Once, in Lourdes

by Sharon Solwitz

  “I’m Cassandra, cursed to be always right and always disbelieved.”

  It could have been comic. In gown and heels, he led me across the field, his skirt swishing, his high heels at times sticking in the ground. I followed, laughing in a way that hurt the diaphragm, but I was shaking too. Then he slowed down and we walked together, pushing through the thickening air till our long, thin moon shadows touched the scattering of trees where the woods began. I recognized the scooter.

  But even so, there were explanations. Even if the bike was Saint’s, who’s to say he wasn’t alone? And even if he was with Vera, who’s to say what they were doing? Then, husky and dead sure, came a voice that broke my heart: “Oh God, I love you.” I pressed my hands to my mouth, as if to stifle more of these words.

  We turned and walked the other way quickly, stumbling. “I’m the serpent, Kay. Did you like my apple?” His voice was amused but quavering. I shook my head with no awareness of what I was disputing. I knew only one thing—there was nothing inside me. I was gutted, bled, stripped to bone. I was a husk, ash for a breeze to blow away. No, I was immensely heavy, sunk in the ground like a boulder. A block, a stone, worse than senseless, truly too stupid to be alive.

  “So what’s the plan?” he said. “Shall we join them? Shall we make—how you say in America—a foursome?”

  “No!”

  “We should at least stop by and say hello. It’s rude to ignore people. Especially your closest friends.”

  “Stop that!”

  “Come on.” He stood, motioned back toward them. “Let’s congratulate them on their engagement. We’ll say mazel tov.”

  I wanted to break away from him, but there was nowhere to go. And even crazy, he seemed stronger than I was. “Please,” I said. “Let’s not make it worse!”

  “Could it be worse?”

  The question repeated itself in my mind while he went on about how he must see them, starting to babble, though it was clear he had no intention of visiting Saint and Vera in the woods, of being a part of whatever they were doing there. Clumsy as drunks, we walked toward the parking lot. We halted on opposite sides of the car. Audible as birdsong was a clear, high laugh that had to have come from Vera, happy or stoned, followed by Saint’s, lower, flatter. There was the moon overhead, almost full but small as a dime in the sky. CJ said, “It’s you and me, babe.”

  Later, I would understand that his wound was as jagged as mine. But I still don’t know if mutuality lessens pain or expands it to infinity, like two mirrors facing each other. His face was white in the moonlight as if his inner deadness was coming out. And this was how I felt as well—inwardly dead—since the love that was supposed to be divvied up four ways had been dealt out (unfairly) to two alone. I couldn’t decide whether it was worse to be with him or alone. There was the whine of bugs, the rustle of leaves, the ka-loosh of waves, his slightly asthmatic breathing. Even sounds hurt, like the bites of insects. My hands were cold, my cheeks cold, as if I’d lost the strength to keep myself warm. “Let’s get in the car?” I said.

  “But where should we go?”

  There was nothing snarky in his voice, just the unanswerable question. There was not just nowhere to go, there was nowhere to be. The two arenas between which I had swung like a pendulum those years had both disappeared. First, the door of the house in which I ate and slept had clanged behind me like an iron gate. Now the grassy acres between the parking lot and the lake looked not just alien but indifferent, although I’d been here so often I knew the bare spots in the grass under the tree, the rust of the scattered trash cans, the flaking paint on the tables, the old fascist sign: PICNIC ONLY IN DESIGNATED AREA…

  “Let’s go to San Francisco,” I said doubtfully.

  “That was good last year. Now they’re all wasted. High on smack.”

  “I’ve never tried smack.”

  “It may not be too late.”

  Luckily he didn’t wait for my response. We got into the car and set out for nowhere.

