marriage. I wasn’t using Travis exactly. I did want to make love to him for all the right reasons, but I also had my shadow purpose.
An afternoon storm expedited the inevitable. We returned to Mulberry Street wet and eager with the excuse to remove sodden clothing. It was a fast coupling, heavy with the weight of waiting—racing to beat the downpour. Travis was rough, not just with his beard and callused hands, but with his expectations. It was exactly the way I needed it to be, tormented by things we labeled only as passion. There was the noise. Thunder notwithstanding, the old bed in the back room groaned under our rotating bodies. There were other sounds, too: the creak of floorboards, swaying trees, whirring rain, and the slash of a branch beating against the siding of the house. In addition, I heard the foreign sound of my own cries in concert with the weather. Travis did nothing to hush me, and I cried out again before succumbing to the gentle pant of breathlessness.
The storm weakened, and our lovemaking slowed with the rain. We explored like new lovers do, pausing over body parts often ignored by long-term partners. We were as clumsy as drunks, bumping each other with knees and elbows, and offering soft apologies under our kisses. I was conscious of my body in a way that I hadn’t been earlier. I knew what it was capable of, the soft places and scars that made me feel insecure. Travis traced the faded stretch marks on my abdomen, and I knew he was thinking beyond the imperfection to what it had meant for me. My shyness vanished then, and I folded myself around his body. The sun made an appearance just as the last of the raindrops fell. If the end of the storm brought a rainbow, neither of us noticed.
We were both hungry. Travis padded downstairs and grabbed a bag of pretzel rods from the pantry and a quart of strawberry ice cream from the freezer. He brought only one spoon, and he fed me ice cream, satiating the ravenous parts in me that our lovemaking had missed. In those quiet moments of revelation, I showed Travis Nonna’s first notebook, and I read aloud the vivid descriptions of Nonna’s early life.
“She’s your grandmother. Isn’t that weird for you?” Travis asked.
“You’re my cousin. This is weird.” I motioned to the bedsheets in disarray around our naked bodies.
“We’re not related, BJ.” He kissed the top of my head. “Not yet, anyway.”
Jules whined at the door, and Travis stood to let him out. I couldn’t help staring at his body as he pulled on his shorts, still damp from the rain. I wanted to pull him back into bed, but he had left the room. I did not have a chance to explore Travis’s comment. Truthfully, I didn’t want to ask what he had meant by “not yet.” Whatever question I had, the answer needed to be “not yet.”
♦ 38 ♦
“ALL RIGHT, IF YOU AREN’T going to tell me, I’ll have to ask you again louder,” Karen said.
“Sssh. I’ll tell you, but keep your voice down. Those Estée Lauder girls are staring at us.” I sprayed Pleasures on my wrist, and then cringed at the overpowering burst of fragrance.
“Ooh, I sprayed too much.”
“Here, give me a little of that.” Karen took my wrist and rubbed it against her own. The deed mimicked our act of becoming blood sisters many years ago. “Okay now. You promised details. Spill.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want adjectives: fantastic, unbelievable, sweet mother of God.”
“Sweet mother of God is a noun.”
“Whatever. Tell me,” Karen said.
“It was all of those things. Are you happy?”
“Are you going to see him again? Are you two shacking up until Sam gets back?”
“Hold on. I am trying to get out of one marriage. I don’t need to jump into something else. You are in the wrong business. You need to stop writing up divorces and start a dating service.”
“You are wrong about my job. You should see all the prenups I write.”
“Really, around here? I don’t think Bryce wrote many that I remember.”
“Sure. And you would not believe the things people include. The law can be quite kinky.”
“The law? Kinky? I can’t seem to remember,” I said with a sigh.
Karen and I walked past a sale on handbags next to the hosiery department.
“Hold on, I have to get some new support hose. One of my cases goes to trial next week.”
I watched my friend as she fingered the samples. I could not help noticing the lingerie department across the aisle. I didn’t care about the novelty of a new negligee, but some new underwear might be in order if this relationship with Travis continued. Luckily my bathing suit had saved me the embarrassment of exposing my worn underpinnings. Karen saw me looking.
“Honey, please tell me that you have already bought your divorce undies.”
“Divorce undies?”
“Before I signed my divorce papers, I went out and bought twenty pairs of pure silk panties. I gave the bill to my ex as a final farewell message: Kiss my ass!”
“Silk undies? Was that what you put in your prenup?”
“Very funny. I am going to rise above your sarcasm.”
I walked gingerly across the aisle to the lingerie department and removed a pair of red panties from the nearest display. I held them up to the light and gasped with delight at the sheerness of the fabric. With a hint of reserve, I placed the panties back on the shelf.
“I can’t,” I said unconvincingly.
