Unforgivable Love

by Sophfronia Scott

  “I think your mother is coming. No more crying, all right?”

  Cecily nodded. She clasped her hands in front of her and the muscles of her face relaxed. Mae was impressed. In the next moment Gladys entered the room without knocking.

  “How are you now, Cecily, honey?” The effort of climbing the stairs had left a sheen of sweat on Gladys’s upper lip. She dabbed at it with a blue polka-dot handkerchief.

  “I’m feeling much better, Mama.” Cecily even managed a faint smile. “Cousin Mae has put my mind at ease.”

  “Thank the Lord, I knew she would!” Gladys put a thick arm around her daughter and drew her into her ample bosom. “But you should rest now, baby. You look so tired.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “I think you should listen to your mother.” Mae reached out and touched one finger to the girl’s shoulder. “For now.”

  Cecily responded to Mae with a slow, deep nod. “Thank you, I’ll do that. I’ll see you later, Mama.” She walked over to her door and held it open for them to leave. The confused look on Gladys’s face as she obeyed her daughter’s dismissal delighted Mae, and her jubilance radiated in the smile she shone on Cecily when she left the room.

  CHAPTER 32

  Cecily

  Mercylands, Mid-July 1947

  After she closed the door Cecily returned to the open windows and gulped the fresh air with an eagerness that made her want to eat the sweet grass that scented it. The smell reminded her of Anselm, and the thought of Anselm prompted her to return to what she learned of her body there, that her body had rhythm and reason and was not as strange to her as it once was.

  When she had left her aunt’s house, Cecily felt she was beginning to understand, even trust, her body. The sensations blossoming within her could only be natural and good. But in Harlem Mama put high heels on Cecily’s feet so she could no longer feel the ground beneath her; paraded her in front of Frank Washington who, along with Mama, seemed to tell Cecily that she had to think and be a certain way that had nothing to do with what she was learning about her body. Cecily took on what Mae had said because this thinking seemed to be her instructions, the words she had been waiting for to tell her how to be in the world. She loved Sam because he saw Cecily for herself, and she’d hoped all she had to do was find a way to replace Frank Washington with Sam in this picture of life Mama wanted her to create. That she could even still be acceptable and loved and learn to walk in those shoes.

  But this thinking, of what was acceptable and what a proper girl should and shouldn’t do, failed her on the night with Val Jackson. Her body hadn’t reacted in the ways her mind told her it was supposed to, bewildering Cecily to the point of scaring her witless. The split shocked her because the one part of her had no hope of supporting the other. Her body wouldn’t fight the way her mind insisted it should; her mind couldn’t cope with the sensations her body was feeling. Where was her anger? Where was her indignation or fear? Only one thing stayed with her with frightening clarity, devastating her so much she barely admitted it to herself. It was what drove her from the dining room at breakfast when she had the faintest sense of it coming again—deep pleasure. She couldn’t think about it because it made thinking about Sam torture.

  She had paced her room for hours trying frantically to sort out what it all meant. Did she really love Sam in the way she thought? And if she didn’t, what did that say about her? Did it make her a whore, a dirty, uncaring thing?

  What terrified her more was that her body seemed to desire Val Jackson beyond reason. What if she couldn’t stop herself from feeling this way? Would she be bound to this man forever?

  But then Mae—and Cecily was grateful she was so wise—recognized the pleasure right away and pushed aside the veil of shame so Cecily could see the truth of it. It was such a comfort to her that her cousin understood everything. And to know what she had felt was desired by—and even withheld from—other women gave Cecily a kind of satisfaction. Mae seemed to be telling her she could be confident in this feeling, and this feeling allowed her to see there was only one place to be—in her body. She could trust her body more than she thought, could listen to it, and believe it ahead of anyone else, even ahead of Mama. If Cecily could figure out how to stand strong in her body she wouldn’t have to worry about Mama taking her away and controlling what happened in her life. But in order for her to possess herself in this way, Cecily knew she had to allow herself to think about what had passed between her and Val Jackson.

