Leaping

by Diane Munier

  "You know me. This is us."

  "Us? No us."

  "Right now is…between us."

  He shook his head, resisting. "I'm not…I'm not…there could be no more…."

  "Intercourse?" she said, smiling now, but her eyes sad.

  He laughed a bit, but no joy, no ease, "No. And besides that endless talk about…the…your family…see? It can't go anywhere. What's your goal here? What's the point?"

  "I'll take anything," she said. "I just want to be with you. We have the ocean. We have houses and books. We can just be. Two people getting to know each other."

  They'd end up sleeping together again. He couldn't encourage her. She said she loved him. She wasn't stable.

  "I can't…I need to be alone," he said. "If…I'll think it over. I'll let you know. I don't want to be cruel. I know you're looking for connection to…."

  “Let's make soup."

  "What?"

  "Let's make soup. I haven't been eating properly, and I know you haven't either."

  He should say no. End it now. End it. "I…I have steak."

  "Steak soup?" she smiled. She seemed so normal just then. He couldn't be fooled by it.

  "Seems a shame but…. Why not?"

  So that's what they did. They cooked together. And she told him she'd graduated Iowa State and they opened a bottle of red wine, and they talked about books then. He talked mostly. He couldn't shut up. About books. But the words didn't matter so much and when they dwindled there was food. And when they'd eaten there was the ocean. And when they'd put on coats and walked some there was the pier and when they walked that and stood on the end, she took his hand then and he didn't pull away.

  "I lost my dad," she said softly, and he had to lean in, though he'd heard.

  "He…raised me. My mother left. I was six. When she came home she was dying. We didn't know. She didn't know. But she was gone in a year. And…he'd taken care of her. And after that…he said, just you and me, kiddo. He said that all the time. When I got pregnant in college…I graduated and came home to him and he was with me, with Seth. And sometimes I'd hear him say to Seth…you and me, kiddo. Who says kiddo? Just your dad. But in the hospital…when Seth was in a coma for so many days…I said that to him…all the time."

  It was alright then, her hand and her words, making Henry real, Seth…. The ocean was big, and two ships out there. Stories everywhere…just the life in this water…the secrets.

  "How…," he had to clear his throat, "…how long were you married?"

  She looked at him, hair whipping, her skin red and soft with the salt and the mist.

  "Two years. It was…my divorce was final a couple of weeks ago but the marriage…two years separated."

  He moved his arm around her. Years of habit, comforting…but no…this was more.

  Chapter 8

  They stayed together that night. He blamed the soup, the simple delicious taste of the beef and carrots and onions and celery and her pearl barley, not the instant kind, but the real deal, he blamed all of that…and the feeling in his stomach…so good he didn't know how to let it be…full.

  And he blamed her, if blame was the right word. His rational self, always his guide, told him to cut and run. But she was an adventure. That's how she hit him, her face as she talked away at the cutting board or listened to him, she listened…there was something endearing about it, he didn't know what…her smile, her eyes…she kept up contact…she seemed eager…unnerving, very unnerving…her raw need…but it drew him.

  He'd come here to the ocean with a sense of wanting more, wanting life, and here she was…Cori. A whirlwind. He couldn't fix it or figure it or be at peace with it….

  It wasn't chance, or even destiny, it was manipulation all the way, but she was an adventure none-the-less. She got to him.

  So he comforted himself with her, next to him on the couch. He hadn't allowed them to go to the bedroom as if the couch made it less involved, but he'd held her there again, slept little, just let himself be…feel…comfort, and the worry over the comfort.

  "Be content," Bill used to tell him, "to let things be a mess. The best things come that way. Birth is a mess."

  In his work, he'd learned to do that…until a mess came that was so big, so consuming…it broke him.

  Now he had her. Life in the beige Petri dish…Cori Weston.

  Cori's declaration of love…it shocked him like…new love…neon love.

