by Nat Burns
She lowered her head. “You make me feel all squirmy inside and I start wanting you. I’ve never been with a woman, though, and don’t know what to expect. I feel…I care about you, I do. I’m just not sure I can love you physically. I’m not sure it would work,” she finished sorrowfully.
Sophie was silent a long time. So long that Delora considered opening the door to usher her out.
“Delora, women can love one another in a lot of different ways. My body craves closeness with yours and it sounds like you crave me too. Maybe the physical will work out, maybe it won’t, but I don’t think you and I should agonize over it. Most of the time things have a way of working out on their own without a whole lot of intervention from us. Even though we like to think we’re in control of our lives.” She paused. “You can say no to me and send me on my way. Or you can open your arms to me. Life will go on if you say no, but think what we may miss if you send me away.”
She leaned closer. “I feel what we have. I feel it big. I don’t want to go away. I want to see what will happen, what adventures we can have together.”
Delora was tired of warnings, tired of thinking. She moved toward Sophie. Sophie moved to meet her. The kiss lasted an eternity; lips parted and met time and again, each instance of meeting deepening and lasting longer. Their tongues met and mated, then came back for more.
Delora abandoned herself to the rapture that kissing Sophie engendered in her and felt the desire growing in her body. She began to feel a sense of languor move across her. Limbs became heavy and the mind sluggish. She transformed into a creature of pure sensation. Her pelvis swelled anew and the craving for release led her to press herself against Sophie. Sophie’s hand moved low, cupped her sex, and moved it with subtle pressures. Delora forgot her scars and responded with pushes of her own. The attention there felt so good, so necessary. Abruptly it stopped as Sophie moved away. Delora had a moment of panic. Suppose Sophie didn’t want her after all? Sophie’s eyes told a different tale as she reached to slowly untie Delora’s robe, allowing it to slip with sensuous weight along her back and to the floor.
Delora stood naked and in shadow, and Sophie paused to study her slimness. Delora had the body of a boy except for the small bulge of breast. The nipples were high with a heavy swell of breast underneath. Cuppable breasts. Sophie moved close to hold one in each palm.
Sophie unbuttoned her own shirt and slipped it from her shoulders. She unfastened her jeans and let them drop. Clad only in an undershirt and panties, she led Delora into the bathroom.
“I need to shower. And it’ll be easier for you there.” Allowing the bathroom to stay dark, save for a nearby streetlight shining through the frosted window, Sophie turned the knobs of the shower until the spray hovered two notches up from warm. She shed the rest of her clothing and stepped inside, pulling silent, obedient Delora in after her. The water cocooned them in warmth as Sophie held her close, hands caressing her back and neck. Delora felt loved absolutely in this hot, womb-like environment, and when Sophie’s lips found hers again, she sought them eagerly until both were swooning from sensation.
“Wait,” Sophie said hoarsely as she stepped from the spray. “Let’s take our time.”
Using the soap, Sophie lathered herself, then reached for Delora. Sliding the bar of soap across skin, she followed the path of the soap with her hand, further lathering Delora’s skin until slick foam covered them both.
The sensation was new to Delora, and she reveled in it. Sophie’s hands were hot and sensual, so soft, gliding across her skin. The warmth penetrated through and a new throbbing sensation awoke in her. It felt like her breathing had been constricted since the fire and now she could, finally, take a full, deep breath.
The hand moved lower, and Sophie’s hand was between her legs, sleek movement across the engorged nub of nerve buried under the scar tissue. Sensation assaulted Delora and she began to move her hips against Sophie’s firm pressure. A feeling grew in her and she knew if she continued her world would explode into stardust again.
Sophie moved her hand away and Delora cried out in an automatic wail of loss.
“It’s okay, baby. I’m here.” She pressed the soap into Delora’s hand. “Now me. Do me.”
Delora rubbed the soap between her hands, then laid the soap and her soapy hand on Sophie’s shoulder, rubbing the sleekness along her arm. Emboldened by Sophie’s shadowed gaze, she moved her hands to Sophie’s small breasts and felt entranced by the firm weight of them. The skin was so soft there and the tawny peaks so hard, such a dichotomy of sensation under her palms. Sophie’s eyes closed and her breathing came heavy and fast.
