Our Seas of Fear and Love

by Richard Shain Cohen

  Murmured. “Hmm. I love you, always will.”

  ~

  Gregory’s parents and Mary met them at the station. Mary, in her last year of medical school, asked permission for a weekend off from clinical duties reluctantly granted when she explained. She purposely returned home the night before.

  Brigit had already called her parents who had spoken to both of them excitedly, happily. Luke felt the difficult restraint preventing him from saying, “It’s about time,” but he was as happy as Maureen. “Just tell us when you’ll come home, dear, for the arrangements.”

  “My darling, darling daughter. We’re rejoicing for both of you.” Maureen looked at Luke, daring him to say anything hurtful. He smiled at her, patted her shoulder, “Don’t worry. I’m pleased.”

  Everyone was happy. Gregory and Brigit went to his home. His parents had arranged an engagement party for people from Cape Astraea and in Portland that included some with whom Gregory could possibly be working. The friend who suggested him for the position was also there. He was an affable family man, knowledgeable, but not as forceful or thoughtful as Gregory. Perhaps because he knew he did not have the insights or administrative skills of Gregory he was aware the Center needed his friend.

  It was a gay evening, laughter, music, drinks, dancing in a large room cleared of furniture where the Hurwitz children once played.

  Later, when everyone was gone, with the moon shining, Gregory took Brigit for a ride by the sea, calm right now, the moonlight a streak of light across the water, waves gently rolling toward the shore. They stopped, simultaneously turned to one another.

  “You’re happy, Brigit.”

  “You know I am. I love your parents, and Mary is such a good friend. I’m glad you have one sister anyway. And we’re so close in age. We can have woman talk, no fear of gossip coming from either of us. Oh, how I love you.” She put her arms about his neck. He had already moved closer. It was a warm spring night with no need for coats to hinder them. She sat on his lap, first sideways, feeling him moving upward to press against her, turned and faced him, both kissing as they rubbed. She then lay back on the seat for him. She whispered, “I wish we could sleep in the same room.”

  “I’ll come to you when everyone is asleep. And if they’re not, I’ll just creep softly like I did as a kid.”

  When they arrived home, Mary was still up. Brigit’s face reddened when she looked at Mary.

  “Hi. How was the ocean?” She wanted to tease but stopped. “Want some company for a while, Brigit, as if you haven’t had enough already?”

  “Sure.” She could still feel Gregory’s hands on her breasts, the tightening of her nipples, his fingers inside, he inside, and remembered she hadn’t put back her bra but had pushed it into her pocketbook or that she had not even buttoned her dress completely. What difference? Mary knows. She knew when she looked at me. As long as she doesn’t say something embarrassing. But she wouldn’t. When she sees how I’m almost undressed? Maybe I’ll tell her I’m tired.

  Mary smiled at her. “Would you rather wait ’til tomorrow and we can have some time to ourselves? You have to be tired.”

  “Oh no,” Brigit quickly interrupted. She kissed Gregory goodnight at her bedroom door, her eyes telling him “later.” Mary followed through the door.

  “I know you’re tired. I said that already.” She noticed the dress, knew Brigit was not wearing her bra.

  “Let me go freshen up,” averting Mary’s eyes.

  Mary couldn’t help herself.

  “Brigit. We’re friends and always will be, I hope. Don’t make up tales for me. You know about me. If I had someone like Greg, only a woman – well, I may; her name is Evelyn - I’d be in his – her bed or on the floor with her, anywhere. As it is. Oh well, I have my times.”

  “Just be sure for yourself, Mary as I have,” Brigit called as she quickly drew a wet facecloth over her thigh, put on her bra, completely buttoned her dress, and returned, not caring about lipstick.

  “My brother doesn’t realize how fortunate he is.”

  “He does.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t, he will.” She wanted to ask about their intimacy but knew she couldn’t, that it would only come out if Brigit said something.

  “You’ll wait until I finish the year and just before I go to my internship, I hope.”