  She took in another breath of air, then closed the windows and the drapes. She got into bed, under the soft sheets, and lay on her back. The dark would help her concentrate. In the bed she felt safe, safe enough to listen.

  In all the time she daydreamed about Sam, it never occurred to her what they might do together beyond kiss or hold hands. She knew there could be more, sensed it by the way Mama went out of her mind whenever Cecily seemed close to understanding the mystery. But why had she never gone far enough to even guess what they might do when they were alone and free to do whatever they wanted? She conjured his face above her in the dark, imagined him on top of her where Val Jackson had been. Her hand reached up to caress the empty space and she smiled. She felt the soft flesh between her legs awaken, and her fingers quickly found it. She used to lie like this in Anselm. She had touched herself down there and felt herself becoming another being, but she never thought of Sam doing the touching, that he might guide her on that journey wherever it might lead. Then the face above her changed and suddenly, once again, Val Jackson loomed over her.

  Cecily gasped, turned onto her left side, and pressed her thighs together. Val Jackson had touched her down there—and with his mouth! Their soft spots of flesh, hers and his, seemed akin to one another, both moist and warm, both sensitive and strong. It was inevitable that one flesh should be upon the other with the same life-giving energy. And it made sense to Cecily when she thought of it at last that whatever touches you down there must be alive in the same way.

  She remembered Mr. Travis and how he had pushed himself into the dirt. What could be more alive than the earth itself? Maybe that’s why her struggle had been half of what it could have been. As her arms tried to push him away, they were weakened by what was going on below. The sensation grew stronger, overtook her, and when she couldn’t breathe she gave in to it, the wonder of it, because she seemed to be growing, blossoming. When she reached the pinnacle of this exquisite ache she felt herself burst open like a bag of sugar and the sweetness flowing away from her as though blown by a soft wind. Her tears fell freely then because Cecily thought something had been broken and didn’t see how the sweetness could ever be retrieved again.

  She had grieved the loss of the sensation even as Val Jackson moved over her, kissing her tears, kissing her breasts. She lay in full surrender then because she didn’t see the point of fighting anymore. There was nothing left of her, nothing but emptiness and ashes. Val Jackson may as well ride over the spoils of her landscape, laugh at her, proclaim his victory. Sometimes the word “no” had squeaked from her throat, but there had been nothing behind it. Her hands grasped the back of his neck, her nose filled with the smell of him—sweat and salt but something else she couldn’t place. The scent was dark and deeply sweet—familiar like molasses or even some aspect of her own skin. Something about the smell comforted her even as she thought to herself, This must be over soon. It will be over soon.

  Then he entered her.

  It felt like a searing beam of light parting her, separating her from herself, seeking deeper as though insisting she give up something, only she didn’t know what. Cecily instinctively spread her legs wider because if she didn’t give it more space it would surely burn her up from within. But she couldn’t do it, couldn’t open up far enough, and yet it didn’t matter because the light had already gone surging down into her, down so far that now it only wanted to come up and out of her, from the top of her, as a crystalline, soundless scream.

  She was alive again and w
hole. Her body responded, partaking of him with unabashed, unmitigated greed. Cecily wrapped her legs around his back and held on. Only then did it seem she gained some sort of power over Val Jackson because she felt him change. The fluidity of him that made him melt into her thighs disappeared and his body tensed, like something about to set off. She held on tighter because she didn’t want him to leave her in the strange new place. He chased the light, rode it down to its dimming, until everything went out and they were only themselves again.

  Afterward he lay there on the bed smoking a cigarette as though waiting for her to say something. Cecily couldn’t move but didn’t know if her frozen state was out of fear or because she had forgotten how to move. He finally got up, put on a robe, and gently pulled Cecily’s nightgown down over her. Then he lifted her up in his arms and, without a noise, carried her back to her room and placed her on the bed where she lay now.

