BODACIOUS

by Sharon Ervin

  His eyes widened and he shook his head quickly from side to side, innocently, as if he didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “Yeah, I’ll just bet. Next thing is, I can’t bear to think about you sharing it with anyone else ever again. It’s like this part of you doesn’t belong to you by yourself anymore. Now, it’s mine, too.” She regarded him pitifully. “You probably noticed. I don’t have one.”

  His grin exploded into a laugh. He rolled up over her, pinned her to the bed, straddling her, lost the grin, and nodded solemnly. He pointed to himself, then to her and arched his expressive brows.

  “You don’t have to make any promises.”

  He nodded, arguing mutely.

  She shrugged and diverted her eyes. “It’s easy for me. You’re the only man I’ve ever responded to.” She looked back into his face. “You’re the first man I’ve known who’s actually qualified to operate one of these things.”

  Poised over her, he patted his chest and pointed to her, then patted her chest and pointed to himself.

  “You Tarzan, me Jane? Okay, we hereby promise not to play around with anyone but each other. We’re going steady.”

  Day 12: Lying on their backs in bed, Sara said, “Bo, how many times do you suppose we’ve made love?”

  He held up both fists then opened and closed his fingers several times.

  She laughed. “No, not that many.”

  He turned his face to hers, grinned and held up two more fingers.

  “A jillion and two?”

  His eyes twinkling, he nodded.

  She caught his hands to examine the insides of them closely. Studying his right, she said, “You have a second life line. Right here.” She ran her index finger down his meaty palm following a line which nearly paralleled the original.

  Holding the hand in hers, Sara struggled to disengage herself from the covers and sit up. Again she traced the line with her index finger. The scar split the thick part of his palm just below his thumb. “How did this happen?”

  He pointed to his knife which hung in its scabbard on the wall at the side of the bed.

  “You cut it?”

  He nodded.

  “You had stitches. I can see the little scars. Did you do it skinning game?”

  He shook his head and gave a three-fingered salute.

  “In boy scouts?”

  He grinned and gave her a staccato thumbs down.

  “Younger? Cub scouts?”

  He nodded and mimed the use of a manual can opener.

  “You cut it opening a can?” She stared at the scar in disbelief. He nodded, then indicated she should expand the guess. “With a can opener?”

  He shook his head.

  “With the can?”

  He gave her a wry smile and shrugged.

  “You were a klutzy kid?”

  He looked pained and held up eight fingers.

  “Well, most of us are klutzy when we’re eight. Your scout leader took you to get stitches. Someone took care of you.”

  He nodded again.

  “Your mother?”

  His grin freshened.

  “Is she still around?”

  Another nod.

  “Most of the time it doesn’t matter that you don’t speak, but sometimes it’s really annoying.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “I want to know about your family, your adventures growing up, your successes, your disappointments, what you thought about things then; what you think about things now. Are both your parents still living? Are you interested in politics?”

  He nodded to both. She backtracked.

  “Do your parents live near here? Am I going to meet them?”

  Sobering, he shrugged.

  “They don’t live close then, right?”

  He shook his head.

  “How about siblings? Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  He grabbed her, tossed her onto her back and began kissing her playfully.

  She was unconcerned that she was pinned beneath him. “I’d like to know a little something about your track record with women.” She allowed her fingers to trace the line of his ears beneath the mass of hair. “You aren’t married, are you?”

  He lifted himself away, regarded her in disbelief, grinned, shook his head slowly then ducked to begin nuzzling again.

  “Have you ever been married?”

  Kissing derailed other questions as he gently coerced her back to the paradise they had discovered and visited often together.

  When she awoke later, Sara propped up on an elbow and peered into Bo’s sleepy eyes.

  “Bo, why are you here?” Her curiosity had finally gotten the best of her. “Did an ex, a girlfriend, dump you? Break your heart?”

  He grinned broadly.

  “No, I know better than that. One dose of you and no woman could walk away.”

  His grin continued.

  “Mrs. Johnson said you were in the military.”

  He pursed his lips. The smile waned with the little nod.

  “Did you get drummed out?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did you go crazy, get the famous Section Eight psycho discharge?”

  He shook his head more slowly.

  “You’re not AWOL, are you?”

  The grin freshened.

  “Did you have some kind of disability?”

  He didn’t respond. Instead, he climbed over her and stepped out onto the cold, hard packed floor.

  “Was it a physical problem?”

  No response.

  She dropped her voice. “Was it a mental or an emotional problem?”

  He shot a dark look at her but still refused to indicate yea or nay, leaving her wildly curious.

  When they looked out, the sun had beaten back the heavy skies and warmed the morning. A forgotten thought niggled at the back of her mind. Here was the break in the weather they’d been waiting for. He could take her home, back to her old life. She should mention it. She didn’t want to.

  “Let’s walk over to the Johnson’s,” she suggested instead.

  * * *

  “You’re lookin’ fit,” Mrs. Johnson observed. Bo and Lafayette, trailed by a horde of Johnson progeny, had left the women and gone to check a fence. Again Sara found herself welcoming the sounds of other human voices as the older woman continued. “Be careful or you’ll wind up in the family way with a brood of youngsters of your own.”

  How could Mrs. Johnson tell? Sara hadn’t realized her euphoria would be obvious to the casual observer.

  Mrs. Johnson glanced at her and the older woman’s gentle countenance grew serious. Sara frowned, thinking.

  She loved the spontaneity of making love with Bo. Concerns about diseases and/or pregnancy were for promiscuous people living in civilization. They had taken no precautions.