  “We’ve already talked about that. Besides, I want you as one of my bridesmaids. My sisters will also be. But I want you, Mary. Mary, I’m so happy.” They both had tears in their eyes and hugged one another. “You know. I think I fell in love with him the day in the hospital when he was so bad to you. That’s peculiar. I guess it was after and his remorse for treating you so horribly. I knew he was soft inside. But he was in such pain.” She stopped, remembering how sorry she felt for both brother and sister who obviously cared for one another.

  “You look tired, Brigit. We both ought to go to sleep.”

  “Yes.”

  Mary could not help herself. “Don’t let him come to you later. I saw those looks,” she teased.

  “Oh, c’mon.” And they both laughed.

  “I love and almost – almost, get it - envy you, Brigit.” Mary then hugged her again, kissed her lightly on the mouth, and told her, “I have a sister I always wanted. Thank you.” She turned her head, while trying to choke back crying. Once more, however, they were both in tears, trembling, crying happily.

  _______________

  I did go to her room that night. We made love. I think we both fell asleep about the same time. Early morning, she woke me to leave the room. I felt her against me, her arm wanting to hold me back.

  Pamela’s coming in. It has to be so hard waiting for grad school and looking after me. Except now she has some help. Brigit comes. That amazes me. And there’s that home care nurse. Pam’s mother is off again, business with the French guy. What the hell are they up to?

  No. Brigit and I didn’t go to Las Cruces. Her family hates me I’m sure, probably doesn’t care, if they know, I’m ill and hope I die. Peculiar how things turn out, and I’m still in love with Brigit, always was. What was I ever thinking? Fucking women with their sexiness, perfumes, and purring, falling all over you and the stupidity of ass-hole men like me. Did I love her? Brigit was with me.

  That shadow in the hall. Who was that? Brigit? My mind wanders too much now. I couldn’t work even if I could go in. Well, occasionally I do. Everyone at the lab is so nice, but I know they’re just feigning, allowing me to look, make suggestions that no one will ever follow. Well, they did one day. I told them to try human cells. I’m certain that has possibilities. It’s always bothered me that we have never looked at heart cells. It’s so rare they come up cancerous. Oh well. I’m not the man I was. Was I ever a man? The war? Yes. I fucked those Sicilian and Italian women who would let me. No. I never paid, but I did take them gifts of food etc. Remember Brigit asking me about the foreign women during the war? I just smiled. The men on the ship coming back with V.D. But the few I had seemed to come from nice families, like the sisters in that family photo I brought back or sent home to let everyone know I was meeting nice girls.

  Oh, God, now I’m coughing again.

  “Are you all right, Greg? Want a glass of water? Your water jar’s empty.” She places her hand on my sweaty forehead. It feels so right, like it used to, wherever she touched me. Does Pamela resent her? I don’t think so. They get along so well together. Better than when Pamela’s with her mother.

  “You’re here. You are foolish.”

  “Keep quiet.”

  “I never stopped loving you.”

  “Nor I you.”

  “That night at the Ritz. The celebration all because of what we had achieved in the lab, and the Walker Museum of Ancient Antiquities was celebrating at the same time. And she was there with that Frenchman. It wasn’t ’til later I found out she had been a WAC OSS and in France. She and that Frenchman had just sold some art work to the Walker.”

  “I don’t want to talk about
it, Gregory. It’s over, happened a long time ago. We have our lives now and from that time. I wish you’d try to sleep. I have to make some dinner for Pamela. Your daughter’s such a lovely girl. Both of them are.” She and Melinda could have been mine, both ours. I never fought hard enough. I should have become pregnant. Then there wouldn’t have been the Ritz, at least the way it turned out. Imagine me going there to celebrate and being pregnant, people looking at my belly. You damn fool, making sure about your cycle and making him wear a condom. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But I loved him inside me, wrapping my legs around him, holding him tightly against me, feeling . . . Stop. You’re hurting yourself. Think about him now. I won’t leave here, though, without us doing it again. He’ll be strong enough.

  I’m standing by the window, gazing at Greg.

  “Brigit.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “You’re just standing there, somewhere else. Is it Thomas you’re thinking about? Why he let you come here is beyond me.”

