He was on me, from behind, finding his way into me. I gasped. He went deeper.
“Are you okay,” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. Yes.
He kissed the nape of my neck and went deeper still, until I was sure we couldn’t be any closer. Though I’d welcome it. We rode the skies above the oceans and forests together. “I can feel you all around me, Aphrodite. You’re perfect. Perfect. Perfect.”
And with that he unleashed his stream into me, the cool then warm fluid reaching my deepest pool, triggering my flood of cries and orgasms and tears. Blissful tears.
He knelt between me and lay delicately on my back, still inside me. “Perfection,” he whispered.
“Yes.” I pulled him closer.
***
When we lay against the pillows I was still traveling through the spring Minnesota forests and over and beneath its wetlands. “A magic kingdom,” I heard myself telling Roberto. “Colors everywhere.”
He stroked my hair, all the way to my shoulders and back up. “Iridescent,” he said.
I cuddled to his chest. His sweat smelled of soap. Disappointing. I’d rather have had the smell of dark loam and edaphon, or the clarity of a muddy mossy lake. But no matter.
“In here,” Roberto called out, a deep godly voice because my ear was still to his chest. Others entered the room. How long had we been lying there? The others disrobed and discovered each other. It was luxurious to watch.
When Roberto let go of me someone else took his place. An older man, I think. He knelt above me. He had wolf gray eyes. They were afraid.
“Shush, shush,” I said to the man. His eyes widened; his face loosened. Like me, he simply wanted safety.
“I’ve never done this before,” he said. “The drugs, I mean. So it’s not you. You have the most beautiful body I have ever seen. Are you the woman they promised? Your hair is magic. Your lips . . .”
“Jonah.” An elegant gray-haired black woman squatted to our level. “Stop talking. You don’t need to talk. Just be.” She kissed the top of his head and raised her round naked body up. Her ample hips dissolved into the rolling silhouettes. She must be the queen.
“Are you the king?” I asked.
“Yes.”
In that instant I could read his mind. We could serve each other. We could both be in the cocoon. “Then you may taste me.” I spread my legs. And he went down on me while I slowly stroked his hair.
***
I was pacing the top step of Elizabeth’s brownstone when Roddy arrived, his gait steady, his ascent up the steps molten. So natural. He placed his arm on my waist and escorted me inside, but not before I noticed two neighbor-women fixing us with disapproving stares. I could be done with this and back in my protective shell in little more than an hour.
Once inside he offered me water, which I accepted. We sat facing each other. The midday light over his shoulder blinded me. He noticed, got up and closed the window shade.
I removed my shadowed glasses and hung my head. “At the lab, I thought Carol Warring knew.”
“Knew what?”
“About Elizabeth’s rehab.”
“Oh shit.” He rubbed his forehead.
“What have I done?”
He reached for me. Took my hand. His mouth, even then kind, prompted a not-unpleasant intoxication, perhaps re-stimulating a recent drug. I pushed his hand aside. After a drink of water, I slid a coaster under it and set it down on the well-worn coffee table.
“It was bound to come out. You couldn’t have known.”
“I was trying to save myself. I should never have assumed. I’m the most selfish—!”
“Stop. You couldn’t have known. Will Warring reconsider your job?”
“Not sure. Besides, I don’t even know if I want the damn job anymore. I need it, but I’m so confused. What’re we going to do about Eliz?”
“They can’t fire Elizabeth for going to rehab.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Of course I do. I’m an employment attorney.”
“They can’t fire her?”
“They can fire her for screwing up lab results if she was drunk. They can’t fire her for going to rehab.”
I straightened up. “I never saw her drunk at work. She’s pretty happy there.”
“That’s useful but of course it’s only one point of view. How about the other woman, the East Indian girl? What’s her name?”
“Ruchika.”
“I’ll talk to her. I can’t imagine Eliz going to work drunk or even drinking on the job. So stop worrying.”
