Our Seas of Fear and Love

by Richard Shain Cohen

  I didn’t hesitate and took her to me and kissed her, my tongue seeking hers.

  Though she kissed back, she pulled away, “Not here in public. Coming off the train. O.K.” Her face was a bit red. “You feel so good.”

  At home, I insisted again on taking her bag. She looked at the house. With Lynne she had only glanced at it. Now, she pulled lightly at my arm. “I want to look. I love it. Oh. Those beautiful doors. And the long windows.”

  “Come into my shelter, dear one, and be safe from the world. I’ll carry you back in time,” I hesitated, wondering if that were true. We could not escape the war. Could she forget? Inside were often frightened parents, like the time during the European war they saw a photo in Life Magazine of a captain, a doctor, killed, only his shoulders and rank showing, the rest of his body buried in mud. Was it James? The fright was unbearable. When after a week or so later a letter arrived from him, my parents relaxed some. I was home. Matthew was writing, but each time they saw a picture of a bomber going down or men in parachutes, they shivered. I felt much the same as they, even experienced a little guilt, before the war ended in Europe in May, that I was home. I’ll admit, too, I fantasized looking at the ads in Life that showed the women in the stylish two-piece bathing suits, a bra top, short skirt; or the bra ads and light, zippered girdles. I’d wonder what Brigit looked like in her underwear or in one of those suits. I’d find out soon, at least about the bathing suit.

  I introduced her to my parents waiting at the door. My mother, who was never overly demonstrative, I could see, was taken by the attractive young woman standing somewhat nervously before her. My father waited for my mother to talk. “Brigit. Welcome to our house. It’s time you came. Gregory would unhinge us, talking about you, wondering if you would ever come.”

  “Some sailor, my son. Brigit, you’re welcome,” my dad warmly said.

  Brigit’s smile and eyes, the redness of her hair, her lithe tallness, surely appealed to my parents as one would expect.

  Then my mother, uncharacteristically, asked, “Would you mind a hug?” She may have wanted relief from her worries about my brothers. Brigit didn’t answer but stepped toward my mother, more relaxed, as both women reached for one another. My father was smiling, and I, I was ecstatic. Mary stood back, waiting her turn, knowing Brigit, and having told me how she liked my choice and how fortunate I was. There was a peace in the house that had left it when we went to war. It made little difference how long it would last, even if for the week Brigit would be here. I looked at two handsome women, both about the same height, hugging lightly, both apparently happy with one another. My mother whispered something to Brigit that Brigit told me later, that my mother was aware how deeply I felt about her and that perhaps the best thing to happen to me was her arrival. It wasn’t like my mother to judge quickly. Usually she would wait to analyze and finalize her judgments. But I knew my mother would still watch and judge us. My father? He’d get me aside, and even knowing the months that Brigit and I had been together in the hospital, that she had nursed me, med school was just ahead. “Don’t do anything hasty. Don’t propose or marry while in school. Your mother and I went through that.”

  ~

  I’m sweating and starting to cough. Thoughts. Dreams. Nightmares.

  ~

  Brigit and my parents got along so well. My mother told me later how much she liked her and how good my mother knew she was, how lovely she looked in her uniform but how feminine in her night clothes and some new fashionable, knee-length dresses she had bought in Boston to wear while at home. My mother felt sorry for her, because it had been so long since she had seen her parents, away for about two years. I felt that Brigit would have a home here, that she could come whenever she chose; for as the week passed, my parents and Brigit found the beginning of a parent-child love, perhaps another daughter.

  Dinner was usually around 7. So there we were seated at the table. There was talk about Cape Astraea, a little gossip thrown in, but mostly about the war, wondering whether James and Matthew would be coming home or sent to the Pacific, wondering when the war would end. It seemed as though it could not last much longer. Yet, the Japs would never surrender until the entire country was wiped out, obliterated. The fire bombings did not seem to have had any effect on the Emperor – I could picture that ugly man riding on the horse, hear the Banzais. “You’d think they’d know when they’re beaten,” I said angrily. “What they did on Bataan, the bastards all ought to die.” I was getting excited, thinking about the German bombers and our men dying as they waded ashore. Everyone was silent as I ranted until Brigit placed her hand on my arm to calm me.