  Laura claimed to love him. He wasn't boasting, but he was a good catch…good material…for marriage. He knew that. Women noticed him and he'd wondered about himself more than once, why he didn't feel excited…why he couldn't reciprocate when everything looked right.

  He knew now…he was starting to get it. When it came…love…not that it had, but she claimed it had and he could see how powerful, when a woman like her just came at you with an intensity…and so captivating….

  There wouldn't be another like her. It wouldn't be possible. Born out of tragedy…this kind of bond…this kind of…love?

  He needed…help. He wanted to be told how to think. Not what. But how, and that was often the case. He looked for the boundaries in which to think.

  His normal boundaries were tried-and-true and past finding out. He'd chosen those high and lofty ones, or they'd chosen him. But the incident…it had expanded those ancient boundaries. It had made them huge. Death, pain, tragedy were everywhere, but so was God, so was love, so was extraordinary compassion, and mercy and kindness and tears and grief and joy and empathy and heroics…and surprises…and soup….

  Personally, he hadn't won by matching James, by trumping him with might…and right. His personal victory lay in becoming more like what he believed and less like James…by not allowing James to infect him and conform him to his distorted image.

  That was the battle. If he stayed bitter, human life was diminished. Look at the way he'd been treating Cori. His sister. Everyone.

  The victory was in not giving up on who he was and what he was called to do…and what he believed. And who he believed in.

  The F word. Forgiveness. Always the ultimate victory cause it took God, the real God, not the version of him he created or shunned so he could control him, but the real God of Scripture, the Forgiver, it took Him to even make forgiveness a consideration….

  "Oh shit," he whispered. He was having his revelation, finally. He was moving in the womb of his seclusion, his head aligning with the birth canal and he'd had no more to do with this birth than the others, the one where he'd come screaming forth from his mother, the one he'd found that night in college, kneeling at his window grieving her.

  The call was always the victory. He had to forgive.

  He eased from her, but not before kissing her forehead.

  He looked down on her as he stood beside the couch now. She was still asleep, her face, he saw it then, etched in the beauty, the slight trace of suffering. He felt it then, in a new way, her honest and bold need of him, he faced her generosity, the way she'd given…from the first, the widow's mite, the gift of all she had…he saw it then, he felt it.

  Oh, the crash of discovery. Too much was coming at once now. He had to tear himself away from her. He wasn't worthy yet. There had to be something backing any promise he would make, any conclusion he might make regarding one so beautifully frail…so angelic.

  He crept from the room, from the house, into the cold night, and the rowdy movement of the Leviathan that roiled the ocean. He got to the water and he walked in until it was to his waist, and he plunged under and quickly stood, gasping and flipping his hair back.

  He would leave it here in the ocean…James…in God's hands now…beyond them all. He would let the sea take the infection from him, and he steadied his feet in the dwindling sand and eyes to the sky and just quiet and small and cleansed.

  He said two things when he finally spoke, two words that typified every prayer that didn't ask for help. He thought of the revelation, and he thought of her, the embodiment of God's offer, his
second chance…to live. "Thank you."

  And in response a hand, gripping his as it ruddered through the water. She stood beside him in the cold, the shocking cold, of course she'd come right in. He looked at her…and he wondered before…was she real?

  She smiled at him, then a wave hit them hard and she laughed, and he did, and he scooped her up and trudged awkwardly onto the beach, and he kept going, toward the house, but he couldn't stop looking at her. He wouldn't.

  "You're different," she said softly, her arms around his neck.

  He smiled at her. And they reached the porch stairs and he hurried up and into the house and he took her all the way in and he hefted her higher in his arms and she laughed, and he took the stairs then, the sand on the soles of his feet scratching at the wood, and down the hall to his room, and once in there he took her to the bed and set her there and he went to his drawers for warm clothes and found these and gave them to her. "I'm turning the shower on," he said. "For you."

  "What about you?" she said, always focused on him.