“I’m just not meant for . . . anyplace.”
“Where are you from?”
I studied him, wondering why he cared. “Bemidji, Minnesota. Actually, just north of there, between Puposky and Nebish. I’m sure you’re familiar with the area.” I tried to grin.
“I’m not.”
“Because they don’t exist anymore. They’re legend now, nothing more. That’s where I’m from: nowhere.”
“And your family?”
“What good is this?” Like Momma was poking at me. I wanted to get back to my safe, dark ship, to Nan and Levi, where I’d be held and stroked and appreciated. He must’ve heard my exasperation.
“Your mother? Your father?”
“My mother is a bitter, superstitious woman who believes in myths and spooky goblins and spirits. I never knew my real father, and my step-father is dead.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“One wants to be a star. The other thinks she is. Maybe she is.”
“You sound bitter.”
“They don’t relate to me.” I ran my hand along my face. “Who can blame them?”
He took a big breath, exhaled. “My mother was black, a sweet woman with a speech impediment from a family of six. She was the oldest and the one who was worked the hardest. She met my father, a dance instructor, Portuguese and Jewish, during the civil rights movement in Alabama. They traveled to Memphis together where they were both involved in advance logistics for Martin Luther King. They got married. They were in dreamland, I’m told —a few days, maybe a week. Shortly after that Martin Luther King was assassinated, and shortly after that it came out that my father had had a passing acquaintance with James Earl Ray. Do you know who that is?”
“The guy who shot King.”
“The guy who allegedly shot King. He was a thief, a pornographer and a racist. My father was beaten to death by my mother’s own brother. My mother’s been in a mental facility ever since. She will die there, probably very soon. Even King’s family is pretty sure James Earl Ray wasn’t the assassin.”
I didn’t know what to say. Like I’d been carved out.
“Saudade,” he said. “It’s a Portuguese word. Hard to translate. Life’s lingering melancholy.”
“It’s always there, isn’t it?”
A small nod in agreement. “For everyone. Even for Ray. His father was always on the run, a forger, a criminal, dragging the family around, and Ray’s younger sister caught fire and died playing with matches. Tragedy is everywhere, all the time. But you don’t strike me as someone who will give in.”
I managed another sip of water. “I never intended to.”
“Good, then don’t.” He paused. “And if your family doesn’t fit, find family that does.”
“What about you and Elizabeth? Aren’t you giving in?” I put down the glass of water making sure it was centered on the coaster.
“There are many ways to map the arc of a relationship. One of ours was by the way we spoke to each other. At first I called her Eliz. Then Lizzy. Then Lizzy Plum Garden. Then Plumby. Then asshole.”
I laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No, it is funny. Sad but funny.” He frowned then shook it off. “I like seeing you smile.”
I took a deep breath. I had no good place to rest my gaze.
“But when contempt takes over,” he said smoothing over the awkward air, “it’s time to shake hands and go your
separate ways. You can do a lot worse. You, you were married. What did you call your husband?”
“Harold.”
“And then?”
“Dead.”
“Right.” Regret tinged his voice and for a moment his eyes were apologetic. “Do you mind?” He reached for my glass of water.
I didn’t share water glasses, not even with Harold. “Sure.”
He took a swig. “Will you have dinner with me?”
“No.”
The water glass stopped, suspended halfway to the table. Trace disappointment in his eyes. “Why not?”
My stomach tightened. It seemed to do that a lot with him. But now more than ever I’d impinged on Elizabeth. The right thing to do was to leave them alone, to accept my new lifestyle. It hurt all out of proportion.
“Just not interested.” I slipped my shades back on. “Let me know what I can do to repair the mess I’ve made for Eliz.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
I’d struggled through the darting and lumbering, smoking and coughing bodies of the city’s afternoon sidewalks, purchased a faux twill briefcase from a Rastafarian street vendor, and navigated the subways. I was thankful to be home. Nan and Levi’s home.
