by Nat Burns
Delora thought he might understand what she was going through, might be able to deal with it. Yeah, she’d see him on the side. For companionship. Good thing she didn’t know how to get in touch with him. She wanted some change in her life but nothing that drastic. Thank goodness for the phone calls with Bucky Clyde.
Sighing and pushing the ridiculous ideas away, she swabbed out the toilets, filled them with deodorizing liquid and used paper towels to mop the floor haphazardly. The ladies’ room really wasn’t bad. A good thing, as her belly ached if she bent too much.
Hinchey wanted her and that didn’t seem to have changed. She could see it seething from his pores every time they were together. All she had to do was say the word and Louie would be history and Hinchey would be in. She thought of how her life would be different—no blind, hot-tempered Louie to deal with, just placid, easygoing Hinchey. It would be a better deal certainly, a great trade, but she just wasn’t up to it. That hard need just wasn’t there. And no matter what she did, someone, somewhere would want sex with her. It was unavoidable. Louie knew better than to touch her since the fire and that was just fine with her. Trying to explain to someone new why she could never be sexual or repeatedly rebuffing Hinchey’s advances would just be too much to bear. She was better off leaving well enough alone.
Stepping back into the restaurant, she saw Hinchey and Esther still locked in conversation. She peeked around at the clock above the bar, hoping Hinchey and Esther weren’t talking about her. Only two more hours to go and she could go home. She thought of the new bottle of vodka chilling in the closet, in the ice chest, and closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the rough paneled wall outside the ladies’ room. She stayed there a long time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Thoughts of Delora had filled Hinchey’s mind as he drove home that evening. He’d had a few beers—well, four beers—so he was driving cautiously. Pulling into the drive, he breathed a sigh of relief and switched off the engine. Delora. She reminded him of Tinkerbell from the Peter Pan stories. A Tinkerbell with smudges under her eyes and chewed fingernails. He had often wondered about the demons that haunted her. Now he knew.
He’d loved her long before Louie had come into the picture and taken her over, though he’d never told her then. Delora was a different girl today than she’d been in high school. Tinkerbell would have been an apt description then—full of life and laughter. Even with her parents gone, she had managed to find some enjoyment in life. Since marrying Louie, however, she’d become strangely withdrawn. Hinchey still couldn’t believe what she’d told him. Pain stabbed at him as he thought of what she must have endured. God, he hated Louie.
Hinchey sighed again and slid from his truck. His mother was probably watching television so he eased the truck door closed and entered the house as quietly as possible. Passing through the kitchen, he saw, by the light of the range hood, that his mama had left dinner for him, a full meal—pork chops, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn and applesauce. He pressed his hands against his abdomen. Was he hungry again? He couldn’t tell. Knowing how hurt his mother would be if he didn’t eat her food, he sat at the table and ate the lukewarm food, almost every bite.
At seven thirty, Hinchey switched off his bedroom television and took a seat at his desk. He laid the notepad bearing Keychain’s number reverently on the desk blotter. He was looking forward to hearing her voice.
“Hinchey, come help me move this.”
Hinchey sighed, laid down his cell phone and rose. His mother had been vacuuming for the past fifteen minutes and was driving him crazy.
She stood next to her bed, the vacuum roaring. “Lift that end table. It’s been forever since I cleaned behind it.”
Hinchey knew better. He’d lifted the damn thing for her just a week ago. “Mama, what are you doing cleaning house so late at night?”
“I had to work extra this week, you know that. Saturday’s my cleaning day.”
“What about your shows?” he shouted as he lifted the table, allowing her to poke the hose under. With her free hand, she indicated the television on its stand in the room. A fifties-style couple was arguing on the screen. Hinchey shook his head and manipulated the table so it rested in the exact same carpet dents as before. He eyed the clock on the bedside table. He needed to call Keychain in fifteen minutes. He didn’t want to call late, in case she thought he wasn’t interested, and he’d really hoped to get a few minutes to clear his mind and get ready to talk with her.
The vacuum switched off and the sudden silence was deafening. Hinchey looked at the television only to find that it had been muted. His mother reached behind him to lift the remote and switch off the television.
“I’m going downstairs now. You put the vacuum away, okay?”
“Sure,” Hinchey said eagerly, glad his mother was going to be out of his hair for a while.
Back at his desk, Hinchey drew in a deep breath and lifted his cell phone. He thought about Keychain and what he knew about her. Excitement stirred in him. Keychain was foreign to everything he knew. She was in New Mexico. She was young, his age, and enthusiastic. She seemed smart, much more so than Hinchey. He had a sudden thought. He could go there. He had some money saved. Then he thought of his mother and grunted. What would he tell her when he left her? What would he tell Delora?
Pushing all doubt away, he dialed the number, his body hunched forward with anticipation. The phone rang twice and then silence.
“Hello? Country?”
Hinchey cleared his throat and blushed, even though he was alone in his room. “Yes, yes, it’s me,” he replied.
Keychain sighed and Hinchey thought of her chest swelling with breath. The thought surprised him. “So, tell me more about yourself,” she said.
He liked the sound of her voice. It was even and not too high. He liked that.