  “No, Greg. I wasn’t thinking of him, just thinking.”

  “That night, dearest. I never . . .”

  “Keep quiet.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  ~

  We had left the apartment early. Brigit was wearing a long evening dress, blue, somewhat tight. It had just a short slit so she could walk better. She was so lovely, that red hair coming close to her shoulders. She didn’t do it up like the other women, knowing I liked it longer. It gave her that allure. Those green eyes. The dress emphasized her breasts and was just tight enough so you would notice her hips and rear when she walked. I was so proud to be able to show her off. Everyone had met her before, but they rarely saw her at something so formal and important. I was to receive a reward for the liver research and how I proved we could diagnose with the isotope. It started with the paper I published. My boss insisted he be first author. But all knew. So we’d both be feted.

  And there she was, standing there in that black dress that fell from her left shoulder to just above her breast, holding a drink, laughing, touching – I found out his name later – Étienne’s hand every so often reaching to sip at her drink. She turned and we were gazing at one another. Her black hair and brown eyes, tall like Brigit, perhaps a bit shorter, thin and desirable. I couldn’t help myself and turned to compare her to Brigit. The museum people then went to another room for their own celebration, but somehow or other she came to our room again, looking at me. She stopped by someone from the hospital. Later she told me she asked about me. It seemed she knew everyone. She did. I found out later how well she knew. Seeing that Brigit was talking to someone else, I asked about her, who she was. No one seemed to know except for the man to whom she had spoken. He told me later she seemed interested in me.

  Brigit did notice the interplay but said nothing, just used her female senses. How stupid men are, forgetting the ability women have to notice, to observe, to feel, to hear, to perceive. We neglect their insight and sensitivity.

  It was just before we went to Cape Astraea. I kept thinking about her, the way she looked, the gaze as she stood there before she disappeared that evening to go to the museum party. I excused myself, said I had to go to the men’s room, looked at Brigit and knew her eyes were following me. I walked into the connecting hall between party rooms, saw her chatting with her male friend and other people, men and women. She saw me and waved. I bent my head and smiled in greeting. She seemed to excuse herself and came toward me.

  “Hello.” It was soft, shimmering.

  “Hello.”

  “You’re one of the doctors being honored tonight. I asked about you.”

  I did not know what to say except, “Yes.” In fact, my heart beat faster. She was extremely attractive. I could not help noticing the way she used her body, shifting, bending her back slightly above the waist, just enough to emphasize her bosom more.

  “Well, I have to get back. They’ll be calling on me soon.”

  “Give a good talk. By the way, doctor, what’s your name?” She already knew, had asked. I know because she told me later when we were getting to know one another well. I answered her, hoping my voice was normal.

  “I’m Deirdre Cunningham, in case you want to know more about art or want to purchase something unusual,” she said slyly as she seemingly inadvertently touched me with her hip when she turned to walk away. “I have read about you,” her face turned partly toward me. “I hope we can meet again,” she said invitingly.

  “Well, if you were a researcher. But you have something to do with the art world. I doubt we’ll cross paths. But it was nice meeting you.”

  “It was nice.” She started to walk back to her friend, glanced back at me. “We’ll meet again.” And she looked at me, her eyes bright and directly lingering, flirting. I watched her walk with that sway and have to admit I wondered what she’d be like in bed. “Whew,” I softly told myself.

  When I got back to the table, Brigit asked if I was nervous. “You were so long.” In fact, she had gone into the hall looking for me, fearing I’d be late for my talk. She saw us.

  “I was worried they’d call you before you got back.” There was a moment’s pause. “Who was she, Greg? Someone you know? We never met.” There was subdued anger in the way she talked.

  “Oh, her. I don’t know. She met me in the hall, stopped to talk and asked me what our party was about. Curiosity I guess.” I flushed.

  “Oh, come on. You were flirting with her. I’m your woman, and don’t you ever forget it, Gregory Hurwitz,” and under the table she kicked my ankle.

  “Ouch” I almost said aloud.

  She smiled. “Remember.” I swear there was a sadness in her face as though she felt there could be trouble.

