by G L Rockey
After a couple minutes, a white towel around her, she left the bathroom light on and walked to me. I reached to touch her. A tiny electric spark. I kissed her hand and the smell of fresh soap mixing with her knockout perfume melted me. She dropped the towel. I tasted her silky skin.
She ran her fingers through my hair and said, “Did you want me to help you with your clothes?”
“I, I, I….”
She pulled my shirt over my head and I took it from there.
* * *
Somewhere around 1000 B.C., she whispered, “I knew it, when I saw you, we would be different.” She welded her mouth to mine.
I was thinking, me too, but not like this, and it's okay.
* * *
We moved up through around 1 A.D. and, in the dim light, I couldn't get away from her eyes. We shared air. She whispered “John” in my ear. No one ever called me John, except Aunt Jane. We agreed we should allow some time to get to know one another. In a cradle of getting-to-know-each-other movement, the first impression of daylight cast dull shadows across the room. She nuzzled her face under my chin; not believing any of this, I slept with one eye open.
* * *
I awoke to the smell of coffee brewing and sunlight streaking across my face. Gillian absent, I sat up and glanced through the open window. Green grassy fields rolled off to distant tree covered hills. I had never anywhere seen so much green, everywhere.
Listening to birds chattering outside the window, my watch on the nightstand, I checked the time, little after 8:45, Saturday, May 5.
I took a deep breath. The fresh air brought on a cigarette cough.
From outside, Gillian called: “John, out here, on the front porch.”
I stood and glanced around, basked by the morning light, the small bedroom—flowery rose wallpaper, white plaster ceiling, wood four post double bed, patchwork quilt, rose-colored sheets, small nightstand, powder blue lamp, white shade, antique chest of drawers with a mirror set in scrolled woodwork, hardwood floor, door-less closet, painted white door to the bathroom, another antique wooden chair painted the same white, my clothes dangled over the back.
I walked over to the chest of drawers and that decal on the mirror, I had seen in the outline of night that it was a Tennessee Bureau of Investigation insignia. I looked in the closet. Neat, nice assortment of clothes, jeans hanging over hangers, selection of shoes, mostly pumps, loafers, pair of sparkling white Adidas sat on the floor beside a couple pair of biker boots, and … leaning against the wall, in a corner, a rifle, looked like some sort of mean short barrel assault weapon I had seen on news footage … hmm.
Fresh coffee aroma mixing with the sweet fresh smells of the countryside air, I looked again through the bedroom window screen.
I knew generally the geography, northwest, but wondered, where exactly am I? I pulled my jeans on.
“John.” Gillian called again, “outside, porch.”
“Coming.”
I stepped into the tiny bathroom, splashed water on my face, dried on a white bath towel, went back to the bedroom, grabbed my pack of Salem and Zippo from the nightstand, tiptoed across cool wood floor to the peach-colored linoleum of the kitchen, and glanced through the wooden framed screen door. There she sat on the porch swing, white terry cloth robe stopped at her knees, beautiful knees. Hair pulled to the top of her head, basking her bare feet in the angled morning sunlight, a picture postcard. She sipped from a stout white coffee mug.
More than I remember, even younger, I thought.
She looked at me looking at her through the screen door. “Coffee’s by the stove, cups above the sink.”
I stepped back, retrieved a cup, poured it full, and noticed her purse on the table where she had dropped it last night, slightly open, something shiny in there. Nosey news person that I am, I looked closer and the silver barrel of a snub-nosed revolver peeked back. Looked lethal. A further peek revealed a cell phone and … nestled in there with things, a pearl handle straight razor.
Wondering why Gillian had all the slash and shoot 'em up hardware, she called, “Are you coming out, or what?”
I went to the door and studied her through the screen. Couldn't be.
She said, “What's a matter?”
I pushed the screen door open and it did a little screech. I took a step, the door slapped shut, and I sat on the swing beside her.
I said, “Where did all this green come from?”
“Peaceful, no?”
I inhaled. “And this air, you could eat it.” I coughed.
“You smoke too much.”
“You always get up so early?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Did you and Angel ever get your phone calls straightened out?”
“My what?”
“Your phone calls, last night.”
“Oh, that was nothing, some guy wanted to go duck hunting.”
“John, she must have called ten times.”
“Who?”
“John, Angel told me.”
“Angel should have been a television news reporter.”
“She showed up.”
“Who?”
“Who … were you supposed to go to a premiere party?”
“Me? No.”
“I don't think so.”
“Who uses the straight razor?” I said.
Distant, she paused like she was about to say something but didn't say it. She drank some coffee, then said, “My dad’s, I use it to shave my legs.”
“You're kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Ever nick ‘em?”
She gave me a long gaze.
“I meant your legs.”
“You are nosey, aren’t you?”
“News business.”
More gaze, then she pushed her toes against the floor, set the swing in motion, and held her feet out, wiggling her bronzed toes with, same as her fingernails, no polish.