“What do you want to know?” he asked, voice lowering, growing intimate.
She laughed and Hinchey fell a little in love. “Everything, silly. Tell me anything you want.”
“Well, I never told you this, but I still live at home. My mom needed me after Dad died and I just stayed on…”
“Oh, my gosh,” Keychain broke in, her voice excited. “I just moved out six months ago myself. Sometimes it’s easier to just stay on and I was saving money.”
“Totally,” Hinchey agreed. “Don’t they drive you a little crazy, though?”
“Absolutely. That’s why I finally had to go. I have a small place, but at least it’s mine and I can live by my own rules. You should come see it, I’ve decorated it with Southwest colors and I just love being here.”
“I’d love to do that,” Hinchey said, excited by the prospect and the invitation. “I’d like to get away from here. Have I ever told you about where I live? It’s a small southern town.”
“A little, but tell me more,” she replied.
Hinchey carried the phone to his bed and reclined. “Let me tell you about the people here. You just won’t even believe it.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Delora lay in darkness, exhausted from a long night at the French Club. A few late season fireflies winked at her playfully from the other side of her open window. Of course their brightness reminded her of Sophie’s eyes, sparkling when she laughed.
Rolling onto her back, Delora sighed. Everything reminded her of Sophie these days. She felt positively infatuated with the woman. She admired her talent, her quiet thoughtful nature, her ability with the uneducated people she mentored and her untamed beauty. Her beauty.
It was time for Delora to examine her own sexuality and face the truth about it. Not that it was so very important. Knowing she was one way or another would not make her magically able to have sexual congress again. Still, the thought was intriguing. Looking back on her life, she could remember episodes of female attraction. There was a time, before she met Louie, in which she had questioned her sexuality. It happened after she had almost kissed Nita May. They had been swimming at Kiley Hole all morn
ing and had tired themselves out swinging on a rope and dropping into the warm water. Later, stretched out on a blanket surrounded by the fragrant coarse grass on the bank of the river, they snoozed for a long time in the warming sunlight. They talked drowsily and, waking more fully, Delora, lying prone, had lifted herself on her forearms and looked down at Nita May. In that moment, looking at Nita May’s sweat-dappled skin, she had wanted to kiss her. First she had wanted to press her lips to the closed eyes, fringed with thick dark eyelashes. Then the cheeks had beckoned, their softness intriguing below the covering of fine translucent hair. Then the lips, full, dark pink, slightly chapped from a day in the sun. They were parted just a little. Delora’s tongue had pressed hard against the back of her teeth, and she craved to moisten the rough dryness of Nita May’s mouth with her own.
Shocked, heart racing and breath catching in her throat, at that time Delora had dropped her head onto her folded arms and closed her eyes until calm returned.
Did this mean she loved women more than men? Delora didn’t know. She knew she had never wanted a man in exactly the same way. She’d been interested in their skin, the hardness of their muscles, the funny way their faces screwed up when they worked on cars. Still, it always felt like something was missing, and she hated to admit it, but it was that something that she had found with Sophie these past few weeks.
She sighed and, with her head turned to one side, studied the pattern on her comforter, one finger tracing the outline. Damn. What was she going to do if her feelings continued to grow?
Her thoughts flew back to Sophie. Her body was so sturdy, well-muscled under tanned skin, wrought from years of wandering the Bayou Lisse. There was a beguiling wildness about her, imparted by the slow water and lush greenery of Lisse. She was magic, pure and simple, manifesting into the lives of those she helped. An image of her pushing wild curls back from her forehead came to Delora, and she imagined herself pressing her lips to the forearm as it descended. She could imagine Sophie’s surprise as Delora’s lips touched her skin. Delora knew she would smile and welcome her into her arms. Would Sophie kiss her lips? Yes, Delora knew she would. The kiss would be slow and hot, Sophie’s lips pressing hers open, hot breath passing. Maybe Sophie would pass Delora just a little bit of that magic she carried within her so Delora could be magic too. Yes, she could almost feel Sophie above her, could imagine the sun-smell and the heft of her body against her own.
Delora’s breathing rate had increased and her hands crept to her breasts to skim gently across erect tips. She gasped when she realized what she was doing and felt awe at the sensation stirring low in her body. It had been so long since she had felt anything there except pain and stiffness, the stinging of the burns. Now there was a gentle nudging of wanting, a nibble of need there. She pinched her nipples gently and felt an ocean wave surge low between her legs. Could it be? Could there be something there—a child composed of desire waiting to be born?
Delora, without hesitation, gentled her breasts some more, cupping their fullness in her palms and teasing the erect nipples with her fingertips. More sensation stirred and images flashed across her mind. She saw a small furred animal stirring in its den, then Sophie smiling at Delora, her eyes warm and filled with a welcoming joy and acceptance. She saw the curve of Sophie’s waist, between her jeans and her shirt, shown when she stretched her arms overhead. What would Sophie look like without jeans? Without a shirt? Delora could imagine her breasts. They seemed small, as her long body was lean. Would they grow hard as Delora’s were now if Delora caressed them? Delora saw herself capturing the nipple with her mouth, could actually taste Sophie’s flesh in her mouth, and alone in her bedroom, her mouth curved outward as if pressed to take in Sophie’s breast.