  Here I am struggling to stay alive, like we all did during the war. I can still feel that touch and the caring and the love in it. I suppose she didn’t want to say anything with my family there. But everyone noticed the effect on me.

  I turned to Brigit, fighting to calm myself. “I’m all right, Brigit.”

  She seemed embarrassed in front of my folks and weakly smiled as though she were apologizing for interfering. But my mother would have noticed and not cared, seen the love in that touch, as well as the dismay in her eyes. I think that is probably the time that Mary really felt close to Brigit, perhaps remembering the incident in the hospital. Perhaps, too, the three women communicated with one another, sensing the warmth.

  “Let’s try to forget the war,” my mother said, though that was impossible. I doubt she had ever had a good night’s sleep ever since we had all gone away. Sometimes I would see her standing alone, placing the back of her hand to her eyes. And my dad. His false stoicism. All of us frightened, if the doorbell rang and we weren’t expecting anything.

  Although Brigit was supposed to wear her uniform when she went out, she didn’t in Cape Astraea, except when we went out to eat. We drove to the different beaches, would walk along the shore or just sit, she in her two-piece bathing suit, a bra that just covered her uplifted breasts, the short skirt of the suit with the cloth that covered her pubic area. Oh, I looked there and, obviously, my imagination overwhelmed me, seeing in my mind those breasts and nipples and her genitalia. We would sit, watching the water, the waves, when the wind increased, the rolling and spraying white caps against the rocky shore. Here it was so peaceful. I would look at the horizon and think of what was beyond, of ships sinking and men dying. As I managed to make those thoughts recede, I would feel Brigit against me. We would sit, sometimes never saying anything, perhaps thinking the same thing about peace and war, our arms about each others’ shoulders or back, our skin touching, both aroused. I would look around to make sure there was no one in sight, bring her to me, or she would do that to me, and we would kiss, fondle one another, kiss on the lips, behind ears or on the neck. I would get hard and wondered whether she were feeling a sensation below. It was then, a couple of days later when we were sitting that she nuzzled against my neck, raised her head a bit, blew in my ear, and whispered, “When are you taking me to the Cove?” She placed her hand on my hardness. “Oooh. You’re big.” I started to place my hand on her breast, but she stopped me. “It’s too open here. I want you to take me where you and Lynne made out.” I laughed. “You’re jealous.”

  “I am not, but I have this feeling,” and she stopped. Blushing, she whispered, “Well, you know where.”

  We drove to the cove. I was glad we had bathrobes with us. Coming around a curve, she sighed loudly. “You took all this time to show me this. It’s beautiful.” The land jutted out into the water. Far off was a lighthouse. In the distance you could watch waves striking against rocks.

  We walked along a path to the part of the beach surrounded mostly by bushes, yet with just enough sand to be comfortable.

  I took her hand trying but unable to walk fast. “Come on.”

  “What’s your hurry, Mister? Don’t you know we women don’t like to be hurried. Slow and easy,” and she turned my head toward her, her alluring green eyes gazing in mine, “Lovingly.” She laughed. “You’re funny. Don’t you kn
ow I’ve been waiting?”

  I placed the soft blanket on the sand, held her arms as she sat. “Ah, so this is the spot. Wait ‘til I write Lynne.”

  “Oh. Would you please stop talking about her? That was high school.” She laughed again. “I know that.” She lay back and gently pulled me down beside her, not wanting to hurt my leg. “Now what did you do?” “Stop that, Brigit.” “You’re annoyed. I’ll stop.”