I looked at her legs. Not a nick. I looked at her feet. Beautiful feet.
I said, “You a cop?”
She stopped wiggling her toes for a second. “Why would you ask that?”
“The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation decal, bedroom mirror.”
She began wiggling her toes again, “Oh, that, I donated to some fund once.”
“Me too … who's Smith and Wesson?”
“You are nosey.”
I felt dumb.
She looked into her coffee like she was reading tea leaves then tugged one of my ten chest hairs, “Later, long story, enjoy the sunrise.” She drank some coffee.
That was twice or was it three times she told me later, long story stuff. Once last night, about this house in the boondocks, and now. I hate long stories but I sensed she didn't want to talk about it so I looked to enjoy the sunrise and noticed Winston, parked off the road, askew on the grass. I said, “Must have been in a hurry last night.”
“So, what is it with Moore and you?”
That stopped me. Berry and Joe just skipped around paragraphs. She left out whole chapters. And another thing, some of the Kitten twang was gone.
I said, “Nothing.”
“Try again.”
“Long story.”
“That's my line.” She gigged me in the ribs. “What?”
“And somebody said I'm nosey.”
“So you stood her up?”
“I didn't stand her up.”
“You lie pretty good.”
“So how do you like Snakebite?”
She avoiding that and I detected some cheap phoniness creep between us. Blancpain left on the nightstand, I said, “What time is it?”
“Going somewhere?”
“I have a dinner date.”
She rubbed my back. “Mad?”
“No.”
“Loud.”
“So what time is it?”
“There's something not to like,” she said.
“What?”
“Adolescent Johnny.”
&
nbsp; “What time is it?”
“I don't know.” She pulled her legs up with her arms and propped her chin on her knees, showing angry, because I think, she was. She said, “Go look for yourself.”
I didn’t and after a minute of silence, she put her feet on the porch and pushed the swing. “Look at Saturday coming over that hill.”
I looked at the small front yard then the rolling hills emerging in the mist. Could stay here forever. I rubbed the stubble on my chin and wondered about a shot of something to go in my coffee.
“What are you thinking about now?” She said.
“How nice a shot of Jack Daniels would be in this coffee.”
“You drink too much.”
I set my cup on the floor and lit a Salem. “I don't get it.”
“What?”
“You, living out here … in the boondocks.”
“Later.”
“That's four or was it five.”
“What?”
“You told me ‘later’.”
She pushed closer. “One thing you have to promise.”
Ah oh, here it comes, I thought.
“This place is our secret, okay?”
Wonderful, just what I needed, another puzzle. “Why?”
“It's my hideaway, to get away from it all.”
“Tell me more.”
“Not even Angelo.”
“I don't think I'll be seeing him soon.”
“I'm serious, okay, all of this, our secret, okay?”
“Okay, but who are you?”
“You go first.” She said.
“Are you seeing a psychiatrist?”
“No … okay, I'm younger, I'll go first.”
“I gotta go.”
“Sit down … Libra, born September 23, twenty-six years ago….”
“I really gotta go.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“How old are you?” she said.
“Guess.”
“Ah, eighty-two.”
“Close enough.”
“And I'd say … born in February.”
“How'd you know?”
“Aquarius, nosey and full of it.” She did that smile that killed me, stretched her legs out and said, “See that skin color, they said they think one of my parents was black.” She looked at me for a moment. “Lioness of Judah? What do you think?”
“I'm Scottish.” I studied her face, “What do you mean, they said they think?”
“Long story.”
There is was again, more of that later long story Crayola crapola.
“I was adopted.”
It was then it clicked: she omitted things, skipping ahead, back, like whole chapters she didn't like, ripped out of her life, on purpose or for a reason.
I said, “How you get from there to here?”
She looked at me, read my mind, weighed something, then began, “I ran away when I was eighteen, had to get away, left Tennessee, Los Angeles escape, waitress in a night clubs, I came back to Nashville a month ago, started working at Felix The Cat few days ago.”
My jerk alarm started ringing. Something wasn't jiving. Dime novel, pages missing, fiction as in nothing seemed to be clicking and, in my refined skepticism, I was thinking maybe I should get out of here. I thought about that a second and decided to give it some time. I said, “So, you live here?”
“I have an apartment, in the city, I just come here for special occasions, like I said, to get away, weekends, my secret hideaway … ours … rent it.” She looked at me.
Talk about facts, life, and fiction. “Where is your apart—”
“I love the country, the land, I think I'm a farmer at heart … when I get enough money I'm going to retire and grow vegetables.”
Not only did she leave out whole chapters, she interrupted like a Supreme Court judge, and she was a damn good liar.
She tugged one of my chest hairs. “Met John. Two lives in twenty-six years and this is the third, maybe better.”
I said, “And you fell madly in love and lived happily ever after.”
“How'd you know?”
“Give me a break with this ninety-nine shades of Crayola crapola.”
I don't think she liked that. The reason I don’t think she like that was because she stopped the swing, stomped her feet to the porch, got up, sat on the top porch step, and said, “Now I get it.”
