The Girl On The Half Shell

by Susan Ward

  I sit on the old crate, watching him play, as the barn fills up with the rest of the band. I don’t know why I could tell Linda all my messed up shit. I don’t know why I can’t tell Alan.

  Maybe I just can’t tell him that worst part of me because I love him.

  * * *

  Tonight there is something frantic in me. After the guys finished rehearsal for the day, Alan and I went back to the bedroom, made love, and I slept curled into him. When I opened my eyes, Alan was beside me watching me sleep. The world looked the same, but internally I woke different.

  I pull on Linda’s awful loaner mini dress and I fluff out my hair, brushing the underside, spraying it, in that way that Rene calls the “just been fucked” look of hair. My body is anxious, I feel it my flesh, frantic sensations running loose inside me.

  We are on our way to the village, to some sort of bar, where the guys might or might not play before an audience to get a little of the edge back before they go back on the road.

  I study my face as I put the finishing touches of makeup on and find something strange about me that I can’t identify.

  Everyone is already gathered downstairs waiting, by the time I leave the bedroom. The air is filled with cigarette and other smoke, and I can tell by the loudness that quite a bit of drinking and other stuff has gone on while Alan and I slept.

  I can feel Alan watching, but he doesn’t come to me. God, he is beautiful. Black hair, intense dark eyes, ordinary casual dress, but all Alan. It is still a little mind blowing that he is with me.

  Len smiles. “Is that all right with you, little kitty?”

  All right? What is Len’s talking about? I’ve not followed any of the conversation since I entered the room.

  “The cars,” he says with heavier meaning. “We’ve got to pair off. You’re driving with us.”

  Everyone is moving, getting ready to leave, and I roll forward onto my feet. Len puts his hand on the bare skin of the small of my back.

  “You OK?” Len whispers.

  “Sure I’m great,” I say with an overly bright smile.

  He gives me a half smile. “You know, Linda has a dress just like that. I always want to jump her when she’s wearing that dress.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I should take it off.”

  Len laughs a little too loudly.

  Once we are out in front of the farmhouse, everything suddenly feels very weird to me. But then, it’s been a weird day.

  I can barely see Alan’s face in the darkness around the gravel driveway, but I can feel he is studying me closely. The air is chilly, it touches my flesh, and I shiver. I am beginning to feel a dull, persistent sadness mixing with the frantic. Something is off. Is it me or is it him?

  “You OK, Chrissie? Cold?”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

  Yes, this definitely feels strange.

  The Rowans stop bickering and pile into the car. Alan leans a hand on my door, not opening it.

  “Why don’t we stay behind tonight,” he says quietly. His eyes touch my face softly, gauging my reaction. There is something in his voice I can’t quite make out.

  Alan turns us until I’m in his arms and his back is against the car. His mouth joins mine and I feel an almost hungry desperation in his need for me. Then it occurs to me in the way he kisses me, in the way he touches me, that he needs to know that we’re OK, that I’m OK. I suddenly know he can feel the weirdness, too, and that the weirdness is in me.

  He doesn’t break the kiss; he intensifies it. His hands move up beneath my dress, to the bare flesh of my thighs and I am lifted and molded into him. He is doing what he does so well, pulling me into him.

  “Let’s stay, Chrissie,” he breathes into my ear.

  He is using that voice he uses. The velvet seduction. The voice he uses to get me to do what he wants me to do. For some reason, he doesn’t want me going on the dysfunctional outing tonight.

  I tip my head back. “No, Alan, you are not using me as an excuse to bail on them. I don’t want them thinking I’m some uptight bitch who ruins everyone’s fun.”

  He sets me back on my feet. He is studying me again and his eyes are black and totally unrevealing. “Fuck what they think, Chrissie. I think we should stay behind.”

  He stares at me. God, he can be so frustrating at times. If he has something to say, why doesn’t he just say it?

  He opens my door and I drop into my seat. I can see that he doesn’t want to go, but I climb into my seat and we are going.