  22

  Vera

  Just inside the fringe of woods, nearly invisible to anyone not looking for them, Saint and Vera occupy the plaid wool blanket from Vera’s bed. Vera turns onto her side and runs a hand along Saint’s back, which—interestingly—is soft and hard in different places. The knobby chain of his spine seems oddly fragile, while the two triangles of muscle from his neck to his shoulders are thick and hard. She would like to chomp down there, close her jaws, almost, but not quite, to the point of puncture. Then she is distracted by the valley alongside his right shoulder blade, which deepens when he moves his arm. On the inner slope of the valley sits a small, dark brown mole, slightly raised. She tests it with the tip of her tongue, then lays her cheek on his back and listens to him breathing. Over and around them is a tender blanket of small outdoor sounds, crickets, wind in the leaves, the purr of a distant highway. Above, gaps in the branches open onto the overarching night, an immensity toward which they seem to be moving, clicking upward as if in the back car of a roller coaster. There’s no getting off. She takes a small, tentative breath. She can maybe accept that.

  Saint raises his head. “I think they saw us.”

  “Ooooh,” she says sleepily. “Get the gun.” She doesn’t look where he is looking. Then after a moment: “Who?”

  He laughs. “Kay and CJ. He’s wearing a dress, but it’s definitely him. They were looking this way.”

  “She escaped! Good for her.” Like a friendly dog she takes nibbling bites of his arm flesh, contemplating the vast and bewildering range of human behavior. “CJ in a dress? Seriously?”

  Their voices are murmurous and silky. “Why do you think,” she says, “he put a dress on?”

  They kiss. He sighs. “This isn’t good,” he says.

  “I’ll bet he looks fine in a dress.”

  “No, I meant—”

  “I know what you meant. I was being silly.” Then she addresses what, of course, he meant. “They’d’ve had to know, before, that we…” She doesn’t want to complete the thought.

  “We’d’ve told them tomorrow.”

  “Should we go talk to them?”

  “Probably. Or we can wait till tomorrow.”

  They kiss awhile, then Saint looks out across the field. “They’re gone.”

  She laughs with relief. “Maybe you imagined them.”

  “I think I’m imagining this,” he says.

  Their lips are so close they almost brush as he speaks. She could drink his breath. “Say that again.”

  They want to keep murmuring together, fanning the embers of the agreeable tension. “They saw and walked away,” he says.

  “What should they do, join the party? They’re being polite. Showing tact.”

  “Should we go find them? We ought to talk to them.”

  She sticks her foot over the edge of the blanket, feels pebbly ground then retracts the errant limb. Her one venture outside their little haven. “You first.” She glances into the lighter dark beyond the trees. She thinks she sees headlights. “We’ll both go,” she says, trying to remember how she talked when she was more sure of things. “Just say the word. Well?”

  “Well?”

  “Or we could postpone it. What time is it?”

  “Should I get my watch?”

  She rolls back to him, puts his hand on her breast. “We’re not being good friends.”

  “We’ll be good friends later,” he says, and kisses the base of her neck. She kisses his neck right under his ear. They lie on their sides face-to-face. Later is almost unimaginable. “It’s definitely hard to get up right now.”

  “I’ll second that.”

  “I like the smell of your mouth.”

  “Tooth rot and cigarettes.”

  He rolls her onto her back, bends over her, and licks her teeth under her lower lip. It tickles, not quite pleasantly. Something is poking her from under the blanket, but she doesn’t mind. His lips move down her neck, over the top of her chest. She gasps for air, but
she doesn’t need air. She needs something she has no name for, but she can wait and it might be better to wait. He says, “I love you, Vera.”

  She shivers, reaching for the warmth he is offering. She can barely speak. “Me too,” she says.

  “You love yourself too? I could have figured.”

  She nods giddily. Joy is nearby, almost within reach. “There’s some left over for you.” She has already told him she loves him. A stingy part of her doesn’t want to repeat it, as if the store of such utterances is limited. She can’t remember now why she wanted to die. That is, she knows why but can’t re-create the feeling. She pulls him onto her, wraps her legs around him, squeezes till he’s pushing back. The poky thing is still there, and with all her strength she arches the two of them up, reaches under the blanket, and extracts Saint’s Tao Te Ching. Earlier today he read some of it to her. “It was hurting me.”

  “I’m sure it didn’t mean to.”

  She runs an edge of the book down his spine.