“Come on, BJ. New trimmings, my treat,” Karen insisted. “Call it the wedding gift I never got you.”
♦ 39 ♦
I LOOKED UP FROM my workbench every time I heard a lawn mower start. Travis had promised to come by later that day and finish trimming the yard. I had a feeling that he did only a small portion of the lawn each time so he would have an excuse to come back. Did we really need an excuse to see each other? At the sound of a car door, I squirmed again. Or maybe I was fidgeting because of the new thong I was wearing. With my every motion, my skirt slid across my bare butt and gave me a delicious thrill. I was cognizant of my sexuality, an awareness that had been dormant since Sam’s birth.
Come on, BJ. Concentrate.
I filed the metal spoon in front of me. This one represented my mother. I intended to set my mother’s diamond in a gold bezel and place it on the torso of the figure to signify the right breast. For the left breast, I had cut a jagged X into the metal.
My mother had a mastectomy in 1991 when it was determined that a lumpectomy was not an option. In 1998, the surgeon removed her other breast. She rejected cosmetic surgery, but she did have inserts for her bra. “I have decided that I would finally like to experience a C-cup,” she joked when she showed me her la
rger prosthetics. She had made a similar joke about her blond wig. And I, B-cupped and brown-haired, tried to laugh as my mother transformed into something I was not. My own breasts became hot bull’s-eyes on my chest.
I turned to my coarse sandpaper and continued to smooth the spoon. This was the part of my craft that I least enjoyed. I had learned to avoid shredding my skin on the abrasive surfaces, but my hands still had the worn look of a heavy laborer. I used to treat myself to paraffin hand peels at the spa attached to Bryce’s golf club, but I had yet to find anything like it since my move. I hadn’t been looking very hard. Until my finances were stable, I worried that such luxuries were in the past.
From outside my window, I heard the sound of a weed whacker. I pushed out the screen and looked in the direction of the noise. Travis was edging the side bed next to the fence. I didn’t acknowledge him. Instead I quickly brushed my workbench clean of metal dust and put my tools away.
I turned the faucet on and scrubbed my hands with pumice soap. I liked the ritual of washing my hands. It showed the transition from one activity to another. It said, “I want to start anew.” Even as a child, I never had to be told, I just did it. More often than not, I washed my face as well. Makeup wasn’t an issue; I applied it only if I was going out. Clean and free, those were my vices. I didn’t like the fancy soaps or gels. Even now, in the face of my transformation into a single woman, I refused all those samples that Karen was always pushing me to try.
Iced tea. I poured tall glasses for the two of us and loaded it onto a tray. I nearly stumbled out onto the lawn as I emerged from the dark house, but I caught myself just in time. Travis turned off the motor and motioned to me, and I put the tray down on the table.
“Hey. I hope I didn’t disturb your work.”
“Nope, just finishing.”
He leaned down, and I kissed him.
“I’m done, too. Is that iced tea for me?” He always smelled like cut grass, even after he showered. I found I liked the green scent; it suited him.
“Yes, the iced tea is for you, but, as usual, I have no lemons,” I said.
“I am getting used to it that way.” Travis was bemused. He celebrated my little inadequacies. “What do you think of the annual border? These were left over from a client’s house.”
“Looks great. Did you just put them in today? You haven’t been here that long.”
“I’ve been here a little over an hour. You were just caught up in your work and didn’t notice.”
“I’ve seen this kind of plant before. They’re certainly colorful. What are they?”
“Ah, my little brown thumb, they’re called coleus. Their native to the tropics, but they make great annuals here, provided your soil is well drained, which yours is, thanks to your landscaper.”
“The soil better be good. I pay my landscaper well.”
“Yes, you do—all the lemonless iced tea he can drink. Let me wash up quickly, and I’ll be right with you.”
With Travis in the house, I used the time to survey the property. In a few short weeks, he had transformed the vista. Lena would have loved the new raised beds and the new rose trellis. It was a lot of work, but somehow, I didn’t remember anything as a big project. Travis just dabbled in the yard. The biggest trick of all may have been making himself into a fixture. In gardening terms, he would be called the hardscape. Looking out over the lawn, I wondered how it would change with the seasons.
I had never seen much of this house in the fall, except for the occasional visits when I was in college. But now I had reason to be here and to contemplate that Travis would be here as well, in some capacity. I had been looking forward to autumn as Sam’s return and the finalization of my divorce, but for the first time I considered that maybe my relationship with Travis might also have something to do with my optimism.
Travis bounded out of the house, letting the door slam behind him. It was the kind of thing I would have scolded Sam for, but my heart lurched, and I knew that I could and would let the transgression slide without an reprimand. I liked having Travis here to slam the doors.
“I have a question to ask you,” he said when he reached the table.