  I gave my talk, people stood and clapped. Newspaper and med school or hospital photographers took pictures. I looked toward Brigit. She was smiling, pleased and happy and without care sent me a kiss, rubbing her palm over her lip and toward me.

  How much more pleasant could life be? For a brief moment I thought back to the mine sweeper, thinking how my life had been saved for this moment of recognition and the love of a woman such as Brigit.

  ~

  The days in Cape Astraea were so pleasant. The weather had warmed. We woke to sunshine. The sea was calm except when a breeze came up. We would stand on a jut of land feeling the wind against our faces, I watching Brigit brush back her hair. We watched the water and point when in the wind the sea became angry white foam that erupted against the rocks, streaks rising, falling rapidly, warning of the sea’s fury and deceptive beauty, until in the calm its other self rose to the surface and lured us forward to walk barefooted, carrying our shoes, along the edge of the soft lapping. Brigit couldn’t resist the sea any more than home. “Greg, I so love the desert and often miss Las Cruces. You see the sands, sometimes like rolling waves. Yuk, but the dust storms. I used to laugh when I would take a shower and the floor would become almost a mud pile when the sand washed from my hair and body. I think I belong here, but I shall always love my home.”

  Suddenly she reminded me of “Heimat,” that haunting aria. I saw the wistfulness in her face, tears coming to eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “I am. I’m happy,” and she pushed against me. She looked straight at me, with the tears of that joy and sadness. I thought then I would never do anything to hurt her.

  “I love you so. I promise you we’ll go to your home whenever possible. I liked it when you took me there. I’m anxious to see your family again. But you know what I liked, maybe almost most? Cloudcroft. It’s so much like New England. It made me think of here. Oh. We are a pair of lost souls.”

  She looked at me suddenly, questioning, here eyes wider. “Why did you say that? Promise you’ll never say that again.”

  “What’s wrong?” Astonished, I asked.

  “I just don’t ever want to hear you say that again. We are not lost. Only God . . .” and she stopped, except what she was thinking was obvious. Her religion, at least what sh
e still believed, would always be part of her. Perhaps that was part of the almost indescribable beauty. Perhaps her God placed her by me.

  But would her God allow to happen what did? I don’t even want to think about it.

  ~

  She and Pamela are here together. I can hear them talking. Pamela, having made an office upstairs for writing, very much likes Brigit, perhaps wishes she were her mother. Don’t start that ironic laugh. Yes. Remember the time she thought she was pregnant? She told me she missed her period, something that never happened. She almost seemed ashamed, “Greg, I’ve got something to tell you. I think I’m pregnant,” but instead of looking at me, she looked down as though embarrassed, but when she raised her head, she was smiling. “We’ll have to,” she hesitated. “We’ll have to get married. You don’t mind this way?”

  “I wouldn’t care any way. I should have asked you ages ago.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “I’m happy, pleased. Maybe it’ll be a girl like you, two beautiful females in the house.” But then she came to me some time later and told me she had her period. She was crying. “I wanted to be pregnant. I want a child, our child.” I moved her to the sofa, put my arms about her. “One day it will happen, be true. We are going to get married. You’ve gone through enough of this being single sex stuff. I feel sometimes as though I’m taking advantage of you.”

  “You aren’t,” she said through her tears, sniffling.

  But Pamela wasn’t her daughter. Goddamn this world and the mess we make of it and ourselves.

  There’s that Viet Nam war we’ve just been through. The stupidity. The lives destroyed. The fucking dumb generals. Leaders. Fuck them all. Fuck my life.

  Brigit came to the door. She sat on the bed beside me. “Hey. Push over and give me some room. . . . Greg, you’re angry. What’s wrong?” I told her nothing, but she knew better. “I’d like to crawl in there with you. I can make you happy, cure you. You know my powers.” But what powers? She didn’t have them to stop what happened. “Do you want me to lie beside you?” She looked toward the door. “Pamela’s upstairs writing.” She pushed the blanket aside, neglecting my partly wet pajamas, pulled up her skirt so I could feel her legs against me. “I hate this fucking world, Brigit. What I did to you. I never stopped loving you.”