Was Delora’s touch arousing Sophie as she had aroused Delora? Growing in confidence, Delora slid her hand lower to Sophie’s slim waist, moving around to soap her back. The heat of their bodies connecting was delicious. Delora’s right hand, with the soap, moved lower to lather the heavy mat of hair at the apex of Sophie’s legs. Her fingers reveled in the marvelous feel of short, soapy hair. She moved lower, slipping easily between Sophie’s legs. Sophie moaned and Delora started with surprise. She was in complete control of Sophie’s pleasure and this realization filled Delora with power. She welcomed it and slipped the soap through Sophie’s thighs, catching it in her left hand on the other side. Her right hand remained, however, and her fingers fell into Sophie’s dark softness. Delora’s exploratory hand moved deep into Sophie’s body. She fell back against the shower wall, pushing her lower body hard onto Delora’s hands.
“So this is it,” thought Delora as she moved her hand in the way she imagined she would like to be touched. Sophie’s moans and gasps grew stronger as she rocked against Delora’s palm and fingers.
“Press there,” she said, pulling the heel of Delora’s palm hard against the swell of her sex. Delora’s other arm pulled Sophie’s body tight against her, the left hand soaping deep into the split of Sophie’s backside. She felt as though she held the entire essence of the older woman between her two forearms.
“There, baby, there, baby. That’s right,” Sophie was muttering as Delora manipulated her body. Delora could feel the swelling of Sophie’s nipples against her arm as Sophie passed into orgasm. Sophie keened softly as she shuddered against Delora and her arms reached to pull Delora tighter. Her slimness heaved and Delora could feel the rhythmic clenching of muscles inside Sophie as they closed on her hand. She felt she might faint from her own sudden, sharp arousal. Gently she allowed her touch to slip from Sophie.
Sophie, instead of being sated, became rougher with Delora. She clamped her mouth onto Delora with white-hot energy, tongue plundering. Delora felt passion transforming her, and she responded as ardently. Hands on Sophie’s breasts, she pressed the nipples between her fingers until Sophie moaned, then she cupped them in her hands. Sophie found the soap and used it to lubricate between Delora’s thighs. The soap fell with a clatter as Sophie’s hand gently, lightly penetrated Delora. Delora gasped, certain she’d never experienced such pleasure before. Sophie was pressing upward with firm yet gentle strokes and Delora exploded into her own climax as Sophie sucked at her breasts one after the other. Spent and exhausted, Delora fell back against the shower wall, her world spinning.
Gently slipping her hand from Delora, Sophie continued to caress and kiss her until Delora could see again.
Delora moaned as her body throbbed and spun in a dervish dance of sparking passion. “It’s never been like that before,” she admitted in a breathy voice.
Sophie had fallen against Delora, sheltering her from the spray, their sensitive, soapy bodies sliding together easily. She shifted herself and placed a forearm on either side of Delora’s head. She stared deeply into Delora’s eyes. “So does this mean you might like to do it again sometime?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with merriment.
Delora ran her hands along Sophie’s hips. “Hmm, not sure. Kiss me again and let’s see.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Beulah lay supine on her bed, head whirling with thought.<
br />
She’d known the time was nigh for days—no, months really—since the death beetle had clicked her awake one morning at the beginning of summer. She had no problem with it—her life had been long and full. She’d loved well. The long line of men she’d loved or simply dallied with passed through her mind. She wondered which of them she’d loved the most. Oddly enough, she believed it to be perpetual playboy, Syria Boost, with his cocky good humor and playful lovemaking. Her coupling with him had been far too brief but more sensual than all the rest. She relived for a moment the sleek feel of his hands on her skin. He’d been one of the few to know how to really please a woman. He knew how to say all the right things to make a woman feel a certain way. He’d panted over her, working her body like a warm piece of clay, molding her into pleasurable pain and ecstasy.