  He whispered to her before he left, “You can come back if you want.”

  She found herself nodding—nodding! What was she agreeing to do? What would he expect of her? Perhaps she felt disarmed by the way he had carried her, so friendly and gentle. She didn’t know how to be unkind to him. That last self-betrayal and failure gnawed at her the rest of the night. If she tried to sleep both the burning between her legs and the unease of her mind would shake her awake again. By morning she was a ghost of herself, making her way through the house as though walking on ice.

  Last night had felt like the end of the world, but after Mae’s visit and now that she could think clearly, Cecily saw openings, a new world to explore. Nothing would be hidden from her anymore. As she thought about this Cecily’s hand flew out in shock as she realized she didn’t know what Val Jackson looked like down there. She wanted to know what had penetrated her, and she found herself grasping the air, reaching for him as though she could discover it now. This also made her fully aware of her ignorance, how silly she must have seemed to Mae. That was when she knew for certain she wanted Val Jackson again. Now she had questions. She wanted to know his body and how exactly it had fit into hers. Cecily figured the more she knew, the better chance she had of having a pleasurable experience with Sam when their chance to be together finally came. The fact that she could think of Sam once more without guilt made Cecily relax and soon she grew sleepy. She would give in to it. A nap now would be helpful because she knew that night she would return to Val Jackson.

  CHAPTER 33

  Mae

  Mercylands, Mid-July 1947

  Val’s baseball game had already ended by the time Mae made her way down the stone steps of the terrace and onto the lawn. As much as she liked turning heads she enjoyed such moments when she could slip into a scene unnoticed. Any greeting or attention would go to Gladys, a few steps behind Mae, who would make her way to the table of icy pitchers containing sweet iced tea and gin and tonics. Gladys would accept the more potent concoction, deem it necessary for her worried nerves, and explain that Cecily, feeling much better, was now taking a nap. Rose Jarreau, sitting in her throne-like chair, would receive this news with pleasure.

  Mae sauntered across the grass and folded herself into the gathering. She shielded her eyes with her hand, looked over the property, and pretended to enjoy the view. She didn’t have to work too hard at the pretending—Val and his friends in tight T-shirts, their sweaty arms shining in the sun, made for a delicious spectacle as they jogged about retrieving equipment and joking with each other. At times they stopped and held still for a photographer Val had hired. Mae continued her slow walk knowing that Val would soon approach her. She wanted to make sure they were out of earshot when he did.

  When Val saw Mae he tossed his glove to the ground and bounded toward her. He looked, she thought, like an actor leaving the stage, and this pleased her. He always removed the mask for her. It was her sign that they were on the same side, playing the same game. She adored his eagerness for it—relished his abandon and strength.

  Mae clasped her hands behind her and smiled. She could tell Val appreciated the light blue cotton of her skirt and the way the warm breeze pulled it back around her thighs. “May I congratulate my star player on another fine victory?” she said. “How was your revenge?”

  “Thank you, thank you.” He gave her a small, playful bow. “I was at my finest if I do say so myself.”

  “Yes, well, I think you may find your pupil a little more willing next time.”

  “Oh, her fight was all for show.”

  Mae shrugged. “She was confused. The usual. But I’ve straightened her out for you.”

  They continued back toward the others as Mae scanned the lawn again. “So where is your latest project?”

  Val scanned the grounds. “I don’t know. She was just out here. But the game is on, don’t worry about that. She’s definitely in play.”

  “Yes, but it looks like we’re heading into the ninth and you are not even on the field.”

  “For this part I almost don’t need to be. She’s the one calling the shots and she doesn’t even know it.” Val laughed and shook his head. “No, Mae, she’s turned me into her god now. Everything she prays for—mercy, release, peace—she asks me for all that now. It’s really a sight to see, watching her struggle like that, knowing it’s all for my sake. She’s trying to figure out how far she can go without a soul and whether it’s a place where she can have me.”