Eagerly, guided by a cellular memory more than by Delora’s consciousness, her hands moved lower, across skin rippled into a volcanic landscape until her finger pressed like a shield over the gash of her womanhood. The fingers moved in unison back and forth, side to side, the pressure increasing. The feeling within her grew, the waves of desire rocking against the shore of her sensible being ever more insistent. She fought the feeling with her mind, but this event was beyond conscious control. Her body had become a creature alien to her. The hand moved and moved, while Delora could only follow limply along, gasping and moaning in disbelief. Then electricity moved through her and she stopped breathing, yet screamed without breath, her mouth wide and eyes pressed shut. Her body arched high off the bed and bucked until her hand fell away. A low cry escaped her after the onslaught of breath returned to her lungs. Still moaning, she opened her eyes and stared groggily at the ceiling.
Was she okay? The throbbing spread from her toes to her scalp. Her hair was standing on end. Her arms were lying limply at her sides, and she moved her hands gingerly to see if she could feel them. She could. Her toes still wiggled and feeling was returning to her legs and heart. She was afraid if she touched any site in the center of her body from breast to groin, she would find a black hole where her desire had crisped the flesh away. She lifted her head and looked down, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. It was all still there, still throbbing every time she moved. There was no pain, just a feeling of fullness. She dared not touch it. Suppose her skin caved in under the rippled scar tissue? She closed her eyes, the thought too horrible to contemplate.
Sophie appeared in her mind, her smile sweet, her face encouraging.
Delora drew in a deep shaky breath and blew it out. It was going to be okay. Everything. She turned her body carefully onto her side and curled into a ball of cooling star energy. Feeling a new peace steal across her, Delora fell asleep, smiling.
Chapter Thirty
They were wonderful, these people who populated Sophie’s life. The names flew by Delora like so much fairy dust. They were unfamiliar, bordering on foreign. There was a beautiful black woman named Pyree, another named Clary. A beautiful, effeminate gay man named Stephen. His partner, Righteous, a tall, thin man of color with wide cheekbones and slanted eyes. Someone named Salty was there, wearing a comically attractive black bowler hat made of felt. Children were everywhere, some with olive skin and sleek, jet-black hair, others with copper skin and tightly curled hair that clung to their scalps like damp wool. A few pale, blond-haired children rounded out the color wheel.
Sophie was in her element. Obviously, her family was well respected and treated with a measure of deference. No doubt she had healed most of them at some point. Delora’s eyes caressed Sophie from a distance, admiring her easy way with these people. She did something not many others do. Truly listen. Even to the children. Most adults brush children off when they talk to them. Not Sophie. She would stop whatever she was doing and bend down to listen. Not talk. Listen. Delora found that fascinating.
Even though Sophie was mingling among the huge crowd, she would often catch Delora’s admiring glance. Her smoldering gaze made Delora feel a heavy emotion she’d never felt before.
Delora decided she liked Salamander House very much. It was worn and cozy and filled with odd magical scents that Delora couldn’t identify. Separated from the bayou by several thick pilings, the wood-sided, six-room house fronted on the water and was like part of the landscape. A spit of grassy land stretched to either side and to the back, carved from the surrounding bayou by a curving drive. If the water got too high, the only access to the house would be by boat. A wide, heavy plank deck supported by pilings surrounded the entire home—rather daunting without swamp water immediately below it.
Picnic guests littered the grassy slope on the western side. They wore a wide array of colorful clothing. Delora, in jeans and a red button-down blouse, felt positively drab.
There was something especially unusual about the women and men of Beulah’s family. They had hair dark as a moonless night and thick brows that framed piercing black eyes. Their smiles flashed often and the white teeth were big and bold. They wore beautiful clothing—shirts that appeared to have been hand-stitched or at least hand-designed on a
sewing machine. The designs were loose and flowing, bearing butterfly colors and the occasional web of silver or gold embedded in the fabric. They looked Italian or Spanish. Maybe Middle Eastern. She made a mental note to ask Sophie about it the next time they were alone.
Three long tables, dressed in white cloths, supported a huge amount of food. One table bore hot offerings, another cold and a third was stacked with potato chips and other salty treats amid bottle after bottle of soda and tea. The beer and other spirits lay displayed on a smaller table set up on the deck. Most of the adults had found their way there already, and moods were light.
Delora felt happy and light herself, certainly more than she had in a long time. She found herself surrounded with new faces, faces that didn’t even know Louie existed and certainly had no inkling that she bore scars from his whim. This anonymity was refreshing.
Her eyes flew once more to Sophie. Although she was young, certainly no more than thirty, she obviously possessed an old spirit. She was wise in the ways of man and nature. Delora wondered if she ever lost her cool. She had yet to see Sophie angry or upset.
Sophie must have felt her gaze for she excused herself from the gaunt man with long black hair she was speaking with and strode toward Delora. Delora blushed and dropped her eyes only to raise them helplessly to watch Sophie’s lean form approach. There was something about her, something about that calm, confident smile.