by Dancer, Jack
“I guess there are worst things,” she says.
“Didn't seem like it at the time.”
“Suppose not.”
“At least I never did it again - laugh in the face of tragedy that is. Now when I'm faced with bad things, I either crack jokes or just pretend it's not there, try to ignore it. Compartmentalize it away and move on. At least, I try to. It's hard to deal with stuff when you let it get to you, and that's all you can think about.”
“Yeah.”
“Course, none of this means I don't make jokes or stupid cracks at inappropriate times.”
“Like earlier when you were about to enlighten the good doctor that it might not’ve been the lurching train that blew me out of the bathroom and into the cabin?” she says.
“Sorry about that.”
We both laugh.
“Who knows,” she says, “maybe I am that good.”
“Trust me. You are.”
A lot of commotion’s startin’ up outside our compartment, people scuttling up and down the passageway.
“Sounds like the police have arrived,” I say.
“Yeah. Suppose they'll be knocking on the door pretty soon.”
“Probably. Think we should just wait for them or go ahead and turn ourselves in?”
“Let's wait. We might get lucky,” she says.
“Okay. So, you want to fool around in the meantime?”
“Get outta here,” she laughs.
“Tell you what. Let's make a deal.”
“What sort of deal?” she asks suspiciously.
“If no one shows up, and the train starts for Portbou. What do you say we celebrate?”
“Celebrate what?” Monica asks.
“Not being celibate.”
“The no-celibate celebration? Why, aren't you the clever one?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Just say yes?” she asks.
“It's a campaign slogan. Advertising pays you know.”
“I can’t begin to describe to you how weird this conversation is. It's like I took a wrong turn back there and somehow stumbled into the crazy mind of Chuck Jones, Jonesin' testosterone. And if they do show? What then?”
“Haven't thought that far,” I admit.
“It's hard for you to think past your little companion down there isn't it?” she says.
“It's my way of coping. Little?”
“You know, you're some piece of work,” she says then ponders. “But, you just might have something there.”
“How's that? You mean coping?”
“Yeah. Maybe it's not such bad idea to ignore the bad stuff going on around you and do something else, something that makes no sense at all.”
She puts her hands on both sides of my face and pulls me to her, kissing me, then deep and hard. I come off my seat, and around so I'm bending over her, into her warm embrace. She's decided to throw everything to the wind and to give up all but the moment.
She breaks, and I drop my face and nuzzle into the warmth of her neck.
“Whatever happens is going to happen. Nothing we can do about it now but there's plenty we can do right now, right here,” she says. “Besides, this is your last shot because after this, we're done. So, you'd better make it a good one.”
Raising the armrest that divides the double seat I push her down lengthwise and hover over her. The whistle sounds and the train makes a little lurch forward as each car tugs the one behind it - like links in a tightening chain.
“Oh, my God, Tucker, we're moving,” she says lifting herself and pushing me up.
I stand and pull the window curtain back just a little, enough to peek out and see the Gare Perpignan platform moving backwards.
“Look,” I say pulling the curtain back. She comes up behind me, her arms wrapping my waist and her head peering over my right shoulder.
“The good doctor must have worked her magic after all,” her words kissing my ear.
“She's obviously better than what we were beginning think about her.”
“This is wonderful,” she exclaims, “Close the curtains, Tucker. We're going to no-celibate.”
She pulls me upright and back then turns me around until our faces are so close I'm inhaling her exhaling, and I'm locked onto those incredible emerald greens watching them dance an Arrastre, dragging fear into a tiny corner.
The car sways. Our grip tightens, and we stumble in lockstep sideways.
“Uh oh. Better hang on,” I say.
Her hands go to my arms and swing me around, then reach down and without a word starts unbuckling.
“Let me do it,” I say.
“No,” she insists studying the buckle a moment before figuring it out.
“There,” she says as my trousers slide to the floor leaving a sideways tent with an aardvark in there, aimed directly between her eyes.
“My favorite part,” she says wrapping her hand around the aardvark's white 100% all cotton snout.
“Mine too.”
The next thing I know is I'm entering a warm moist oven of about 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit that's sending waves of pleasure up my spine. I brace the wall to steady the swaying train. My spinning head already at that seismic scream before Mount Vesuvius erupts when . . . a premature dislodging and, “Okay, Tucker. Now it's my turn.”
“Arrgh!” Goddamnit. One-trick strikes again.
She stands and facing me, (my teepee's breaking camp from the sudden retreat) starts undressing, (but reconsiders).
I reach out to assist but she steps away.
“Just watch.”
“Sure.”
First the shoes then reaching back with both hands she unzips her dress - an astonishing feat of female limber-otomy. When the dress goes she stands before my wanton eyes displaying a fabulous pair of breasts, all gift-wrapped in a matching red bra allowing my eyes to drink her in. One hand reaches behind and unsnaps her bra and with a shrug of her shoulders it floats to the floor leaving two perfect orbs to take my breath away.