  The car is strangely quiet as we drive. After the loudness of the house, it is very eerie. Alan doesn’t turn on music, and even the Rowans aren’t bickering.

  The roads are narrow, lined with trees, and without street lamps. Without the mountains and the ocean, I can never tell what direction I’m going. Are we going north, south, east or west? I stare out the window into the smothering darkness. I don’t know. I can’t feel the direction. It is an unexpectedly disturbing thing.

  The rest of the dysfunctional are at the bar by the time we get there, their pretty line of fancy cars tucked into a lot full of less spectacular vehicles. As we pull into a gravel parking space, I look around for something to give an indication as to what amusement this place could hold for them. It is rustic and tucked in a thicket of trees, and I have a feeling we’re more likely to find NRA members than the rocker set here.

  But this is Alan’s choice. Alan’s favorite place at the lake. I wonder what he likes here.

  Linda is pushing at the back of my seat, and I climb out of the car before Alan can open my door. She springs out of the car and agitatedly begins to adjust her clothing.

  Linda shakes in head in irritation. “I hate that backseat.”

  Len gives his wife a roguish grin. “You didn’t last week, love.”

  “Oh, shut up, Len.”

  I laugh as the Rowans move ahead of us. Their bickering is part of them. I have a strange feeling they are going to be the only normal, the only constant tonight.

  Alan gives me a small smile as he pulls back the heavy wood doors, and I step into a dim, smoky tomb and feel a rush of dread. The bar is packed, pulsing and loud. But this is not a trendy nightspot for the fashionable off on holiday from the city. This is a redneck bar full of locals.

  The attention of the entire establishment is trained on us. The guys root out a space in the far end of the bar, away from the stage but near the dancing. They are dragging two tables and putting the chairs together for us.

  Linda snakes her arm around my waist and guides me deeper into the room. “Don’t worry, Chrissie. They know us here and the UK has a peace treaty with the Beverly Hillbillies. But if the room explodes, run. Our job is to stay clear and bail them out in the morning.”

  I laugh as Linda sinks into her chair and gestures for the waitress. Alan waits for me to sit and I scoot over in between him and Linda.

  “What do you want to drink?” Linda asks.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Tequila shooters with a beer chaser.”

  I look up at the girl. “I’ll have the same.”

  Alan is watching me and somehow staying engaged in the rapid laughter and chatter around the table. The waitress returns with her heavily burdened tray.

  Linda does a little cheers! motion with her shooter at me. “Pound it, Chrissie.”

  I copy her move. I bite my lemon, down the shot and then take a fast gulp of beer. Everyone laughs. Alan is watching me quizzically.

  “Two more,” Linda shouts in that confident way at the retreating waitress. She smiles at me. “We need to go shopping when we are back in New York. We’re out on the road in two weeks, Chrissie, and you’ll need to get everything.”

  Out on the road. Alan is going back on tour in two weeks. I hate that Linda assumes, in her all-knowing way, that I’ll be leaving with them.

  When the band breaks, the guys move to the stage. They all talk and there is a familiarity that tells me they know each other and that they’ve dro
pped in to play live to get the edge here before.

  The waitress returns, and in a moment I have another shooter.

  “Drink now, Chrissie.”

  I do it simultaneously with Linda and this time the tequila doesn’t burn. I’m glad it’s rushing into my stomach and soon my veins.

  I lean into Linda. “I want to dance.”

  She takes a deep gulp of her beer. “The UK should be playing soon. We’ll need to go find some redneck toys.”

  Redneck toys? I laugh. Linda has my hand and she is tugging me from my seat. I feel slightly wobbly as I stand. God, how could two shots of tequila make me feel this way?

  At the edge of the dance floor I stare.

  Linda laughs. “Don’t worry, Chrissie. The redneck toys will come to us. You look fucking hot tonight.”