Lying still, the sounds of the bayou cocooning her, Beulah experienced the thrill again, allowing it to pass from her as easily as she’d allowed Syria to pass on to his next woman. A man like that, who made loving his life, his talent, wouldn’t stay; she’d known this the first time setting eyes on him.
She thought of Faye and how she was drawn to those type of men, willing to sacrifice stability for that all-consuming thrill. Would Sophie follow that path? There’d been no indication of it; Sophie was as dependable as one season following the next. This comforted her as she knew her people would be cared for after her passing.
Delora’s sweet face rested on her mind’s eye. She would be good for Sophie. Beulah knew this. She sensed trouble coming but didn’t bother long with that thought. She’d once thought Sophie destined to be alone forever but saw then that the coming of the young woman would foretell the time of her passing. She was to be a comfort to Sophie.
Beulah remembered the pain of childbirth, how Keene’s birth had split her rudely into motherhood. She remembered the smell of Keene’s neck and how bringing him forth had seemed so right. She remembered the caul that had covered Faye’s face and how she had harbored such great expectations for the two of them, she and Faye as companion healers. Then granddaughter Sophie, born with the same golden hair as Faye and being more to Beulah than Faye could ever have been.
Pain, sweet and intense, flooded her mind as her brain suffered the assault of misplaced blood. A feeling of restful peace followed, suffusing her from fingertip to toe. She felt the Others approach, slowly surrounding her as they came to welcome her to Their side.
Beulah thought of all those she’d hated and felt relief to know she’d never fostered anger but moved on to more positive thinking. Her scorecard was good. Even the many lives she’d taken were held as mercy or forwarding the rightful order of things. Right and proper. Her acceptance by the Others was complete.
“I see you there,” she crooned, her voice barely audible. “I’m ’bout ready.”
She thought of all that she’d miss. The language of the bayou, Sophie’s smile, the smell of sweaty babies as she rocked them, the heat of sun on worn wooden floorboards, the prestige of helping the Manu Lisse and their gratitude, leaf lettuce fresh from the garden on a cool morning and the smell of new cigarette smoke after nightfall. Simple things she realized, but important to her. She hoped there would be touching on the other side. And good smells. And smiles.
The Others were closer and, as if reassuring her, she could feel them against the skin of her arms. Though ritual dictated otherwise, she was grateful that Clary and Sophie were about their own business and not tending to hers.
“Good,” she said. “Good.”
She drifted on.
Chapter Forty-Seven
It hit Sophie when she pulled into the yard. An important light had gone out. She was filled with sudden loss, her breath rattling through her chest on its way to the outside.
“No,” she muttered in disbelief. “I should have been here.”
Racing from her car, she leapt onto the porch and slammed through the kitchen door. She paused only when she reached the opening to Grandam’s bedroom. The body was there, lying calmly in the bed, but Grandam had gone. Acute loneliness beset Sophie; a keening of loss welled in her throat and escaped. Sitting on the edge of her grandmother’s bed, Sophie propelled her upper body to and fro, a low wail echoing in the room. She covered her face with both hands as tears fell freely.
Intellectually, Sophie knew it was time for her grandmother to leave, yet emotionally she was a small child abandoned by her only real parent and the pain was unbearable. Sensible, level-headed Sophie, who had known this parting was imminent, was nevertheless devastated.
Turning, she took the cold, brittle hand in hers and felt paltry that her hands could not heal this. Too late, too late. And she hadn’t been able to say goodbye.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here with you,” she whispered to the room. “Atchava. Atchava. Rove. Misto. Danners rat méripen tard gilo púridaia múlladipóov. Non Tacha.”
After a time of silence, she added, “You shouldn’t have been alone.”
She pulled Grandam’s hands together and tucked them neatly on her abdomen, as she’d done for dozens of others. The time-marked face was slack, mouth and eyes partially opened. Sophie’s hands caressed the cool, aged cheeks, and she was able finally to turn away.
Staggering into the kitchen, she spread her arms, bracing her body in the doorway to outside. She sought solace from the bayou. How would she survive without Grandam’s daily guidance?
