Every Story is a Love Story

by John Moncure Wetterau

  Chapter 6

  Willow followed Amber and Art across a small stream. “Much farther?” she asked. Art pointed through the trees to a small rise.

  “Right up there.” They emerged onto a shelf-like meadow that dropped abruptly into a narrow valley. Willow could see nothing but mountain after mountain in the distance—no roads, no houses. An upright piano stood by itself in the meadow, the last point of local focus before her eyes leaped into the space beyond and below.

  “Wow!”

  Amber and Art chose a place not far from a fire where a dozen people were sitting and standing, laughing, drinking beer. Willow removed her pack. She spread a blanket and weighed it down with the pack which held a bottle of water, two bottles of wine, a paperback copy of Lawrence Durrell's Justine, and a loaf of her best honey walnut bread. Art went immediately to the keg.

  “Too much,” Amber said, looking at the view.

  “I wonder if Patrick will show,” Willow said.

  “Did you tell him where it was?”

  “I didn't give him directions, but guys on his crew would know.”

  “He'll come,” Amber said. “And if he doesn't, that's his problem. How did they get the piano up here?” she asked Art who was back, holding three paper cups of beer.

  “Carried it,” he said. “Four guys—one on each corner. They bring it in every year. It's Angus's. He has a band, plays Dixieland and early jazz.”

  “Oooh,” Willow said, “stride piano.” She had grown up listening to Scott Joplin, Jelly Roll Morton, and Fats Waller, her father's nod to modernity. Straight from Bach, he used to say. She sipped her beer. Martin Merrill arrived.

  “Hey there, Art. Hi, Willow.”

  “Hey, Martin. This is Amber. Where's your fiddle?”

  “Hi, Amber. Fiddle's in the car. Maybe we'll get to a little Cripple Creek later.” Willow flushed.

  “I think I've retired,” she said.

  “Not allowed.” Martin was having trouble keeping his eyes off Amber who had shifted to ground midway between a barn warmer's dream and a folksinger's groupie. Here we go again, Willow thought.

  “How's that Chevy running?” Art asked.

  “Good. I just put new tires on her.”

  “That's a commitment. Love that car. Have you seen it, Amber—a red '52 convertible?”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  God. Willow brought out the honey walnut loaf. “Anybody hungry?”

  “Sure,” Martin said. She broke off an end, the best part, and handed it to him.

  “Good,” he said, chewing.

  “Willow can cook!” Art said. People were arriving steadily. It was five o'clock; the heat of the day was easing. A strong looking man in his thirties with a short beard and dark curly hair began to play the piano, his back straight.

  “Yo, Angus!” someone called. Martin went for a refill and returned a few minutes later as Willow was looking around the meadow. She couldn't stop herself; every few minutes she checked again.

  “Looking for someone?” Martin asked.

  “Yeah, a guy I met—Patrick O'Shaunessy.”

  “Patrick O'Shaunessy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'll be damned. I met him the other day.” Patrick, she thought. Martin reminded her of Patrick; that's who it was. More people arrived. A soprano sax joined the piano. A man with gray hair set up a drum kit. Joe Burke stood near the piano with a blonde—leggy, like me, Willow thought, but better looking. They came over and sat down. Joe introduced her, his wife, Sally. He reached into a paper bag and handed everyone a sparkler.

  “It's the 4th,” he said. They lit the sparklers and sat, more or less in a circle, waving them and drinking beer.

  “My country 'tis of thee,” Amber said.

  “Old Glory,” Martin added.

  “Patriots!” A familiar voice. Patrick had come up behind her.

  “Hey, Patrick.” Martin stood, waved at Patrick, and wandered toward the kegs. Patrick sat down next to Willow. Joe handed him a sparkler. Willow leaned back on her elbows. The strains of St. James Infirmary and a heavy beat from the drummer mingled with the smell of burning sparklers and the sweeter smell of marijuana.

  “It's good to be a citizen,” Patrick said. Willow inspected him for signs of irony. None. They talked briefly about the war which they were all against. It seemed far away, a bad dream. “Maybe we should get active,” Patrick suggested, “demonstrate or something.” Joe leaned forward.

  “You want to watch it,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had kind of a shock last week,” Joe said. “You know Ox?” He looked at the others.

  “Sure,” Art said.