  We kissed more. She rolled over on me. “I feel you,” and she moved up enough to be sure my hard penis would be touching her clitoris and a little below. I started to move up and back. Pushing against her faster until I came. She lay there a few moments, then rolled back to the ground. I turned on my side and asked her to loosen her bra. She untied it at the top but would not take it off. I placed my hand over one and then the other, then started to move lower. After a while, I asked her to rub me. “It feels like a brick bat,” as she placed her hand inside my bathing suit, took hold of me and gently rubbed up and down until she felt me jerk and took her hand away as I came again.

  I reached to the edge of her bathing skirt, went inside, feeling her hair. She took my hand and moved it outside but allowed me to rub. “Gently,” she said. Suddenly, as she became more aroused, she took my hand and placed it inside directing me how to rub along her clitoris. I placed my fingers inside her where she opened after spreading her legs. She pushed against me, moaned softly, arched her back as she orgasmed. We lay quietly, breathing, resting. “You think I’m a hussy,” she whispered as she laid her head on my thigh. “No.” For a long while we lay there saying nothing, just feeling ourselves against one another, satisfied, yet wanting more but knowing not for now.

  On the Saturday evening before she left, she and my mother went to mass, my mother knowing she believed in prayer and her religion. Perhaps my mother thought she could pray for both of them, though the few times I went with my mother, the few times she went, I would watch her kneel and cross herself. She would also light a candle. There could be no doubt she was thinking of her sons, praying they would come home safely. I don’t know. Maybe her prayers brought me home even with the fucking Germans having crapped up my leg. Anyhow, I didn’t go with them. I wanted them to be alone, to have time together.

  On Sunday we all went to the station. My mother and dad told Brigit to remember them to her parents, that they wanted her to come again. Mary hugged her tightly. Later, Mary told me what she said. “Don’t let him go. I hope you’ll marry him. Aside from his temper, he’s a terrific brother.” My mother actually used the word love that she rarely did unless it was for her family. While she was hugging Brigit, she whispered to her, “You’re a love, and you have mine. Now you take care of yourself.” I saw Brigit’s eyes tear. My dad kissed her on the cheek and told her to return. Then the three of them left us alone.

  “Brigit. Oh God, I wish you weren’t leaving. I love you, dearest. Remember that. Oh, how I love you.”

  Not taking her eyes away from me, “I love you too.”

  ~

  At home I went to my room just wanting to be alone, to dream, to be in my imagination with Brigit as we had been at the Cove or as when we walked around the town, went into some of the shops for people to meet her or to look at some clothes. She’s so beautiful, intelligent. We belong together.

  Mary was with my mother at the time. I heard this later, again from my sister. She told our mother, “She’s the one for him, mom.”

  “I think you’re right. I hope you are.”

  ~

  In September the war was over. We had dropped the A-Bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The Jap warlords had been eliminated or would be, and the Emperor issued the surrender, trying to save what was left of his Banzai country.

  That September I started medical school in Boston. James and Matthew would come home on the Queen Mary, Matthew in that stormy sea at that time. The family was whole again, James picking from where he left off with his surgical training, Matthew going off to New York, eventually becoming known for his art work.

  My schooling meant seeing Brigit again who would not be discharged until 1946.

  So we were both busy, she taking care of wounded sailors, I with my first-year science studies. We did, however, when there was time, visit the art museum or on an occasional night attend a concert at Symphony Hall. The most exciting of these was when my mother appeared. We sat in the balcony overlooking the stage, our favorite seats. My mother appeared in a dark gold-fringed evening dress that clung to her upper body and swirled at the bottom, especially as she kept in time with her notes and the music’s urging. Her solo was Strauss’s “Klänger der Heimat.” As I listened to the soulfulness of being far from home, it reminded me of my longing to be in Cape Astraea when I was away at war.

  Brigit sat motionless, mesmerized by the music and my mother’s voice - her beauty. How, I wondered, could there be three such women as my mother, Jocelyn, Mary, and Brigit who I was determined would eventually be my wife.