  "I'm fine," he said. She took the clothes and looking at him, she waved a little before closing the door.

  The animal side of him wanted to go after her, take her there, grind into her.

  He found more clothes and went down the hall. He got in the hot shower and quickly washed. In five minutes he was dressed and back in his room just as she was coming out of his bathroom. Steam followed her, and her hair was long and wet and she smiled.

  He put one knee on the bed and said, "Come here."

  And she did. He settled them under the blanket and he had his arms around her.

  "Are you okay?" she said softly, stroking his arm.

  He nodded then, and he resituated them, and entangled with her that way, he slept.

  In the morning, there was no question that they would stay together. He couldn't conceive of her dwelling so far down the beach.

  Chapter 9

  The thing that made something true…was proving it to you…again and again…and again…until you knew.

  It took work…seeing…searching…facing…challenging…admitting. It took effort. Courage. Commitment.

  He knew that. Behind him she was in the house cooking their breakfast.

  He'd wanted to do this, to help, and he'd seen her…in that way…like God grabbed his face and made him pay attention…he'd seen her, her hands graceful, her arms willowy, her heavy hair piled and pinned carelessly on her small lovely head….

  She wanted to be with him…wanted to take care of him in a way that made every idea of serving…well she knew more about it than he ever could.

  He'd opened himself, or been opened…and he felt her sorrow…its depth…and he'd gotten overwhelmed. She was just poaching eggs. But she'd come to him…holding nothing back…making it true.

  Well the cork was out of the bottle, the plug out of the drain, and the great whirling vortex had been created, the vapors of freedom were rising…the new baby lying screaming in the bassinet…he was feeling.

  He went for wood then, so they could keep the fire going, so he would have a job, an excuse to turn his back on her, to hide what he knew…what he didn't.

  She was setting the plates, food on them. She smiled at him. She'd taken care of them, her men, he could see that. The ex-Weston…Jordan needed more information.

  She smiled and he went to the fireplace and piled the wood and poked around like it took a Ph. D. to figure it out. Then he stood and wiped his hands on his jeans and turned to face her and she waited, seated now, and he went and sat across.

  Normally he'd pray, and she gave him time, but he tucked in. "I like my eggs this way," he said, but they'd already established that.

  "When you look at the ocean," she said, toast in her hand, "I see it differently."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You have a way…you observe…it's in your body. You make me look…question…."

  She seemed to run out of words and shrugged and took a bite of her bread. She was embarrassed.

  Why was it like this now? Why did it feel new when they'd shared…everything?

  She had stood with him in the ocean hours before….

  "You should be in my head when I look at you," he said.

  She was so thrown, he regretted blurting something so ridiculous. There was no taking it back so he ate.

  "Would I see myself differently?" she asked, stuck there, and he realized she didn't have appetite.

  "I guess that's the thing with…," he gestured between them. "Two people…you live in your head and then someone else…well you get pulled out…see yourself…hear yourself…I don't know."

  "No one…you say things…in a beautiful way," she said.

  He didn't think so. He didn't know. "You're…you're beautiful," he said, trying to keep it light, but of course, it fell like lead.

  She grinned at him…like he flipped her switch. He wasn't going for that…but damn…she was beautiful.

  "You can't just say that," she laughed.

  He shrugged like it was no big deal. "Why not? It's true. Surely someone…your ex-husband?" Oh, smooth segue-way, he thought. Now she'd think he was manipulating her.

  "No," she whispered. "No you don't."

  "What?"

  "You think I'm beautiful. Don't bring him into this. This is us…remember?"

  Oh boy. It was getting way too complicated.

  "I think you're beautiful. To me, like Joe Cocker said. Yeah…to me. But the rest of the world isn't blind…is it? Surely I'm not the only one to ever tell you that. What about your mirror?" Over talking here.

  "Then I'd have to find myself…beautiful. And I don't. I never have. Beauty is…in the eye of the beholder. It's the beholder…you. You think this about me? It's all that matters." She took a drink of her coffee now. She had flushed a deep red. Yeah, she was beautiful. No question. Truth.