  “He was in school with us; he's a state trooper,” Joe explained. “We've had narcs around for a few years now, busting people for the evil weed.”

  “Shit heads,” Art said. “Like we really have a drug problem.”

  “We spot the narcs,” Joe said. “Anyway, I was having a beer with Ox in Buckman's, and he told me to watch my ass. He told me there was a list of radicals at headquarters. Subversives. `They're watching you; that's all I can say.'” Joe shook his head. “I mean, I'm a veteran, for Christ's sake.”

  “You're a dropout,” Art said.

  Joe started to smile. “Look who's talking.”

  “So, who's watching?” Martin asked.

  “Somebody is,” Joe said. “Ox wouldn't have told me if he wasn't worried. FBI? CIA?”

  “Martin's a commie pinko,” Art said. “Is he on the list?”

  “Should be,” Joe said.

  “What about Morgan? And Gino?”

  “Subversives for sure. Down the Pentagon!” Joe raised his cup.

  “Down the Pentagon!” echoed across the valley.

  “O.K., Patrick,” Amber said. “You can turn off the tape recorder.” Patrick took a paper bag from his pack and held up a block of cheddar. He shook it by his ear.

  “Wasn't on,” he said.

  “Might as well eat it, then,” Sally said.

  They ate and drank and wandered around the meadow. A washtub bass joined the music. Willow didn't exactly follow Patrick, but she managed to be in his general vicinity. She returned to her blanket and read until the light started to go. There was a book discussion. Patrick talked about a math book that he was reading, and Joe got started on significant digits, of all things. “You understand the principle,” he said.

  “Natch,” Art said, “but here is Morgan, in case anyone needs a refresher.” Willow tried to remember high school physics while she watched Morgan sit down deliberately. He had powerful shoulders and a sensitive expression. “Morgan, what are significant digits?”

  “Ah,” Morgan said, “the concept is that in scientific computation, the result cannot be more accurate than the least accurate quantity or measurement involved.” There was light applause. Morgan drank deeply.

  “Just so,” said Joe. “And didn't I have a hell of a time understanding that? I thought you could make an answer as accurate as you wanted. You want seven decimal places? No problem.” Patrick was sitting forward, listening intensely. “I finally got the idea, and I never forgot it,” Joe went on. “Well, there I was in weather school in the Air Force, and their dew point calculation gave an answer that was more precise than one of the measurements. `These decimal points are meaningless,' I said to the sergeant. Yeah, right. Next thing you know, I'm in front of the base commander.

  “`Burke,' he says, `you may have a point. But it's a goddamn small one. Are you an airman or a goddamn philosopher, Burke?'

  “`Airman, SIR,' I said.”

  “Airman Burke,” Art toasted.

  Willow was impressed. She thought about Stanford—the academic cliques, the gorgeous football players, the socialites. They were good at what they did; they were judged by how they performed in their groups; they lived by accepted rules. These people, in Mead's meadow, were just as sharp, just as physical (in a different way, maybe a better way), and just as eas
y and confident. They were all of the aboves. They were free. They were alive, or more alive, in a different way. A shiver ran up her back.

  She opened a bottle of wine. The band was tighter, into When the Saints Come Marching In. As the light faded, the uninhabited range of mountains before them became darker and more mysterious, unexpectedly comforting. The mountains were timeless, or in a different flow of time.

  “This is what they saw,” Patrick said, “the first people.” He pointed across the valley.

  “Do you want some wine?” She held up the bottle.

  “Change of pace,” he said. “Sure.”

  “Cabernet Sauvigon,” she said with new authority. “Your basic meadow red.”

  The firelight cast shadows; the group seemed smaller and more vulnerable. “The first people…” Patrick repeated. They were the first people, now, she realized. She bit down on her lip. Her heart broke open like a swollen peach.

  “There's a little bread left,” she said. God, she was crying again.

  “You cry a lot,” he said.

  “Oh, fuck you, Patrick.” She poured herself more wine.

  “I don't mind it,” he said seriously.

  “Look, do you want to go?” she asked.

  “Sure.” Amber was over by the band; she was staying all night or going over to Art's. Willow told her that she was leaving, and she and Patrick picked their way slowly through the woods. “I've got to get a little flashlight,” Patrick said as they splashed across the stream.