Settling in with a glass of red wine and opening my laptop, I studied the speakers attending the Genetics & Genomics Conference at the Academy of Sciences, an impressive list; all potential research mentors, then turned to the newest Life & Style Weekly an arm’s length away. It tempted me with headlines about Jennifer Anniston’s new beau and the final trials for the state Miss USA competitions that would soon begin. I tossed the spectra of personal questions out of my mind and gave in.
I was surprised but happy to have company when, hours later, the apartment door finally opened. Levi, beat up, stepped inside, his peanut head furrowed.
“Hi.” Relieved, I went to help him with his luggage and overcoat.
He brightened. “Hi to you. Nan home?”
“Not yet.”
He surprised me again by taking me in his arms. He smelled metallic, flat, like stale in-flight air. “D’ya miss me?”
“Uh, sure. Yes.” I was still pleased and confused by his approval.
He cocked a worn comprehending grin and put space between us. “Too busy, I’m sure, to think of your main man.” Without energy, he stretched out his thick manicured fingers and tussled my hair. “I’m not gonna let you forget me. I’m home now, at least for a couple of days.”
He glimpsed the wine bottle and glass sitting on the side table next to the couch. “Would you consider new glasses and the bottle of Don Julio for us? Maybe a couple ice cubes, hey Euni? I’ll be out of the shower in no time.” He disappeared down the hallway.
Euni? No one had ever called me that. I guess, it sounded endearing. And it was an opportunity for just the two of us to get to know one another. Perhaps time to ask for his support.
When he returned, Levi and I relaxed on the couch, the bottle of Don Julio on the table in front of us. Levi, in his midnight blue satin robe and an inharmonious pair of black sweats, had his arm ready to descend upon my shoulders. That part of the evening was beginning to feel habitual, no longer an exploration but a ritual. I wanted to tell him about the conference, but for the time being it would be my secret.
“You and Nan have been wonderful to me. Thank you again. I can see why you two are so compatible.”
“You can?”
“She’s beautiful —beyond beautiful— and you’re obviously a well-traveled, well-informed man.”
He thought about it. “Yes, it works, definitely. We have our agreements, and we abide by them.” He ran his thumb around the lip of his glass.
“Agreements?”
“Every couple has them, don’t you think?”
“I’m not one to ask. I don’t have a lot of experience in those things.”
He fell silent and seemed to lose his way; it made me awkward. “Do you know anything about Charles Dickens?”
His neck tilted back, examining me. “The writer?”
“You seem . . . well read.”
“Well, thank you.” He smiled, but the shower hadn’t cleansed his fatigue. “I’m not so sure of that.”
“So?”
“Dickens. The Old Curiosity Shop; I’m sure I read it, long ago.” Again he fingered his glass. “Probably others. Wasn’t he bi-polar or depressed or something? Brilliant but not happy. Why the interest in Dickens? Would you like some of his books? I can make that happen.” He had the air of a different man, less self-assured, more likeable.
“No, I have plenty of those, thanks.”
“Then what?” He took a good belt and savored it returning the glass to the table. “He have something to do with beauty?”
“No.” I didn’t really know what I was searching for in those books. How was I going to explain to Levi?
When I remained mute he continued. “Tell me something about yourself. How have you studied beauty?” He seemed genuinely interested. “Objects d’art?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well,” he said getting up and walking over to the earthenware mermaid figurine and returning with it to the sofa. “What do you think of some of our art? You’ve probably noticed it around the apartment.” He placed the figurine in front of me. “You can pick it up, just be careful.”
I hesitated.
“Please, go ahead.”
As soon as I did my fingertips prickled with its tactility.
He smiled. “Almost vibrissa-like, isn’t it?” He pointed at the mermaid. “The bottom part is actual fish scales, very old and perfectly preserved.”
“How old?”
“Very old.” He took the figurine from me and placed it back on the shelf.
