Now, in the water, Sergio tapped her foot back, moved closer and put his arm around her. She was struck, suddenly, with her great feeling for him.
Everyone was looking at her, waiting for the therapist’s response to this question of sex and love and messy things. “You know what I think humans want?” she offered. “They want someone else to see the hurt done to them by this world, and they want that someone to care. They also want someone to have their back when the hurt comes again. That’s what Sergio has been for me. And I love him for it.”
Sergio scratched the line of sweat trickling down by his ear, then examined his hand, rough from working with wood. There was a long scrape on his knuckles from pulling the bear from her den, his hand colliding with rock. He was trying to keep the hand out of the water; the wound was still new and needed more time to heal.
He put his arm around Anya, and pulled her toward him, and wondered when it would snow again, and how, exactly, he had ended up here with this mother, this woman who had wanted sex but not a relationship, this woman who had, for the last year, encouraged him to date and to find someone to build a life with, all that and now naked in a hot tub with another couple.
He felt obliged to step in and say something. “Occasionally,” he said, “Anya tells me what she tells her clients—or no, not what she tells her clients, but what she wishes she could tell her clients. What’s that favorite line of yours? ‘Close your eyes, breathe out, and embrace the puzzle of the human heart.’ I really like that line.” Celeste and Thayne were nodding their heads, but still silent, so he added, “I like how the air is so cold, the water so warm.” This he said to no one in particular, facing the sky. “I love the winter.” He meant, he supposed, that lately he’d been feeling his heart’s own tributaries and rivers, the odd but predictable flow.
The others had taken his comment about the cool air and turned it into a discussion about Colorado’s warming weather, which led to a discussion of kayaking, which led to a discussion of Kierkegaard. Typical. Humans had a hard time being brave enough to stay on fragile topics for long, himself included. That’s exactly why he liked working with wood and wildlife. From childhood, he’d been awkward with people, and Anya understood that in him, and, yes, she had cared about the hurt done to him and why he sought refuge in working alone. Of course he was confused. Perhaps beyond repair. He was a man looking for relationship, who wanted real love, but he also wanted to get through the nights, who had started a relationship with a lonely married woman, never guessing that her husband would die—not just die but kill himself—who now felt an obligation not to leave her, and yet somehow it felt more wrong than ever before, and now he was sitting naked in a hot tub.
He was sorry for the grief of the world, sorry for all this mess, but overall, somehow it still all made sense deep down, and he had to admit that at the moment he was content, which, as he had once heard, meant that he was full of content. You had to have enough content to be content.
And yet. Perhaps he was not. He’d whispered enough fantasies into Anya’s ear to have covered all the bases: images of threesomes or foursomes conjured up for arousal purposes. In fact, sex with multiple partners was, as Anya had clinically put it, his core erotic theme, his particular constellation of fantasies that would repeat themselves with only slight variations. And there was nothing wrong with that, she would add, kissing him full on the mouth. More than anything about her, he loved that he could talk to her about this, and that she could respond in a way that was kind.
He looked at the others, who were now talking about Joe, the horseshoer on the mountain, who’d been over to shoe Celeste’s horse. Apparently, he had a child living with him—temporarily or permanently, no one was sure, because Joe wasn’t much of a talker. But the child had joined him and sat at the edge of the barn chatting with Celeste while he shoed, asking questions about horses.
There was a gunshot, suddenly, or perhaps a car backfiring, from somewhere up the mountain, and it surprised them all into silence. He was feeling the pot full force now, the blinking odd spaces forming black holes in his head. He said, “Michelangelo once said, ‘One paints with the brain, not the hands.’”
