Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  Corinne smiled at his concern. “If Roger walked in on us this instant, he wouldn’t be the slightest bit upset,” she said with some amusement. “In fact, he’d be pleased that I was enjoying myself. And he’d be happy that you were having a good time too. Roger loves everyone,” she said, and G.W. wasn’t sure if he detected just the barest hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  “If you were mine, I’d kill any man that I caught messing with you.”

  “That’s a rather medieval attitude, don’t you think?” She released his hand. “Roger and I love each other, but we don’t own each other. We’re each free to pursue our own happiness. And if you and I find pleasure in each other, well, that’s beautiful, and it really doesn’t have anything to do with Roger at all, does it? It certainly doesn’t hurt him.” She looked in his eyes earnestly, trying to read his reaction. “Just as it doesn’t hurt Barbara Anne.”

  Barbara Anne. Now there was a name that hadn’t intruded on his consciousness for a few minutes.

  “Holy shit,” he said. He looked around quickly as if he expected to see her right there under the counter with him, accusing him with wounded eyes. “Holy shit, she’s gonna be back here any minute,” G.W. said anxiously. “And somehow, I have a hunch that she won’t be quite as understanding as Roger, if you get my meaning.” He twisted his torso as if he were about to crawl out from under the counter.

  “Don’t go,” Corinne pleaded, touching his arm lightly. “Don’t go yet. She won’t be back for at least another ten minutes or so. We still have some time.”

  “Oh, shit, I don’t know…” G.W. looked at Corinne, then peered out from under the counter, then looked back at Corinne again. “I mean, you have no idea…” His voice trailed off as he contemplated his fate should Barbara Anne discover him in this compromising position.

  “Just a few more minutes,” she begged, and G.W. had the impression that she was toying with him, testing her power over him, seeing if she could overcome his common sense with her sexual allure. “Trust your feelings, G.W.,” she urged. “This isn’t the kind of thing that happens every day. You have to take advantage of every opportunity that life offers you. We’ll never see each other again. Don’t throw away our last few moments together,” she begged. “Please.”

  She leaned back on her elbows, studying his face. Then she uncrossed her legs and rested her feet on his thighs. Lowering herself the rest of the way down, she lay stretched out on the blanket. Even in the dim light, her creamy white body provided a remarkably vivid contrast to the dark fabric. Lifting her arms over her head, she stretched her fingertips as far as they would go. He watched her taut body in mute fascination.

  “Just kiss me once before you go,” she said, as she relaxed her stretched muscles. Her eyes were closed, and she spoke in a husky whisper. “Just once. Then I’ll leave you alone.” She held her arms out to him invitingly. “Just one kiss.”

  I shouldn’t do it, he thought. I’m not gonna want to stop at just one. And she knows that. She’s counting on it. I could get myself in a shitload of trouble. Hell, I could end up throwing away six years of marriage, and this hippie chick just ain’t worth it. For once in my life, I can’t let the little head tell the big head what to do. I’ve gotta be smart about this.

  But she’s right about one thing, he thought: This kind of action sure as hell does not happen every day. In fact, this could well be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

  And with a fucking Olympic champion, no less.

  The image of a younger Corinne McVeigh flashed into his mind. She was being draped with one of her three – or was it four? – gold medals, standing proudly at the apex of the award platform, beaming radiantly, acknowledging the frenzied applause of the crowd with a confident wave, a crowned queen accepting her just due. She was still in braces then, not as young as some of the 13-year-old aquatic prodigies, but certainly still in her teens.

  And now, this same water nymph was stretched out luxuriously before him, entreating him to sample her favors. I can fuck her if I want to, he thought. She sure as hell is in heat for me. I could make it a real quickie and we’d be all zipped up and calm, chomping on an apple, by the time Barbara Anne got back. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?

  Corinne’s exquisitely toned body beckoned him. He imagined lying on top of her, wrapped tightly in her strong arms, trapped by her powerful thighs…

  He mentally threw up his hands, muttered “What the fuck,” and surrendered to the inevitable.