  Blackpoll starts to play, and we are on the packed floor dancing with two college-type guys who look as out of place here as I do. There is something boyish and pleasantly good natured about my partner. For some reason, he makes me think of Neil and that crazy night at Peppers, and Jesse Harris in the kitchen.

  He can’t be more than twenty.

  Linda’s college dude has that bad-boy air about him, the kind of look Rene calls “axe-murderer,” but next to Linda he looks harmless and overwhelmed. Linda doesn’t dance as if she’s married, and her young admirer is very into it and very overt in the use of his body.

  I look up at my sweet-fresh-faced guy. “You come here often?”

  He laughs. “No. We drove down from Cornell for the weekend. I saw you come in with the band. Which one is yours?”

  I can tell by how he says it that he knows who they are. But of course, he would. This is a college age guy.

  “Alan Manzone.”

  He looks impressed.

  “For tonight,” I add.

  Shit, why did I say that? It makes me sound a little too slutty, a little too available, and to my disappointment, a little childishly petty. He’s all smiles, since I just suggested an opening that doesn’t exist. There is no opening with me for this guy. I should never have let him think it.

  “Are you OK?”

  I shake my head.

  “Do you want some air?”

  I look around the bar for Linda. She is across the dance floor, beneath the stage, and her penetrating laugh eclipses the loudness of the music.

  I take my college guy’s hand and pull him with me out the front door. The cold air hits me like a blast and I feel numb, out of my body, even though every part of me is anxiously churning.

  I turn, leaning against the front rail, to find my Cornell boy watching me.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Stop asking me that,” I snap, not at all reasonably. Shit, I don’t want to freak out right here and I don’t know what’s going on inside of me.

  He is still, unsure, studying my face in that way guys do when they think there is something wrong with a girl.

  “I didn’t mean to piss you off,” he says cautiously.

  “I’m not pissed off at you.”

  I lean into him and join my mouth with his. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I just want to know how it will feel to kiss someone other than Alan. His mouth moves on mine, deepening the kiss, a pleasant seduction, and I can feel that he is into this. I feel nothing.

  I should stop this… the front door swings open, hitting the wall like an explosion. I hear it before I see and understand: Alan rips the boy from my arms and hits him. The guy crumples to the ground like a collapsing house of cards and, in horror, I realize this is my fault.

  I try to check and see if he’s OK, but Alan harshly grabs my arm. He drags me through the parking lot to the far side where it is dark and our car is parked.

  Alan takes me by both arms and holds me beneath his face. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

  “I don’t know,” I snap, and I really don’t know.

  I just stare and he becomes more pissed off. He drags me to the car, opens the door and shoves me into my seat. He collapses into the driver’s side and every part of him is alive with extreme anger. He is breathing heavily.

  “Chrissie, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

  I hit him. It feels unexpectedly good. I hit him again and again and again. Alan’s entire body freezes, his face stripped of emotion. I hit him and he just lets me. I hit him harder and I start to cry.

  He hauls me across the center console until I’m straddling him. His features are tense and unreadable. “Calm down, baby. Whatever it is just talk to me,” he demands roughly.

  Those black eyes are fixed on me, warm with compassionate and so giving. I hit him again. “I hate you,” I hiss into face.

  I lean in, kiss him, and I start freeing him from his pants. Suddenly, the only thing I want is to fuck him. Like a tramp in a car, fuck him hard and angry, right here. I feel my panties jerked aside and his flesh there, seeking. He gently starts to ease into me and I jam him into me roughly.

  My fingers curl in his hair like claws and I move my body up and down frantically on his. I devour him with my lips.

  I ease out of him and I slam down. I pause at the tip and then I swallow him. I bite his lower lip. I nip at that pulse in his neck. I push him deep into his seat, using my body to control and consume him.

  I start fucking him even harder. He’s gentle with me. I get rougher. He tries to kiss me softly. I move my mouth harder and more demanding. He caresses me, lovingly. I resist and twist away from his touch.

  I want him angry and he is not. But I am angry and that is all I am sharing with him in this frantic joining of my body to his. My anger and my sorrow and my pain.