  Mae smiled. “You spend so much time watching, Val, I wonder why you don’t just go to the movies.”

  “And miss my role in the action? No way. Besides, our time will come soon enough, very soon. In the meantime I have our young friend to amuse me.”

  She crossed her arms and frowned. “Well, you better hurry. I’m bored and I’m not waiting around for extra innings.”

  He shrugged. “It’s too bad our bet wasn’t based on your assignment.”

  “Oh, please, Val! You said yourself it was too easy! You don’t score points just for stepping out of the dugout.”

  Val nodded. “I think even you will appreciate this victory when I have her. She doesn’t see how silly it is, what she’s doing. But this is the battle I told you about, her struggle between love and virtue. She’s trying to hold on. She needs to believe in something and, hey, I’ll give her that because I wouldn’t give a flying shit about her if she didn’t.” He pulled a pack of Pall Malls from his pants pocket along with a lighter.

  “But where is she?” Mae laughed. “Is she hiding?”

  “She doesn’t need to hide from me. She knows that.” Val’s face darkened, which delighted Mae. He so hated losing bets. He stared hard at the small knot of people gathered around the beverage table near his aunt. Mae looked that way too, making the same assumption: Elizabeth Townsend would be standing there drinking iced tea with Gladys and lending all her sympathy to Mae’s chatty cousin. Neither Val nor Mae expected to hear Elizabeth’s voice coming from behind them.

  “Hey!” And then a laugh, light and crisp like a lettuce leaf.

  Val turned first, and Mae followed his gaze and saw the woman who must be Elizabeth Townsend on the ball field approaching home plate. She wore blue dungarees, and a scarf printed with yellow roses held back her brown curls. She held a bat loosely at her side with one hand while she waved Val over to her.

  “I’ve been practicing! You’ll see!”

  Val, without another glance at Mae, shoved the cigarettes and lighter back in his pocket and jogged over to the woman. He smiled at her and chucked her under the chin. This slight touch brought a flush of pink to her cheeks. She raised the bat and tried to stand taller. Mae stood frozen and dumbstruck. What had done it? But she saw it all too well. It was the ease of Elizabeth’s movement, the flow of her arm floating out to Val to invite him to her, and then how readily Val went and fell into a synchronicity with her, like a river coming together at a confluence, leaving Mae bereft on its banks. Her insides felt pulled apart so what was left was all vitriol, scorching the center of her chest and pushing up bile into her throat.r />
  She saw Val’s mask, his true mask this time, fall away and suddenly he was no longer invincible. He could be moved, cajoled, touched, loved. The light he emitted was new. Before it had been like an electric bulb, one he switched off and on at will. But this light now was a natural one, the kind only seen in fire or the sun. Where had it come from? Had it always been there? Did Mae fail to see it before? No, she decided. He must have hidden it from her, made a choice not to share this wonder of himself with her who should have owned it by right, bound to him by prior claim for recognizing all he was—at least what she’d thought was all of him.

  A sound rose in Mae’s throat. It was the same sound sometimes pressed out of her by her masseuse who, as she rubbed Mae down, her hands sliding across Mae’s well-oiled skin, would come to a spot between her shoulder blades, down about where her heart center would be, and when she kneaded the muscle there Mae would stifle a cry. That was the only time she allowed herself to think of Alice, her childhood friend. This touch, though manufactured and medicinal, made her feel half broken, as she had been when she lost Alice’s love. But Mae always remade herself by the end of the session—remade herself again and again, gaining strength with each new rendering. Only now, because it was so unexpected, Mae didn’t know what to do with the sound other than tamp it back down.

  Val went to the pitcher’s spot and picked up a ball and a glove. He walked toward the plate a few steps. “Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready!”

  Val tossed her a soft underhand pitch. Elizabeth Townsend swung the bat, twisting her tiny hips as she turned and made contact with the ball. It shot past Val into the infield and he could only watch it go. Then he looked back to the woman again. She was laughing.