  “That feels weird.”

  “Spine to spine. Laugh, Saint.”

  “I am, but just to make you feel good.”

  “I usually hate puns. What’s wrong with me?” Into his ear she chants, “The Tao that can be named is not the Tao,” then bites the side of his arm till he yelps.

  “Stop that.”

  “It could save the world,” she says, a remark he once made to her.

  She opens the book but can’t read in the dark. She remembers lilting, inscrutable lines. Did he really understand them? She licks the side of his neck. “Salt. With a sandy aftertaste.”

  “You’re in a silly mood, Vera.”

  “I know,” she says. “But I’m worried, a little. Are you?”

  “Are you getting cold feet?”

  She startles. “Not about that,” she says sharply. “I meant our friends. I’m afraid they’ll…” Actually, she’s not sure what she’s afraid of.

  “Maybe they’re falling in love with each other at this very moment?” Saint offers.

  At the possibility, however unlikely, their serenity returns. Through the screen of trees the moonlit field is silver and silent. She kisses him till she loses her breath. “The bomb has dropped. We’re the last people on earth.”

  “Kiss me with your eyes open.”

  She tries to keep her eyes open on his open eyes, but as his face comes toward her it’s like an approaching train and she turns away. Then the cool, damp wind makes her skin want his skin again, a phenomenon she finds remarkable. She puts her lips to his fragile temple, imagining later riding behind him on his scooter, the thrum of the motor, her chest to his warm back. Imagines them stopping on the shoulder of the road to embrace. Maybe finding another place to lie down, on leaves, pine needles; let the bugs bite. It seems remarkable as well that they are here now and remarkable that tomorrow they will be here or somewhere, and after that? After that, time is a gaping hole, beautiful and terrible, if they don’t do what the four of them have pledged to do. And for the first time since they signed the Pledge, she seriously wonders what would happen to her and to them if, for whatever reason, they all declined to jump. If the day after tomorrow came and went, and the next day, and more days after that, so much time, to be filled by her and Saint finding places to lie down together. They could tear up the Pledge, all four of them together, with the plan to live happily, at least until they’re not happy anymore. The wind comes harder, blowing dust and grit; she is frightened now. So much thinking is required. She isn’t sure how Saint would respond to a change of mind from her. She is not a girl who changes her mind. Would she become someone whose views could be overlooked—someone ordinary, weak, in need? Would that be terrible?

  Then, for no reason, her body jerks.

  “What’s up, Vee? You fell asleep?”

  She shakes her head fiercely no. But her mouth hurts; her teeth are clenched. For the past day or so she has forgotten Garth.

  Saint has gone back to kissing her face; she smiles resolutely. Since he doesn’t know and she doesn’t have to tell, the thought may return to where it came from. Words have this nasty function of preserving things, of making them real for good or ill. And what could she say to Saint about her brother’s slender body? His skin, soft everywhere unlike the body beside her, which is only soft in specific places, the temples, the inside of his elbows. She presses against Saint, kisses him back, quickening her breath in time with his.

  Vera has had sex so early and often that the instances have blurred together. She remembers mostly the clash of pleasure and pain. There were usually three stages:

  1. Breathless loss of self, like a dream of flying.

  2. Burning tearing, in which the good feeling swells till it bursts.

  3. Clear-eyed stillness. After which comes the driving urge to be somewhere else and alone.

  But it was different with Garth. Besides the thrill and the pleasuring pain, there was a sense of inevitability—of the two of them at the center of events that converged at the single point of her joy and shame. She remembers part of a poem she memorized for ninth-grade English. Out of the night that covers me, / Black as the Pit from pole to pole, / I thank whatever gods may be / For my unconquerable soul. She and Garth—they have the same soul, made to fight to the death whatever tries to overpower them. With Garth there was no stage three, no stillness or urge to withdraw, just the sense of having started something that couldn’t be stopped.

  But maybe it could be stopped. Her ribs ache around the throb of her heart. I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. She takes in sharp, frantic gulps of air.