  He fully meant to kiss her on the lips, but he got sidetracked on the way to his destination and wound up kissing her breasts instead, licking her protruding nipples, teasing them with his tongue as her supple body writhed in pleasure beneath him. His leg pressed into her groin. She wrapped her legs around his and pressed against him, like a dog in heat.

  And they were so deep in their passion, so lost in each other’s arms, that neither of them heard the car drive into the parking lot. Neither of them heard the car door open and then slam shut. Neither of them even heard the crunch of footsteps that crossed the gravel and approached the counter under which they lay hidden in their torrid embrace.

  In fact, neither of them heard anything until a sharp voice pierced their rapture, intruding on their consciousnesses like an uninvited – and most unwelcome – guest.

  2.6.4: Pierce's Bridge

  “Hello?”

  A woman’s voice. Older. Somehow hoarse and shrill and the same time.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  “Jesus Christ!” G.W. said in a loud whisper, as startled as he had ever been in his life. His erection withered as quickly as if it had been suddenly submersed in ice water. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, his eyes wild. He was incredibly thankful that the voice didn’t belong to Barbara Anne – which had been his first, instinctive reaction – but his heart pounded in sudden shock just the same. Corinne giggled, then quickly clamped her hand over her mouth to suppress the sound.

  “Hello!” the voice said again, louder and more insistent this time. “Can someone please help me?” It was a vaguely female voice, but as coarse and gravelly as the parking lot.

  “What are we gonna do?” G.W. whispered, trying to calm himself down. “Maybe we should just lie here until she goes away.” He propped himself up on his elbows, suspended over her supine form.

  “Oh, no, no.” Corinne shook her head. “Don’t be silly. Just go out and ask her what she wants.”

  “Me?”

  “Well,” she pointed out, “I’m hardly dressed for the occasion. You wouldn’t want me to give the old lady a heart attack, would you?”

  “What should I say?”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  “Shit, I don’t know…”

  “Isn’t anyone here at all?” The puzzled voice from beyond the counter cut through their whispers. “Hello? Hello?”

  “Go on!” Corinne waved insistently, shooing him away. “I know you can handle it, G.W.” Her eyes danced and laughed.

  And that’s how it came to pass that G.W. Kendal, with a sheepish look on his face, stood on his knees and abruptly stuck his head out from under the counter of Nature’s Bounty in the otherwise serene valley of Pierce’s Bridge, Massachusetts.

  This is how we saw Corinne when we first pulled up, he mused, remembering the head-banded red hair that had popped up from behind the counter to peer at them. She was nothing more than a head back then, he thought. But in an amazingly short time, she’s become a tantalizingly available body.

  “Oh, my!” called a surprised voice. “Young man, what are you doing down there? You gave me quite a start!”

  “I’m so sorry ma’am, it was entirely unintentional, I assure you,” G.W. said, as he scrambled to his feet. He was addressing an elderly woman, possibly in her seventies, who clutched at her chest and staggered backward dramatically, as if she were afraid that her heart might not be up to the strain of G.W.’s sudden materialization. Her round, pale face was surrounded by a halo of frizzy white hair.
She wore a summery white dress covered with a pattern of grotesquely oversized blue dots.

  “I rather think that you were hiding under there specifically to frighten me, young man,” she accused sternly. “And I must inform you that, in my eyes, that makes you little better than a common hooligan!” She looked down her nose at him defiantly.

  “I don’t know quite what to say, ma’am,” G.W. said, honestly. “But the truth is,” he lied, “business has been real slow today, and I was sound asleep under the counter when you drove up, and I didn’t hear a blessed thing, swear to God. And when you started calling to me, I thought I must’ve been dreaming, and that’s why it took me so long to respond. But I wouldn’t do anything to frighten a gracious lady like yourself, not on your life, believe me I wouldn’t.” He flashed his most charming smile. “Please, ma’am, I hope you’ll accept my humble apology.”

  “Oh.” She looked at him sideways, not quite sure what to make of him. “Well. I suppose so,” she said, doubtfully. She smiled dimly at him. “But you did give me quite a start, you know.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” G.W. said, contritely. “Like I said, I’m sure that I would’ve heard you sooner if I hadn’t been so sound asleep. I am sorry.”