“A type of taxidermy,” I said.
“Yes. Why, do you know anything about it?”
So I explained about my years at Carver’s and how it was my first hands-on experience with beauty.
“And why didn’t you continue with that? It sounds like you had enough skill and experience to open your own shop.”
“Not my passion.” As soon as it was out I wanted to retract it. It sounded so woo-woo and new age.
“Well,” he said, “you’re certainly a passionate person and you should be able to express that, whatever that is for you.”
“You play the violin.”
His eyes registered surprise.
“I saw it in your closet.”
“Haven’t played it much lately.”
“Are you passionate about that? Would you play for me?”
“Sure, if you want.”
“Now?”
“Yes, sure.” Something brightened in him because he was up and back quickly, violin case in hand. “It’s a good idea.” He reached into his pocket. Here.” He handed me a small rufous brown feather barred with streaks of grey.
“What’s this?”
“Keep it. It’s a wren’s feather. Clever is better than strength. Think of it as a good luck charm.”
I studied it, nonplussed.
“Go on.” He laid his violin case on the couch.
A gift is a gift. I slipped it into my skirt pocket. He clicked open the case and tightened the strings until he smiled rather sweetly at me. “Turkey in the Straw?” His grin widened.
“What?”
“I’m joking.” His fingers paused above the strings. He pulled the tawny instrument to his chin and chest, and then his fingers dropped and the bow began to sweep. Classical or gypsy, I don’t know these things, but it was slow and weeping from the very first note, emptying unimaginable sorrow into the room. I could barely breathe, the grief was physical, tides rolling in, pulling away.
His half-closed eyes were on me the whole time so I shut mine. I couldn’t handle the undertow. Me. He took me to sea. At moments he was vast and barely audible, but he held me afloat delicately, a last rite, as if I was adrift with no chance of return. All hope lost. Nothing to struggle against. My beautiful water had come to t
ake me. Forever.
He slid his arm behind me and stroked down my side. I wasn’t even aware that the music had stopped, that he had put down the bow and violin.
I could hardly speak. “That was beautiful.” His hand moved to my breast on the way to loosening my blouse. I opened my eyes. He was beautiful. His other hand traveled inside my skirt to the cleft above my ass.
“Levi, I’m not sure what’s —”
His mouth moved to my neck. The front door snapped open. Nan. Carrying a small plastic bag.
She fixed me with a smoldering stare. “Couldn’t wait, Leviathan?” She turned to him.
He made no attempt to remove his hand. In fact he held me more firmly. I didn’t resist. I couldn’t and I didn’t want to.
“Come join us, baby.” He tapped the space next to him with his free hand. “C’mon, all’s fair.”
Nan didn’t budge, and I was lost at sea.
“What’s in the bag?” he asked.
“Present for Eunis. Now that you’ve come home you can join us.”
***
Nan changed out of her hospital blues and herded us into the Cinema room where she’d moved the massage table to the side, made a large pile of pillows for the three of us to rest against, and flipping a switch, lowered a large movie screen down the wall.
“Ah,” said Levi not wanting to look at me, nor I at him, “I love movies.” Bottle in hand, eyes mushy.
“Eunis,” Nan said. “I thought you’d find this interesting, seeing how you’re studying beauty. That whole thing about sexy faces being equal.”
“Beautiful and symmetrical,” I corrected her. “And that’s not all. Space between features counts too. A ‘Golden Ratio,’ what the Greeks called the ‘divine proportion.’”
“Whatever.” She opened a small cabinet in the wall, placed a DVD into the player, and lowered the lights.
“No, seriously, there are studies—”
Nan hovered over the Play button. “How bout me? How do I rate?”
“You? Beautiful. I’ve told you that.”
Levi drummed his fingers, rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
“Okay, but no one would put me in their class, your scrapbook team.”
“Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean you’re not. You’re exotic. You’ve got spectacular genes.”
Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) Page 22