That comment, which he knew was out of nowhere, made Celeste laugh deeply and fully, which surprised everyone even more. She was sitting across from him, and he leaned forward to better listen to her, or not to listen, but to encourage her to speak. Her breasts—smaller and pink—were just at the line of bubbling water. She was beautiful, this Celeste, with her long blond hair and deep blue eyes that reflected some certain form of sorrow. As he hoped, she began talking. She spoke about her job as a kindergarten teacher, not at the school where Thayne taught, but one down the mountain in town, meaning she had nearly an hour-long commute, and how she was in charge of children with alarmingly beautiful imaginations, which then floated into a story of how she’d first met Thayne, which floated into a story of how they’d come to buy this house on Blue Moon and put in this flagstone patio and hot tub, which floated into a story of an injury to her spine and the resultant pain and why she needed a hot tub in the first place. He noticed through the surface of the bubbly water that Celeste, like Anya, had shaved, or waxed, the edges of her pubic hair. His groin tickled. He looked at Anya, then back at Celeste, then back at Anya. The timing of this all was strange, but both were smiling, and both were beautiful.
Celeste took her husband’s foot in her hands, after he’d placed it in her lap, and rubbed the arch, which is what she knew he wanted. Silence had, at last, taken over, and all four sat with their heads tilted back, considering the stars.
She was depressed, no doubt about it, had been for some time. She was on an antidepressant, but still, what medicine could take her beyond So this is it, huh? Part of this melancholy was due, she knew, to her spine, how it ached, but it was also simply because her life felt surprisingly empty. Which is why, she supposed, Thayne had gotten her a horse, which was nice, but would never be enough.
All this had her thinking of her favorite philosopher, which she was too embarrassed to admit was the Little Prince. Call her childish, but it was that book that had, in her youth, caught her brain on fire. There were better ways to live than others, better ways to be more human—which primarily consisted of avoiding conventional and boring people, as well as living full force in the moment. When in junior high, and required to learn a language, she picked French for the sole reason that she could then read the book in its original. Perhaps that is why she had become a teacher, too: to capture young minds while these little humans still had imagination and heart.
But she herself was failing at the job. She imagined that the Little Prince himself was in those stars, begging her to be brave. So she pointed her finger up, as if pointing to his planet, and said, “What did the Little Prince say? ‘It is the time that you have lost for your rose that makes the rose so important.’”
“Oh, I remember that line,” Anya said, dreamily. “I used to think of that when Sy first got sick.”
They lapsed into silence. Celeste had picked that line on purpose; it also was her way of reminding Thayne that she was grateful for his attentions to her body and its needs, because it was in fact time lost. Time lost to pain and words about pain and doctors for pain and medicines for pain. A simple injury to her lower back and it was the reason she didn’t want children. Her job as a teacher was enough, was at the very cusp of her ability.
Celeste regarded Anya and Sergio. She liked that they were lovers. She liked that now they all had that particular secret. An image floated into her mind of the four of them curled like grapevines or perhaps playing like puppies, kissing breasts and running hands over hips. Sad people still liked sex, after all. Perhaps needed more loving than others, in fact; needed the small moments of release, of feeling good.
“I need something,” she said abruptly, tapping her chest, which caused everyone to look from the darkened sky to her. “What I mean to say is, we’re not swingers. But we’
ve thought about it. We’ve played around with one other couple, long ago, but we are without disease and we are without the desire to mess up any relationships, including yours or ours, or any friendships, including this one. However, we are with desire. Is that so awful?”
There was a reverberation of silence. She noticed that Anya was stabbing her feet into Sergio’s leg, and Sergio reached over to hold Anya’s hand. But it was Thayne’s reaction she was waiting for, and he reached over and touched her throat, which is where, she’d told him once, her sadness had taken up residence.
Where would this lead? Thayne bit his lip and ran his finger down his wife’s décolletage, a word he loved, on a body he loved, that housed a woman he loved. He had known Celeste to be brave on many occasions, but not this forward. He was delighted. Perhaps this would actually happen. How rare to bump into another couple who might be willing to experiment. He supposed he’d been hoping for something, back when he’d suggested this evening to Anya, long ago, but so many things had happened since, the timing was awkward, and really, it was going to take one of the women to get this thing going, and he was enormously grateful for Celeste’s direct words.