  She approached the counter, appraising him cautiously. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

  “No, ma’am. I hail from Texas.”

  “Texas? So that must be your automobile?” She pointed toward his somnolent Cadillac, and he was surprised to notice that a second black Cadillac now stood next to it. Unlike G.W.’s standard-size Eldorado, the new visitor’s vehicle was a chauffer-driven “stretch” model, complete with a uniformed chauffeur lounging by the driver’s door.

  “Yes, ma’am, it most surely is,” he said. “And that’s a right nice Caddy you’ve got there yourself, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Well, if you’re from Texas,” she said suspiciously, sticking her face almost in his, “how do you explain the fact that you’re running a produce stand in Massachusetts?”

  “I’m just keeping an eye on it for some friends, ma’am,” G.W. said smoothly, with a broad and friendly smile. He had anticipated her question and was pleased with himself for not getting tripped up. “They had some business to attend to, so I’m helping them out for a spell.”

  But his cat-bird smile disappeared in a fraction of a second when he felt probing fingers lightly touching his fly, followed an instant later by the unmistakable sound of his zipper being quickly unzipped.

  God, that was loud, was G.W.’s first thought. The old bag must’ve heard it.

  The old bag looked at him askance with an expression of bewildered concern. “Are you quite all right?” she inquired. “Is something the matter? You’ve gone quite pale.”

  “Just a little dizzy, is all,” he said, smiling weakly. “I guess I just stood up too quick. But I’m okay. Really.” He could feel Corinne’s fingers fumbling in his pants. Although he was fairly certain that the activity was hidden from view by baskets of produce, he bent his knees slightly so that his belt buckle rested on the counter.

  “Are you quite certain that you’re alright?” the white-haired woman asked. “You’re not about to faint or anything like that, are you?”

  “No, ma’am.” But then he gasped as Corinne’s fingers closed around his penis, which was already stiffening to her touch. “I’m fine,” he croaked. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “Nonsense, my dear, you are ill,” she announced. “I don’t know why men think that there’s something wrong with letting someone know that they are in need of assistance. You must allow me to give you a hand.” She turned and took a determined step toward the end of the counter, her obvious intent being to circle around to G.W. and assist him in his hour of need.

  “Oh, no, you can’t do that!” G.W. said emphatically, as expert fingers withdrew his penis from his pants. “You can’t come back here! Customers aren’t allowed behind the counter.” She eyed him suspiciously. I must be acting mighty strange, he thought. “Company policy,” he added, weakly.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, but she hesitated.

  “No, it’s true.” Quite involuntarily, he closed his eyes for an instant as he felt the first teasings of Corinne’s tongue. “Believe me, ma’am, I could get in a lot of trouble if you were to come around here right now. And that’s God’s honest truth.”

  “Then you’re certain that you’re not ill?”

  Corinne’s lips encircled his glans, sending delicious shivers up and down his spine. “Never felt better,” he gasped.

  “Well.” She awarded him a thin smile. “If you say so,” she said, apparently unconvinced, still eyeing him carefully. “What do you recommend?”

  “Ma’am?” he responded, vacantly.

  “Fruits and vegetables, young man,” she snapped, suddenly exasperated. “I’m looking for something to eat. What do you recommend?”

  “It’s all good,” he said sincerely, as Corinne cupped his testicles in her hand and intensified her hidden ministrations. “It’s the best I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

  She frowned, annoyed by his lack of helpfulness. Reaching into the wicker basket nearest her, she pulled out a peach, held it up to her face, and examined it closely. “This is overripe,” she announced. “Its skin is so soft that I do believe that it would absolutely explode if I squeezed it.”

  “I’m sure that it would ma’am.”

  “And this is much too hard,” she continued, shaking a cucumber in his face.

  “I don’t see how it could be too hard, ma’am. Most women only get upset when they’re too soft.”