  Now I was in my mid-twenties and finally in med school that I had for years dreamed about, influenced, no doubt, by my father and brother James. The first year was study of the sciences. The second year seemed much more interesting, because it was the beginning of our clinical studies. I suppose I was somewhat surprised when male and female students had to examine one another. Oh, I had had a couple of women in Europe, but looking at a female classmate, thinking whether Brigit looked the same, tantalized and annoyed me. No two people are alike no matter where, from mind to genitals. And then I wondered what it must have been for the female students handling us, poking their fingers inside to the prostate. Finally, I realized the foolishness of my teenage thoughts, and we went about our clinical rotations ignoring that phase. So, from then on, actual clinical work became more complicated with more to think about and being asked questions by the doctor professors, pushed to answer, some disgusted if one of us made a mistake. There we were, as our learning passed into pediatrics, psychiatry, oncology, epidemiology, ob-gyn. As we advanced I believe most of us became more confident. We saddened when one of the class failed.

  One day, walking into the hospital, it hit me. I would enter research. Medicine was on the edge of isotope research, and I wanted to be part of this.

  ~

  Oh. I remember when it happened. The night Brigit stayed late at my apartment, and we decided she’d sleep over and get off to work early enough. I had studied. She had made dinner. We barely made love. Then how I sat as she stood before me and unbuttoned her blouse and dropped her bra. Glancing sideways at me as she turned and pulled down her panties, she then faced me; but again standing sideways she ran her hands along the sides of her body and to her oval straight, enticing breasts, caressing them, raising them. No, We didn’t do it. She just walked slowly to my bedroom, I hard but satisfied by how I had never seen her before but had always wondered and wanted. Her body was so glorious. She knew I would like it and not be angry. She knew I wanted to see her, perhaps thinking, This is what you’ll get someday, Gregory.

  ~

  When would someday be?

  On a week during the summer of 1947, we took the train to Cape Astraea. The house was large enough for Brigit to have her own room down a step at the end of a short hallway. It was now known as hers and was always ready. I’m sure other guests used it; but when she came, it seemed to me either Mary or my mother would spray a faint perfume to feminize the bed covers and the rest of the room.

  Mary, by the way, had been engaged to a medical resident. She broke with the fellow when she decided against hiding her sexuality. I love her for that. She would, after her fellowship, come back to practice near Cape Astraea. Anyhow, it seems my family had a difficult time staying away from medicine. I told Brigit about Mary. She was at first shocked but then must have decided if they were to be sisters-in-law, she had to accept it. I know they cared for one another. I did wonder, though, how much Brigit appealed sexually to Mary. I’d never know. They would go off by themselves, shop, go to o
ther towns where there was still more shopping and one they liked in particular because of the sandwich-coffee shop, Dugans, in Mansfield. Oh yes, another wealthy town. Other times, when Mary could get her away from me, they went swimming alone and tell me I could catch up later. However, Brigit and I managed to get away by ourselves. We would swim and then go to that part of the cove where we could sexually satisfy ourselves, make promises. Promises. I despise making promises anymore. Who promises me? They are a façade for lies. Lies. Isn’t life a lie? That isn’t so when I think about Melinda and Pamela. They and the thought of Brigit keep me alive. Brigit just walked by my door and looked in, sneaking that look, she thought, to make certain I am all right. I’ll call her back. But Pamela appeared before I could call Brigit, so I asked, “Pamela, have you finished your writing?”

  “For now.”

  “Satisfied?”

  “I guess.”

  “Come here, dear.” She came to the bed. “I know you’re upset with being home.”

  “Dad. I got over that some time back. It was mom’s fault anyhow. You fought her over Wellesley, now grad school. I heard your arguments. It was my decision to wait, for now, anyway, so I could be with you. And mom – now where is she? Overseas? The house is full of that art crap of hers.”

  “Listen, I didn’t ask you to come in here to complain,” I smiled at her. “I just want you to know I love you very much.”