A warm blanket of sensation slid across Sophie. Surprised, she looked up to see if a sudden shaft of sunlight had appeared. Nothing was different yet the heat persisted even though she stood mostly in shadow. Peace followed the heat, and she knew that Grandam hadn’t gone anywhere. She was able to smile then, and she wrapped her arms around her own body in a fierce hug.
She sighed and hung her head. Next step. Move forward. Keep moving forward, that was the key and is what Grandam would say.
Moving mechanically, Sophie reached for the phone.
“Clary? It’s Sophie.”
“Hold on a minute, Miss Sophie. Clare’s here.” Salty, who usually took a good half hour to say anything, must have sensed Sophie’s urgency.
“Sophie? What you need, honey?”
“Grandam’s gone on. Can you come?”
Clary fell silent as she sensed the truth of Sophie’s words. Still unwilling to believe she said, “What do you mean, gone on?”
“It was her time, Clary. I’m gonna call Brother Kinder and then Womack. We’ll have to do things the outsider way because so many of her people were, but I’ll need your help to get her back after.”
“Okay,” Clary said in a low voice. “Twenty minutes. Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
“Wait there at the house until I get there, okay?”
“I will.”
Sophie replaced the handset and paused. Brother Kinder’s number, a number that she had dialed by memory most of her life, eluded her.
Chapter Forty-Eight
An ominous silence fell at the French Club. Sensing it, Delora lifted her head and saw Rosalie approaching the bar. She was a formidable sight, a frigate on high seas, four hundred pounds of moving flesh. She’d taken the time to comb her short black hair into an orderly cap and to add to her already abundant cosmetic base. Her heavily mascaraed eyes studied Delora with more than the usual disdain.
“Hello, Rosalie,” Delora said evenly, although her heart felt as though it was going to pound out of her chest.
“Delora. I’m here to see what you have to say for yourself.”
“What do you mean?” Delora asked. “What did I do?”
Rosalie insinuated her bulk sideways between two barstools and glared at her foster daughter. “You and Louie didn’t come home last night. You didn’t answer my calls. Then I get a call from Brother Kinder, find out your husband lies dead and you stay out all night like some common trollop. Where were you?” Her voice was a harsh whisper as she leaned closer to Delora.
“I was at the hotel is all, Mama, wit
h the phone off. I’m not coming back.” Her chin lifted just a little. She heard Esther’s sudden indrawn breath behind her.
“What do you mean, not coming back? This is your home we’re talking about.”
Delora sighed and moved to light a cigarette with trembling hands. Hinchey cowered over to her left, his big hands curled paw-like around a beer bottle. His head hung low and she felt a sudden ache of pity for him. She knew he blamed himself for all that had happened even though not one iota of it was his fault.
She turned back to Rosalie. “Listen, I appreciate all you did for me, taking me in after my folks died and all, but I have to say life with you hasn’t been a warm, fuzzy experience.”
She drew on her cigarette as she watched Rosalie’s face change from amazement to outrage in the space of seconds.
“Well, excuse me for not being Miss Hoity-Toity June Cleaver. I gave you everything you needed. There’s no denyin’ that.”
Delora nodded. “True. But here lately, I been paying for it, seems like.”
The other woman grew indignant, her form wriggling for better vantage against the bar. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, I work two jobs to pay you rent and utilities and a third so I’ll have some pocket money for myself. You also cash Louie’s disability checks for groceries just as fast as they cross my palm.”
Rosalie smiled a sickly sweet smile. “You’re an adult, Delora, and back at home under my roof. There’s nothing wrong in you helping with the rent and food and electric. Everyone at the church says so.”
Delora shook her head, a grim smile on her lips. Her cigarette had burned halfway down and a length of ash was resting on her work-weary hand. She looked down at it. “Louie’s disability covers all that. Why do you need so much more from me? Speaking of Louie’s check, I guess that’ll stop now, won’t it? I wonder if I’m gonna get widow’s benefits. Could that be why you’re in such a hurry to get me home again?”