Thumbs hook into the waist of her red thong, and like an elevator, takes it down to her ankles. She steps out leaving it beside the dress then steps back so my eyes can take in the full length of her, and feast. She's not in the least shy. She knows full well what she has and she remains there for a moment enjoying me, enjoying her.
With her eyes locked onto mine she cups a breast and gently massages while I drink-in this vision of self-love unfolding before me like a gift. When she takes each budding nipple between thumb and forefinger and gently kneads, like milking nectar from a flower, they sprout to full pink attention, and her eyes start losing focus, retreating into the pleasures she’s coaxing to the surface. Like a serpent her tongue darts out, licks, and her eyes again lock onto mine.
Abandoning her breasts her hands move south across her bare stomach in soft circular motions until they reach the auburn pelt. Legs part to accept a wandering hand and a finger secretly slips in as her mouth parts, and her tongue flicks across lips half parted, swollen and wet, priming the way to welcome that same finger like a stick of peppermint; nectar of a goddess.
She motions for me to stand, and stepping toward me she embraces me, pressing her body into mine, snuggling her face into my chest for a moment before bringing her mouth to mine and kissing me with the soft intertwining kiss of a lover, gently parting my lips with her tongue. She pulls her head back and gazes into my eyes.
“Tucker?”
“Yes.”
“I'm going to give you something very special now. At least, I think it's special,” she says. “It's not exactly what you think, but I'm pretty sure you're going to like it.”
“Okay.”
“I'm going to bend over this seat, and I want you to enter into me from behind, okay?”
“Okay,” I say and she moves in front of the seat and bends herself over holding onto the armrests.
A perfect hourglass unfolds in front of me and if I were operating on no more than a brain stem I swear to God my body’s primordi
al instincts would know exactly where to go from here.
When I move up behind her and press myself between her legs she says, “I'll do it, Tucker. I mean, I'll guide you, okay?”
“Okay.”
“It's not going where you think.”
“It's not?”
“No.”
“It's never gone there before.”
“That's all right. I'll guide, okay?”
“Shouldn't we use a lubricant?”
“We won't need that, Tucker. It'll be okay, and I want you to know that I'm very clean.”
“Okay, but won't it hurt?”
“No, it won't hurt. Just let me guide you.”
“Okay.”
She takes me and rubs me into position. “Now go ahead. Just push gently like you normally would.”
I push forward, and she rears her backside to meet me. I'm astonished at how easily I slide in.
“Is that okay, Tucker?”
“Yes, it's good. Is it okay with you?”
“Yes, good. Actually, it's very good so go ahead like you normally would.”
As I'm looking down on Monica, on the hourglass form of her back and her buttocks and me pressing against her, I'm overwhelmed with a collision of eye candy and the urge to ram myself into her. She feels wonderful and, surprisingly, no different than if I was where I'd normally be.
While I am where I am, she reaches between her legs and begins making small quickening circles that not only revs up her motor but throws gas on my fire too. Then staring at her expanding bottom with me expanding it and the narrow waist above, the sight of it is all too much. I explode into her with such force I begin to fall to my knees and take her with me. We slide as one, down the seat and onto the floor where, sweating and panting, we eventually unhinge.
We’re two spent puppets with our strings cut and all we can do is lie here on the carpeted floor of the cabin listening to the rails running smoothly and solidly beneath us. There is no place for words. All that can be said has been.
Once we've caught our breaths and calmed to the point that speaking is even possible, she turns and asks, “Was it okay, Tucker?”
“Oh, Christ. It was better than okay; it was fabulous.”
“And you?”
“Double fabulous,” she says, “but, did it seem any different to you?”
Thinking about it . . . “Not really. It actually felt the same. Had I not known where I was, I don't think I'd have known any different. I never would've thought . . .”
“Until you've done it, you don't know.”
“Pretty amazing huh? I thought it'd be different.”
“Tucker, you know I broke your cherry.”
“I guess you did at that.”
We still have some time until we reach Portbou, so I pull down the Murphy-like bed hidden in the wall above the seats, and we climb in for a nap. Stretching out horizontally for once is almost as pleasurable as curling into Monica.
“Looks like this will be our last time together, Tucker - alone I mean.”
“Yeah, suppose so, though I can't say I'm happy about it. This whole trip has been one fabulous adventure, and I can honestly say that, of anyone, I'm glad it was you I was with.”
“Me too. This has been the biggest adventure of my life, and I'll never forget it or you.”
“Monica, I don't know anyone who would've been more of a sport with all of this craziness. I wish it wasn't coming to an end.”
“But it is Tucker and that’s just the way it has to be,’ she says.
Trying to mask my disappointment I resign myself and say, “Well at least we both have something that we can always look back on with awe and delight. How many people can say that?”
“No one I know.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“And don't take this the wrong way because I really enjoyed what we just did, but why is it, you won't let me . . . you know, make love to you, through normal channels?”
“Normal channels? Tucker, you're quite the wordsmith. Like I told you before we're not married so that's just not going to happen. Can you understand that?”
“I suppose. It's just that with everything else . . .”
“Think of it this way, Tucker. It's my way of coping.”
thirteen
14:45 Hours, Monday, 1 September.