  With Saint too the stillness eludes her. His part in the ballet of sexual intercourse is so groping and wondering that she forgets there’s a direction and an end. Sometimes his lips stay closed like a little kid’s, and her mouth (this has never happened before) swims with saliva, and she has to open his mouth with hers, which makes her want to die of tenderness. She comes and it’s not enough; she must come again, and it isn’t enough. There is no resting place, just the endless cliff-edge spin of wanting. Perhaps that will sustain her?

  She looks over at Saint on his back beside her, hands clasped under his head. He has his T-shirt back on; she can’t remember when he did that. Despondently she kisses the cotton over the swell of his shoulder. She is trying to be brave, though she doesn’t know what there is to be brave about. She tongues the salty, sourish crease between his groin and his leg. She sticks out her tongue at him. He lies heavy and still. She puts a hand on his stomach under his shirt. Should she tell him about Garth? Would speaking her sin shrink it in her mind or make it larger and more disgusting? Would it weaken the spell of the taboo or whatever still holds her in thrall?

  “Saintly?”

  He’s asleep. The affront adds to the affront of the newly donned T-shirt. Fuck you, pal. She curls into herself, gathering the strength to rise, to trot off home. But strength needs will to set it in motion. Saint lies encased in his shirt, the armor of his indifference to her, while from her own naked body, it seems, the protective epidermis has entirely dissolved. She has been flayed, filleted, laid open.

  And then it returns—love, or something close to love. When she believes, body and soul, that unless he does something to restore her she will lie here forever, living but dead, he drapes a mammoth leg across her legs and kisses the back of her neck. His hand wanders the rise of her belly, a finger brushes the topmost curls of private hair. Warm, sweet honey milk laps the edges of her. When it reaches her heart, she turns around in his arms.

  Now on the crest of pleasure, she is careless of pain. Her mouth opens; his too. Their tongues flick virginally. If you don’t mind. Please. She kisses him harder, murmuring “I love you” for the sound alone, but it must be love that she is feeling. Her skin melts onto her bones, there are no separate stages, no plateaus, just the sensation of rising. Could it last 4EVER? “Saint,” she whispers, “there’s something…about me”—there are pauses between the clumps
of words—“that I think you should know….”

  She’s trying to swallow what is blocking her words when the roar of an engine, distant but amplifying, breaks the night’s silence. Brakes squeal. It’s annoying but no big deal. From time to time cars arrive in the parking lot. Now a beam of light sweeps the trees over their heads. They shut their eyes. The light swings by again, unusually bright, like the parabolic beam from a car lot. They can’t see for a moment. Saint breathes against her neck, “Some crazy guy.”

  She lifts her head, blinking through the afterimage, and is blinded again. She sits up, feeling around for her clothing. “We should get out of here.”

  “I’ll bet it’s the compadres. Giving us a hard time.”

  “At least let’s move farther into the woods.”

  “The bugs will eat us alive.”

  “Then let’s pack up. We’ll walk the scooter and leave by the north exit.”

  He sighs heavily, stretching his legs. The revolving beam catches the jungle gym in the play area, soars into the blackness over the lake, finds the jut of his nose and brow. He used to be chunkier, she thinks, a solid core cushioned with baby fat. His flesh has hardened lately, like the body of a guerrilla in the hills above Hanoi, honed to its necessities in the constant readiness for fighting.

  For a moment she rests on her dream of him in the crazed sweep of dark and light. Then the engine cuts off, the light goes out. The weave of small noises rises up again—crickets and wind. But it’s like a cobweb, almost instantly rent by the firm click-open of an oiled car door. She knows the sound. It afflicts her dreams. “Saint, we’ve got to get out of here!”

  He turns, kisses the side of her leg.

  “Saint, it’s my father!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Please don’t be stupid!”

  In the dark she finds jeans, thrusts her legs into them. Too big. She rips them off, throws them at him, grabs her own. She can’t find her shirt.

  “Calm down, Vera.” He sits up, blows her a kiss. “All right. But don’t freak. The park’s open till eleven.” He yawns. “What time is it?”