“Shoot.”
“Feel free to say no.”
“What is it?”
“I would like to build a small temporary greenhouse in the back corner of your property. It doesn’t look like I’ll be able to buy property in time to set one up on my own land. I was hoping I could rent a spot from you. I checked into the zoning. You’re fine in this area. We’ll draw up a contract. It will be all businesslike.”
“Yeah, sure. That’s not a problem.”
“Whew! I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Did you doubt me?” I asked, searching his eyes.
Travis sat down and faced me. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes, I’m scared for you and all this change.”
I knew the point to his remark. We were moving fast these days, and sometimes I caught him looking at me. He was putting a great deal of faith in someone who just had her heart broken by another man. I can’t say that I blamed him for his reticence.
“There are days when I feel so right here,” he said, “like I’ve been here all along. It feels as though we never broke up as teenagers. Sometimes I wish we hadn’t.”
“What, and missed out on all those wonderful growth opportunities?” I asked trying to power a bit of levity into our conversation.
“Is that the sound bite that the spin doctors are using for failed marriages these days?” He wasn’t sharing in my lightheartedness.
“It isn’t so terrible. I’m glad things turned out this way. We are able to come to each other as adults. I doubt whether we would have lasted a month together when we were kids.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Think about it. If things kept going the way they were going, I might have ended up pregnant by fifteen.”
The mood changed, and I realized my blunder. “Oh, Travis, that was insensitive of me. I’m sorry. I forgot. It just slipped out.”
“No, BJ, it’s okay. I am glad you know. I’d hate to be dating a woman and trying to decide the right moment to tell her I’m sterile.”
“Do you still want kids?”
“Yes and no. My childhood was not ideal—you know all about that—but I think I could be a good parent.”
“You’re so good with Sam. You’d make a great dad.” As soon as I said it, I realized how it must have sounded, as if I were lobbying for a stepfather for my son. Part of me wanted to take it back, but part of me wanted to see what Travis would do with the information.
“Sam’s a great kid. He makes it easy. You’ve done a wonderful job raising him.”
“Thanks.”
My heart melted. I could see it perfectly now. The pumpkins and Indian corn adorning the porch. The two of us walking Sam, backpack on his shoulders, to the corner to catch the bus. I may not have been able to say words like love or commitment, but I was starting to see the slide show in my mind. As long as Travis didn’t ask for verbal confirmation of what I was feeling, I was satisfied developing my vision.
“BJ, did you ever think of me in all those years?” Travis changed the subject.
“You were forbidden fruit, how could I not?”
“My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me. That I must love a loathed enemy.”
“Romeo and Juliet!” I clapped my hands.
“The English teacher in me is impressed.” Travis straightened.
“Don’t be, I had to memorize that speech in high school.”
“You’re ahead of most of my high school juniors then.”
“That may be, but my knowledge stops there. All those poetry readings on Nonna’s porch and I can’t remember a single line.”
“Still, I am pleased that you can identify the star-crossed lovers.”
“Well, I’d hardly put us in that category.”
&
nbsp; “I said ‘identify,’ not identify with.”
“Okay, Mr. English Teacher, but your stanzas just reminded me of something. I heard on the radio that they are having a production of Romeo and Juliet in the amphitheater this weekend. Shakespeare by the Lake. Do you want to go?”
“You know I can’t resist the great bard.”
“I am not asking you to resist anything.” In the waning daylight, I leaned over the table toward Travis. As the Green Man that he was, he welcomed my invitation. I breathed in the verdant smell of his skin and kissed the poetry of his mouth. It was so easy—this romance, this relationship. What had I been so scared of happening? Maybe the better question was this: What scared me still?
♦ 40 ♦
MAY 10, 1991
It is hard to describe the Second World War to those who didn’t live through it. It was the first time in America that I felt united with the citizens of my home country. The feeling that we were doing something great pervaded the whole society. It did not stop the dread, but it gave the feeling some worth.
I was glad to have dough to roll and punch in those first nervous days of the war. The sight of Charlie in his uniform brought back memories of volatile men I had known in Greece. I had a taste of impending atrocities as we received the telegrams from Greece informing us of my slaughtered playmates. I could not cry for them. My tears were in reserve, dammed behind a stone wall for my future self.
Charlie trained in Virginia for an assignment in the South Pacific. He would be among the men who prepared the area for the troops. His tasks included scouring for land mines (a most dangerous occupation) as well as building bridges and roads and all the infrastructure of war. I hoped his knowledge as an architect would keep him away from the land mines.
Two weeks after he left for training, a small brunette woman walked into our bakery around closing time. I was the only one in the bakery; my parents had gone to a gallery that was displaying some of my father’s latest paintings.
Summers at Blue Lake Page 18