Arrive Point Frontiere: Portbou Fre Via Portbou Espagne.
The in-wall speaker assaults us like a call to reveille, “Prochain arrêt, Gare de Portbou.”
“We're here,” I say rolling off the Murphy and gathering up my clothes from the floor. “I guess if we show up as disheveled as we are, they'll have to believe we didn't stop over somewhere to lollygag a night away in a hotel.”
“I'm going to change my underwear,” she says.
“Good idea,” and I start going through my carry-on to start over again. “At least, we got a nice hot shower today.”
“I could've done without that too had I known I'd end up on the floor stark naked and with a dead guy on top of me no less, not to mention the whole train standing in the doorway gawking. I still can't believe that happened. It seems like a dream now.”
“Nightmare,” I say.
“Yeah, nightmare. While I was laying there on the bunk with you, I thought about making a dash over to our other compartment to take a quick shower but then thought the better of it.”
“Probably a good idea you didn't. You don't know who might be over there waiting for us to show up.”
“Do you think somebody's over there, really?” she asks.
“No. I don't know. At least, I know the dead guy's not there because I saw them roll him off on a gurney back in Perpignan.”
“You think the police might be waiting for us when we get off in Portbou?”
“I doubt it. They could've easily found us back in Perpignan if they'd wanted to.”
“I suppose so. But I still find it hard to believe they didn’t want to speak with us. Don’t you think that’s strange? I mean a man died.”
“Well, I guess we'll find out when we get off the train, won't we?”
“Listen maybe we shouldn't get off. Maybe we should keep going until we reach Barcelona,” I say hopefully.
“Suppose we could do that. Our tickets are good. And we'd be on the Spanish side of the border. If the Perpignan authorities do want us, wouldn't you think it'd be more difficult for them to bring us back to Perpignan if we're in another country?”
“Except for one thing,” I say.
“What's that?”
“This stop is Portbou Espange,” I say.
“So we're already across the border,” she says.
“Exactly.”
“Well, I suppose that's good. At least maybe we'll have that behind us.”
“Sure hope so.”
“So, now all we have to do is confront what's waiting for us here.”
“Think I’d rather confront the cops,” I say considering the wrath of Ebba.
“Can we do one thing, Tucker?”
“What's that?”
“Can we not mention anything to Ebba and Terry about the dead guy part? I know it makes for an exciting story and all, but I think it'd be better if we just didn't bring it up. All it would do is beg a whole lot of questions we'd be hard-pressed to answer without blowing the whole trip apart, don't you think?”
“Yeah. I agree. But, you know it's also possible that it could all come out anyway - a news story or someone on the train, maybe someone staying at the hotel mentioning it. I mean with so many people there, anything’s possible.”
“If it gets to that we'll handle it. But if no one ties us to it, then all we have to do is say we didn't know anything about it. We were in another car at the other end of the train or something.”
“Fine with me.”
We hugged each other a good-bye hug; a brother and sister hug and it’s breaking my heart. What should I do? I want to tell her how I feel, b
ut I’ve got this nagging feeling that it's just not the right time. I’d rather wait and see how things unfold in Barcelona. But then when I look into her eyes and see the sadness there I think, fuck it, and just as I’m about to open my mouth to tell her I love her and want her and that I don’t want to separate and the hell with Ebba and everything else; the intercom starts blasting away announcing Portbou Espange on top of the screeching metal, totally drowning out what I’m saying. And by the time the train stops we’ve got a crush of people behind us anxious to get off.
Just as we’re on the platform, standing together, two heads pop up at the far end of the station and Ebba spots us. Throwing her head back, she lights up her best Hollywood smile, and commanding her well-trained tear ducts into action, leaps into a gallop across the platform, arms wide open in a dramatic reuniting with the love of her life after enduring a long and painful war time separation.
Then, “Oh, Tuuucker,” she sopranos as the invisible cameras roll.
“It's show time,” I mutter to Monica.
“Break a leg.”
fourteen
14:45 Hours, Monday, 1 September.
Depart Portbou Espagne.
I have to say, standing on the train platform beside the woman with whom I've not only engaged in wild and wonderful sex over the last couple of days while crossing the Atlantic and training down the entire length of France, only to have the woman with whom I was supposed to have been with all this time, and who I may or may not be with over the next two weeks, running up to me like this, is not only remarkable but, remarkably weird.
I feel nearly like a heel. Nearly. And, if I am a heel, then exactly to whom am I a heel? Would it be the woman standing beside me on the platform and with whom I've been playing patty-cake - the one who willingly jumped in with both feet (and other body parts) and participated with not only full knowledge of the circumstances, but full enthusiasm too? The one I want more than anything.
Or, would it be the woman who is, at the moment, coming at me in a slow motion lope to take me into her arms for the perfect closing scene before “Fine” appears across the screen? Is it possible to be a two-way heel - a shoe without a toe? I'm reminded of Groucho Marx's witticism: “Time wounds all heels.” Nothing I want more right now than to set the clock back. Better yet, jump back on that train and keep going.