“I need to use the restroom,” said Sergio suddenly, slipping out over the tub, wrapping a towel around his waist. As he stepped over the edge, Thayne saw a long scar running down the length of his leg. It reminded him of something Anya had said earlier, how she and Sergio had met because of their love of wood, and beauty, and because he had brought her a breadboard he’d made while building her some shelves, because he knew she loved baking, but that, once they knew each other better, they were attracted by one sad commonality: their exceedingly lonely childhoods, their exceedingly lonely current state, and their not-quite-accomplished recovery from the consequent pain.
Come to think of it, Thayne thought, this foursome seemed like a group of survivors in their own right. Wasn’t everyone? Perhaps they weren’t homeless or hospitalized, but they were accomplished in weathering life’s difficulty as any. Three of them had fathers dead, one a sibling, one a mother who’d had a stroke. Anya, of course, had just lost her husband, although it was also true that she’d lost him long ago in some sense, and had perhaps suspected this would happen for a long time, which is why her grief was calm and regulated. He and Celeste had lost their only child at birth—a heart defect—which is when he decided to become a teacher, moving into this new career by instinct and survival mechanisms only. She’d never wanted to try again, which, frankly, was a bit of a relief. Life was hard enough. Their bodies were painted through and through with physical and emotional and psychological pain, and now all that was blurred together in this bubbling hot tub: depression, anxiety, sorrow, boredom, fear, and the random pangs in the heart that signaled that this was not enough; that there was more to be grasped, and loved, before this short life was over. And now, unbelievably, here they were, curious and hopeful for—what?—for a little simple and messy joy. It seemed, almost, like a bit of a miracle.
Sergio returned, unwrapped his towel, and slipped in next to Anya. Anya reached out for his hand, but looked at Thayne. Thayne withdrew his foot from Celeste and looked up at the stars. There were constellations everywhere, ones of his own making, ones that told stories only he believed in. He wondered how many of this foursome housed secrets, and what those secrets contained.
“I don’t have, well, any experience with this sort of thing,” said Anya, after clearing her throat. “I don’t think Sergio does either, but I do know we are both disease-free.” She glanced at Sergio. “We are healthy,” she repeated. Then she laughed and said, “Really, this is so strange. It’s hard to be this brave.”
Thayne held her gaze but also perceived that she was squeezing Sergio’s hand, the motion visible under the foam and bubbles. Then he felt that Celeste was smiling, in her sad way, and she moved forward, against the water, toward Sergio. He set down his plastic wineglass on the side of the tub while keeping his eyes on Anya, who was moving toward him. A lock of her blond hair made a perfect loose spiral down to her shoulder.
They were all thinking of Sy, he knew. Offering him a tribute, thanking him for granting them the insanity of what they were about to do. He wished they all had more time underneath this darkening sky. He wished the heartache of death and the limits of life didn’t gnaw so tightly in his chest at times. He wished he knew how to keep love deep and passion wild.
Anya suddenly glided through the water to his side of the hot tub, placed herself on his lap, facing him, her knees on the seat. For the first time in his life, a naked woman was sitting on his lap in a hot tub with others around. She nudged close enough that his cock touched her body. She looked at him, expectantly. Tilted her head. Touched his jaw with her finger. She smelled of wine and her eyes were quite clear and honest and alive. She was waiting. What happened next was up to him.
He moved his head slowly forward, found her lips, and touched them softly. It was all he could think of to do.
Chapter Fifteen
Plan B
The blond was leaning over the counter at the pharmacy for privacy but I heard her anyway: “If I understand this correctly, I don’t need a prescription for the Plan B thing, right?”
The pharmacy guy’s eyes flickered, but he did a good job of hiding whatever judgment. “No, you don’t,” he said, “but it’s expensive.”
“Not as expensive as having a baby,” she murmured.