  "Beautiful," he repeated and smiled, god he needed to get off it, he was being…romantic. Wasn't he? He'd been trying to make it more topical, but she wasn't a fool. She knew things. The beauty wasn't one-dimensional. She had it on all fronts. The Joe Cocker song? That was the damn point. Shit. "And these poached eggs are perfect. No easy thing," he said sounding like a monkey's butthole.

  "Yeah," she laughed a little. "Seth…," she stopped, as though she'd said the wrong thing, eyes searching again.

  "You can talk about him," Jordan said. He felt like a son of a bitch having to give her permission. "Cori…you can talk about them." He thought he'd include her father while he was at it.

  "It's just…that's not what…I didn't want you to think…. I don't know. I can't say I didn't want to talk about them with you. I can't say that." Her hands were on her lap now.

  He reached across the table and held his palm up. She was quick to slip her hand in his, to hold it with both hands.

  "Seth was already shot when you tackled James. But do you know he had a sense of…being saved? Somewhere in there…he had a sense of it."

  Jordan didn't know that.

  "And the boys…I've heard it described…how you stopped him."

  Jordan kept looking at their hands. His were so much larger than hers, but he used both of his now to smooth over her palms to feel how tough hers were, how hardened from work.

  "Cori," he said, taking on her eyes now, their beauty, their favor, "an ordinary person can do something…heroic. I'm just…a very flawed man who did…an obvious thing that had to be done."

  "The true measure of a man shows in adversity."

  "Maybe…inside the broken-self there are moments of…getting it so right you seem to be more…than you normally are. Sure. But…it would be grossly unfair to forget we're still talking about a human being. Me."

  "You're afraid of it? Of being…wonderful? Like I'm afraid of being…beautiful?"

  "No," he said quickly. Then he laughed. "I'm not…believe me I'm not…wonder…." He couldn't finish it. Maybe he was afraid. Well he was. He wouldn't call it fear, he wasn't shaking in t
he damn corner…but he was cringing at the thought…of being a hero. No new revelation there.

  "How have you processed it?" she asked. "What conclusions? Can you share them?"

  Now he wasn't hungry. "I guess you could say I was still processing in the ocean last night. I guess you could say I'll be processing this until I die or lose my mental faculties." He didn't know where the sudden anger was coming from.

  "The books," she said. He didn't feel comfortable with how much she knew, had seen. He had told himself it was alright he'd taken her flesh, it wasn't love. That had been his consolation.

  But for her quite the opposite. Her consolation was the love. For her it was that, or at least she tried to make herself believe it was so. But that didn't give her the right to just dig through him like he was a trunk to be opened and…sorted.

  He was starting to care, he knew it. But she was stopping him cold now.

  "I'm sorry. You're so private," she whispered, sensing with that unnerving instinct

  of hers.

  "I just…I can't just spout on command…." Hypocrite. He could barely stop spouting around her. Beautiful? Shit.

  "I'm so sorry. Of course you can't."

  "You of all people should…."

  "I do. I do understand. I'm just so desperate to know you," she finished, pulling back her hands, covering her face, standing quickly and turning away from him, rushing to the sink, turning on the water, splashing her face.

  He had to blink some, but he got up and went to her, curved over the sink she looked like a bird, gasping for drink.

  "Are you alright Cori?" he was alarmed. He didn't even know if she had a medical condition. Even panic disorder. There was so much he didn't know.

  "I…," she shut off the water then and straightened her back. "It's been so long…."

  He took her by the shoulders and turned her to him. "What has? What is it?"

  She was shaking her head, having trouble looking at him. "I'm not very good at this. Being with someone."

  He picked up the towel and wiped her face like a good big brother. Then he pulled her in to a tender embrace. He patted her back. "You're fine. It's me. I'm…it's me."