  “Ah, but this feels good,” she announced happily, holding aloft a prize plum and inspecting it carefully. “It’s alright if I sample it, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” G.W. said breathily, licking his lips. “Oh, yes.” He leaned heavily on the counter, supporting more of his weight with his arms as his bent knees weakened. Jesus, he thought, I’m gonna pop off any second now. Please, God, don’t let me scream.

  He followed the slow trajectory of the plum as the old woman raised it to her lips. His mouth hung open. His gaze slackened. And just as she bit into the ripe fruit, he exploded his own juices into Corinne’s welcoming mouth. Rocking slightly back and forth, he closed his eyes, his knuckles white, as he tried not to lose his hold on the edge of the counter. He moaned softly. With supreme effort, he managed to limit the sound to a low whisper.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he opened his eyes slowly. Oblivious to the momentous event that had transpired just a few yards in front of her, the white-haired woman was busily scraping the last remnants of fruit from the pit with her teeth.

  “Now that,” she announced happily, “was something that was ready to be eaten.” She smacked her lips gleefully.

  G.W. sighed and nodded slowly. “I couldn’t agree with you more,” he said.

  2.6.5: Pierce's Bridge

  A scant five minutes later, when Barbara Anne and her troupe returned from their outhouse adventure, G.W. was relaxing in the Cadillac. He had opened all four doors as wide as they would open. He had reclined his electric seat as far as it would recline. He had retrieved his cowboy hat from the trunk and had propped it over his eyes and much of the rest of his face.

  The children arrived at the produce stand perhaps a full minute before Barbara Anne appeared. “Race you to the fruit stand!” Jillian screamed at Sunshine when the structure first became visible at a distance of about fifty yards, and she took off as fast as her five-year-old legs would carry her. Sunshine gamely followed, but her short, stubby legs did not allow her to compete with a child more than twice her age. So Jillian – after touching the corner of the shed and shouting “I won!” – had plenty of time to catch her breath before Sunshine toddled up to her. “What took you so long?” Jillian demanded crossly, in her best scolding-grownup voice. “Do you think I have nothing better to do all day but to wait on you?”

&nb
sp; When Barbara Anne finally arrived at the produce stand, hot and sweaty, tired and cranky, she noticed G.W. resting in the car, and she frowned. How typical, she thought. I do all the work, and G.W. takes a nap. Then she saw Corinne puttering around behind the counter, busily absorbed with rearranging baskets of fruit, and her frown deepened. Something had changed; something was different. Something was wrong. What was it?

  Then she realized that Corinne’s shirt was buttoned nearly all the way up to the top, and she glowered. She had a vivid recollection of Corinne’s half-open shirt. Why had she buttoned it up? For some reason, Corinne had been changing the arrangement of her shirt buttons while she was alone with G.W. And while Barbara Anne was pleased that the rearrangement involved buttoning rather than unbuttoning, just the fact that the activity involved buttons at all was more than a little disquieting.

  2.6.6: Pierce's Bridge

  “Race you to the telephone pole!” Jillian shouted gleefully, just as Sunshine reached the side of the shed, and she immediately took off through the parking lot, heading for a wooden pole by the side of the road.

  This time, having measured the competition, she didn’t even bother to run very hard, and she easily outdistanced the smaller girl with only a half-trot.

  2.6.7: Pierce's Bridge

  “G.W.”, Barbara Anne snapped as she walked up to the car, “can we get the hell out of this shit-hole now?”

  Slowly, as if it were an enormous effort, G.W. lifted his hat straight up, until it was a few inches over his face. Squinting as the sunlight poured into his eyes, he regarded Barbara Anne with a bemused expression. “Why, honey,” he drawled, “it’s not like you at all to use language like that. What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” Barbara Anne snorted in disgust. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. I just drug two kids to the… the foulest excuse for a latrine that I’ve ever seen. I even had to hold that filthy little brat over the hole while she did her business so she wouldn’t fall in. Although I swear to God it was awful tempting just to throw her down in there with the rest of the crap. And the stench of that place – my God, G.W., it was repulsive. Revolting.” She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “So as much as I hate to disturb you, darling,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “I just want to get the hell out of here. Now.”