I was standing behind her, next up in line, but when she left, I left, so that I could follow her. That’s a creeper thing to do, but sometimes your regular boring Plan A, such as picking up your mom’s prescription, doesn’t seem like the best way to spend your time. I wanted to see what the future me would look like.
I followed her out to the parking lot. She got in her car, which happened to be parked near my junker Chevy, so I went ahead and got in mine to avoid the spitting snow and pretended to be busy with my phone. I watched her unwrap the package and take the pink pill (I couldn’t really see that far, but I’ve taken Plan B and I know the pills are pink) and while she did that, I patted my bloated belly, pushed my thumb into the roar there. Shark week. Because a uterus looks just like the brain of a shark, and because it feels like Jaws is being re-filmed in my stomach.
Then she looked at herself in the mirror (I think she’s pretty, blond and perky, the way kindergarten teachers are, and I like her name, Celeste). She put on lipstick, got back out, and walked back into the store. She had the light brown plastic bag in her hand, and she threw that package in the trash can that sits outside. All evidence gone.
I wandered around the store, tailing her in a pattern that mirrored her own, and watched her pick up a few items—a pineapple, a gallon of milk. All the Thanksgiving stuff was on clearance in the back bin, and I noticed that she paused in front of it, and I’m guessing it wasn’t because she wanted to get a good deal on pumpkin-colored placemats. It was because if there’s any holiday that represents family, this is the one, and she just got rid of whatever might someday have created that. Also, I bet we were both thinking of Sy. How no one celebrated that holiday on the mountain at all because of him; I doubt a single person even cooked a turkey. My parents opted to take us all out to Moon’s instead, where we ordered grilled cheeses and chili. His death was like a really loud noise that keeps reverberating around the whole mountain.
I should have gone home to study. Mom would be preparing dinner and Dad would be breaking the frozen water on the water tank, and my mom will want her prescription (which I picked up when the woman was checking out with her pineapple and doughnuts and milk. I also bought some red hair dye, which is the other reason I came down the mountain to the big store).
I don’t think I intended to follow her home, but we got to our cars at the same time, and like, why not? She glanced in my direction, but I looked the way a bitchy teenager is supposed to look, and so she loaded up her one bag of groceries and drove off. It’s a long drive up the mountain, so I got to fo
llow her headlights. Now it was dark, and I appreciated that she was going first and leading the way. She lived in a new log home near Moon’s Restaurant, not too far off the road. I didn’t pull in the drive, though. But I did pull over and squint through the trees and I thought I could see her walking through the door, with her pineapple, for which her husband would probably be glad because it was going to taste sweet-spicy on such a cold winter day.
After dinner, I help with dishes and then I sit at the dining room table and stare at Mrs. Dalloway. Here’s what I’m guessing: Tonight the woman will feel a little crampy, because that’s what Plan B does to you. So she’ll take a bath too. While she’s in the bath, she’ll be pissed off with herself for sleeping with the guy she just slept with, and she’ll be worried that he had an STD, although he insisted that he didn’t, but she exposed herself and now has to spend moments of the rest of her life worrying. She’ll check for symptoms from time to time, but she’ll also know that sometimes there aren’t any. Then she’ll also think of how nice it was to be fucked and touched in a new way; he was really a nice man and in fact very good in bed. She hadn’t felt that way in years, or maybe ever, because every lover is different.
My period started later than most girls. Fifteen. Started having sex the next year. Thought: Fuck, if my body is going to do this to me, then I’m going to counteract with some pleasure. Someday I’m going to be in a bathtub, also having just taken Plan B, which maybe by that time will be available over the counter, no whispering required, and I’ll be thinking these same thoughts.
A bath is the only way to get truly warm in the winter, plus I like looking at myself, I like coming in the bathtub. The hollowness of my stomach, my hipbones, my clit, which, if I flick it with my fingers, hard, pinch my nipples, hard, close my eyes and picture a man spanking my ass, hard, I can make myself come, there in the warm water, in forty-five seconds flat.
The Blue Hour Page 16