  When they came out onto the road, a patrol car was parked in the middle. Two cops were ticketing a long line of cars and trucks that were pulled off to the side. “What's the matter?” Willow asked.

  “Blocking the road. Obstructing traffic.”

  “They are not. What traffic? This is the top of the mountain, for God's sake.”

  “You want to give us a hard time?” He was threatening. Patrick pulled her away.

  “Let's go, Willow.”

  “Have you been drinking, lady? I wouldn't want to see you driving.”

  “We're walking.” Willow glared at the cops and let Patrick guide her down the road. The band was working on a Dixie version of America the Beautiful; the sax floated high over the tree tops into the night. She looked back. One of the cops was answering a radio call; the other was still ticketing. They were trying to ruin everything. “Why, Patrick?”

  “Groups,” he said, after a moment. “Tribalism. They're afraid of change. When they get their backs up, Willow, you've got to work around them. If you challenge them, they get worse. It's weird, but the more powerful people are, the more frightened they are, usually. You'd think it would be the other way around.”

  “We've got to fight back,” Willow said.

  “We do—by existing.” The starlight was sufficient for them to walk down the middle of the road. They were quiet and then they talked and then they were quiet again. One person, who had been at the party, stopped and offered a ride, but they decided to keep walking. Patrick told her about his parents and his sister, Molly. Nice people. She wondered where he got the hard edge she sensed beneath the surface. The Irish? Were his parents closet rebels? Maybe. Probably it was from hard knocks. For what? From who? For being honest. That was it. From people who cut corners with the truth to get ahead or get along. They were the same that way.

  At the bottom of the mountain, they turned down Reynold's Lane to Route 212 and then up the Glasco Turnpike to the Byrdcliffe Road. At AhnRee's driveway, Willow said “Might as well walk me home.”

  “My mission,” Patrick said. At the door, she suggested that they kill the bottle, and Patrick followed her in. She filled two glasses. They flopped into chairs at the kitchen table. She should have been exhausted, but she wasn't. When the wine was gone, Patrick stood. Before he spoke, she asked him for a hug, and before he answered she went to him and put her arms around his neck. His arms went uncertainly around her. She pressed the whole length of her body against him, molding herself to his shape. His shoulders were broader than they looked. As his arms tightened, she felt herself loosen and grow warm. He took a deep breath. They were losing control. “Patrick,” she said. “Patrick.” She pulled away and took his hand. “Let's go out here.” She led him to the porch and kicked off her shoes. Still holding his hand, she pulled him down onto the bed. She kissed him lightly with open lips. He was warm and tasted of wine and beer.

  “My shoes,” he said. She kissed him again, sliding her lips to the corners of his mouth and back. As he bent forward to take off his shoes, she unbuttoned her shirt and removed it. She stretched full length on the bed, naked to the waist, and held out her arms. She heard his quick intake of breath and felt his palm on her breast.

  “Willow?” She pushed up against his hand and began to move slowly from side to side. There was no more thinking, only a rush of feeling. She pulled him into her and encouraged him to take her, fuck her, fill her with his hot hard energy. As he came and collapsed, she hugged him with her arms and her legs, surrounding him with warmth, keeping him safe.

  She remained awake, savoring the moments. It was the right time of the month. No worries there. Her own need for orgasm was alive and well, like a promise. She stroked the back of his head, and he mumbled something in his sleep. God, they were together. She was still herself, but now she was something else, too. She had a pang of sadness for squirrelie, alone out there. Squirrelie.

  She awoke snuggled against Patrick's back. She reached around and began to caress him. He was inside her before he was fully awake. She held him tightly, and as she began to peak she begged him not to stop. She was driving the train, and Patrick responded. “Baby,” she called. “Ohhhh.” She opened like an exploding flower. Another orgasm rolled through her, and then another and another. Completions. Irreversible. She cried in wonder and fell back as he came, adding to the warm flood in which she floated.

  Some time later, she said, “The Big Bang Theory? I get it.” Patrick rolled out of bed and dressed.

  “I've got to go, Willow,” he said.

  She wanted him to stay. She wanted to make a good breakfast for them. She wanted to talk with him for hours, but a deeper voice, surprising her, said, “Bye, Patrick.” He looked at her intently for a moment. “Bye, Patrick,” she repeated softly.