“Glad one of us does.”
I don't think she liked that either. The reason I don't think she liked that was, she stiffened, gave me a large blank stare, then looked away.
I backed off and offered, “So this is the third act, huh?”
“Shut up, Jack.”
After about five minutes of shut up, she said, “I hope only three,” and came back and sat on the swing. “How many for you?”
“I'm not sure, but I think it's one of those Greek things, chorus and all.”
“Comedy or tragedy?”
“Farce.”
“And this is a farce?”
“Who knows?”
“Who knows,” she said flatly.
I dragged Salem and said, “Nice farm, how many acres?”
“Fifteen.”
Silence for a few minutes, then she spoke, “Married?”
“Was.”
“What happened?”
“Long story?”
Sharp gig in my ribs, she said, “Deliberate, isn't it?”
“What?”
She pointed to the morning sun, streaking a few high cirrus clouds with brilliant crimson and pink. “Saturday, look at it.”
I dragged the last puffs from Salem and flipped the butt in the yard. “No guilt.”
“No guilt?”
“Nothing, forget it.”
She stood and looked down at me. “John, you're going to have to get used to one thing around here.”
Looking up, I reached for her hands but she withdrew. I said, “I am?”
“Yes.”
“What's that?”
“No ‘forget it’. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“How about some more coffee.” She stood.
I said, “A shot of Jack Daniels would go good in that coffee.”
“No can do, nothing to drink here.”
“You're kidding.”
“No.” She loosened her hair, tossed it free, and took my mug. “You drink too much anyway.”
As she stepped to the screen door, I thought, preachy. Then I thought, don't get too picky, maybe you just think it was preachy. Maybe you do drink too much.
She stepped inside and pressed her nose against the screen. “Breakfast?”
I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten breakfast. Think it was at Denny's, ten years ago. “You can cook?”
She shot me a freeze dried stare, said, “For special occasions,” and went into the kitchen.
My jerk mode thought, I wondered how many special occasions she has here a week and immediately I felt dumb for thinking that.
I lit another Salem and tilted my head toward the screen door. Like in a time warp, orchestra music, a clarinet, Goodman, came from inside and “Moonglow” filtered through the screen. Amazing.
She returned with a mug of steaming coffee and handed it to me. “Like the music?”
“When did you acquire the taste in ancient music?”
“I'm going to make you the best breakfast you ever had.”
“You sure you can cook?”
Hand on her hip: “That's twice.”
“What?”
“You said that.” She went inside.
Listening to her bang around in the kitchen, loud banging, Stravinsky's “Rite Of Spring” came to mind.
She looked out the screen door. “Be just a couple of minutes.”
“Don't rush, I like the music.”
She disappeared.
Listening to the banging and music, I thought how much I liked her quickness, her voice, her movements, her eyes, her body, her hair, her fee
t, her banging. What don't you like? Little scary. Maybe too much.
* * *
In around a few minutes, the music now Britt Nicole's “Through The Eyes of Love”, Gillian backed out the screen door carrying a red plastic serving tray. She turned and I looked at the food—platter of fried bacon, four fried eggs, a mile of toast, and a roll of paper towels.
I couldn't believe the look on my face. I asked. “Who else is coming?”
Smiling, she set the tray on the swing, wrapped a piece of toast around a strip of bacon, sat on the steps, and said, “Eat.”
So, while Britt filled the countryside, I ate.
* * *
Ten minutes later, the music off, dishes taken inside, we sat on the swing, sipped coffee, and she said, “Did you know you attack food?”
Far off, a train whistle blew. Then closer, a rooster crowed.
“Whose rooster?” I said.
“Next farm down the road.”
“He's late.”
We watched Saturday continue to crawl across the landscape.
That rooster crowed again.
The train whistle, further off, blew again.
* * *
Cleaning up the breakfast dishes, pots, pans, amid a discussion about roosters crowing, the sun rising, which came first, Gillian, a little twang returned, said, “Reality is, it's Saturday and some of us peons has to work … we're expecting a big crowd tonight at Felix The Cat … or I should say, were expecting a big crowd,” she raised an eyebrow, “as you all know, Ms. Moore vamoosed.”
I detected a forced change in something … her vocabulary, different than that used at The Cat. I said, “Don't look at me.”
After a moment of thought, she said, “Anyway, I have to go to work … I'm already in trouble.”
“How so?”
Ignoring that, she said, “I have an idea. I have until 8:00, let's go to Percy Priest Lake for the afternoon, take a swim.”
I liked that idea, knew a secluded spot.
* * *
In five minutes she came from the bedroom (tan sandals in her right hand) barefoot. She wore white tennis shorts and a pink T-shirt. The front of her shirt had printed: Emily Dickinson, Time & Eternity below an oval likeness of the poet. Under her left arm, she held two white towels and a lime-green blanket. I took the blanket and said, “Nice T-shirt.”