  I move hard and fast, and I can feel that he is holding back, waiting for me to climax. But I can’t climax, I can’t quiet, I just rage, and I want to rage until there is nothing left in me.

  He pulls down my dress and my breasts are in his face, a nipple held in his teeth. He does those little bites and tugs that usually drive me crazy, but it is not enough. For some reason, I can’t release that part of me where pleasure is.

  I join his mouth back with mine and I kiss him in a wild way, more tongue, deeper, harder than ever. I take his tongue and give it a tug, a hard suck. All my muscles below clench tightly, yet don’t release, and Alan lets go, finishing in me.

  I feel a strange sense of triumph, even though I didn’t climax. I pushed Alan to cum, and I realize that, for some reason, that was part of what I needed.

  I slowly collapse against him, my breathing ragged, and the pulse of my body still alive and awake there.

  The earth quiets and the car stills. The windows are steamed. The only sound is that of our breathing. I’m still straddling Alan. I am quiet in the flesh. I am not quiet within me.

  He doesn’t separate us. He doesn’t move.

  After what seems a monumental amount of time, he lifts his face from the tuck against my neck, beneath my hair.

  He stares at me and the gentleness of his expression makes me want to cry. I fight the tears.

  His long fingers stroke my bare back in a calming way. “Chrissie, I don’t understand what’s happening to you,” he whispers, frustrated and urgent. “What were you trying to do? What is it you want?”

  I shake my head. He folds me in his arms and holds me. Our bodies are both sweaty and damp. Our pulses are racing. “What is it you need me to do for you? Baby, just tell me. Tell me what you need.”

  I ease back almost to the steering wheel. I can’t speak through the spurts of my breathing. The tears are burning tracks on my cheeks. “You are leaving,” I choke out.

  I start to sob out of control and curl into Alan’s chest. His arms are warm and strong and his hands a velvet comfort on my back.

  “Why, Alan, does everyone I love leave me?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Alan carries me into the farmhouse. He sets me on the bed. He undresses me. He eases me down beneath the covers and tucks me in.

  We say nothing, as I watch him
move around the room. For some reason, he wants the harshness of incandescent light out of the room, because he takes a Coleman lantern, puts it on a table and then sets it ablaze.

  He undresses in the warm glow, and the sight of him naked and perfect and at ease with himself takes my breath away. I love to look at Alan. But tonight it is not a sexual thing, because the fucking in the car I think has left us both depleted.

  What’s in the room is a quiet, a closeness without touching, and love.

  He settles on the bed, fluffing up his pillow against the foot rest, and reclines with an easy grace so we are lying side by side, facing each other. It is an arrangement of our bodies that silently conveys talk to me.

  I lower my gaze. I finger the pattern of the quilt. I don’t know where to start. I don’t know what he knows, but I know he feels it. It’s in me, he feels it, he is unafraid of it, and I am unafraid of it with Alan.

  I crawl down to the foot of the bed, and he surrounds me with his body, and the feel of him is warm and safe.

  I start to cry, I don’t want to, but the tears are not something I can hold back. “What I want, Alan, is to talk about my brother.”

  * * *

  When I am done telling Alan all the things that haunt me, even the things I remember that I didn’t share with Linda, I stare up at Alan and cover his mouth with my hand. I don’t want him to say anything. He held me while I cried. Through some parts he cried with me, and in the end I told him everything. I held back not a single part, and that is enough for one day.

  I stare up at him. “Can I ask you something?”

  Alan laughs. He runs a hand through his hair. “Really, Chrissie? You’re worried about asking me something after all that? You can ask me anything, baby. You should know that by now.”

  I laugh. It does seem silly to worry. “How long can we stay at The Farm?”

  He takes me in his arms and rolls until I am on him. “As long as you want.”

  “It’s just, everyone leaves tomorrow. I don’t want to leave just yet.”

  “Then we won’t leave.”