  Mrs. Johnson continued. “I hear’d he’d give up that little Jezebel down by Settlement. That was glad news. ‘Kids call her his hot tamale. Them Mexican gals comin’ up from down south is eager to land ‘em a good American man to keep ‘em here legal.”

  Sara turned away. She didn’t want Mrs. Johnson to see that the mention of Bo’s having a girlfriend was news to her, but the revelation prompted new concerns. What kind of diseases might Bo’s “hot tamale” have? How healthy were the hot tamale’s other suitors?

  “You gonna’ marry him, Sara?”

  Sara stopped walking. The two women had strolled to the river bank, picking up the autumn’s incidental pecans peeking out of the slush beneath their tread. Sara turned a stunned face to Mrs. Johnson, who was looking at her.

  In her stricken state, Sara’s mind suddenly was assailed by wild, disconnected thoughts.

  Stay with Bo? Marry Bo? Sara Loomis stuck with a hairy, mute mountain man for a mate? Not a chance. She had a real life.

  No. She couldn’t stay with him. The idea was absurd. No, no. Her real life didn’t include him. He belonged here, tramping around in the woods. If he had a backwoods girlfriend somepl
ace, that should make it easier for Sara to leave. She could abandon him with a clear conscience, leave him to his hot tamale.

  When she left...

  Her breath burned in her throat.

  She couldn’t leave him. How could she live without him after...? She felt a terrible, sickening despair.

  So, what were her options? Could she stay with him?

  She exhaled hopelessly and glared at the muddy ground.

  What would her parents think of Bo as a live-in, a son-in-law even? If she should remain with him, her mother and dad would expect to come visit, stay at the cabin. Where would they sleep?

  Her mother complained when Sara talked about taking a one-bedroom apartment with no dishwasher. What would she say about a primitive one-room cabin with an outhouse?

  Her dad would ask questions about Bo. She could almost hear him. Difficult questions. Sara didn’t even know Bo’s last name. That probably would be one of her dad’s first--one of the easy questions.

  And she could hear her mother: “What does the man do, Sara?”

  Well, Mom, he skins rabbits. He wrings chickens’ necks skillfully. He whittles a real nice comb.

  “Oh, God, what have I done?” she whispered, ignoring Mrs. Johnson who had wandered on ahead of her.

  The idea of introducing Bo to her parents was ghastly. How would she ever explain him to them? She looked at Mrs. Johnson and hurried to catch up.

  Of course, she could tell her parents she’d been frigid, had never experienced the joys of sex before; that she owed him for opening a whole closed section of her, a part which had lain fallow, undiscovered until his safari into her.

  She rolled her eyes heavenward. Oh yeah, she thought, sarcastically, she’d definitely be telling her mom and dad all about that.

  Mrs. Johnson turned around and was looking back at her. “It’d be good to have a neighbor woman close by. I could help you birthin’ your young ‘uns.”

  Lord, help me, Sara prayed silently. She visualized little mute Bo clones in bearskin coats. The image was farcical. Bo just scraped by providing for himself. How could he support a mate, much less a batch of kids? And what would their relationship be--hers and his--when the ardor cooled?

  Okay, they didn’t have to stay here. She could entice him back to civilization.

  Swell.

  What would her friends think of him, unkempt, silent? They’d be like those simpletons in Settlement, think he was some kind of mutated animal or a madman.

  She could just imagine her sorority sisters’ comments when she showed up for homecoming with Bo. Could he follow their glib conversations? Would he even want to, not able to contribute; if, that is, he should have the mental capacity to think up anything to contribute?

  Sara was disgusted with herself. Was she really this shallow? Was she some kind of closet snob?

  Except for being a dud at sex, which no one else actually knew, Sara felt well respected, capable, bright, successful. She was popular, often invited to people’s homes, to parties. She suspected that would change if the invitations had to include Bo.

  Oh sure, he seemed smart enough compared to Franklin and Cappy and the Johnsons, but intelligence is a relative thing. How would Bo measure up compared to Jimmy Singer?

  Bo would excel, of course, if they both paraded naked.

  Bo was by far the more excellent lover, the kinder, more considerate human being, but Jimmy had a certain, enviable social appeal. Besides, except for insisting on wearing his T-shirt and socks during sex, Jimmy wore stylish clothes which looked great on his slender frame.

  Bo wore flannel shirts, long handle underwear and animal skins.

  Sara trudged along trailing Mrs. Johnson in morose silence.

  If she bound herself to Bo, she would be sentencing herself to the life of a mountain woman, unable to reassume her old cushy existence, prematurely stooped, worn out under the burden of too many children, overwhelming responsibilities, too many hardships.

  She glanced at Mrs. Johnson as the woman prattled on unheard.

  Of course, Sara argued to herself, wondering what Mrs. Johnson had sacrificed, I would have a man who loved me, who would give everything he had to keep me happy, provide for my needs. He would probably insist I use the chamber pot when the weather was bad.

  Tears stung her eyes. Her throat ached. She tried to keep her face from reflecting the sarcasm, the caustic, disquieting, ungrateful thoughts flitting through her mind. She swiped unwanted tears from her face.

  “It’s a hard life,” Mrs. Johnson was saying as Sara tuned her in again. The older woman had been talking softly all the time they were walking. “But it has its rewards. We don’t worry so much about our chil’ren gettin’ onto drugs or joinin’ gangs and such. Of course, they don’t get much schoolin’ neither, only such as Fate and me is able to give ‘em. It’s like all the rest of life. You’ve got to sacrifice some things for the others.”

  They had been walking along the river bank for a quarter mile or more in studied silence when Sara, gazing at the ground, deep in thought, noticed an indention, a familiar shape in the mud. The track was filled with water. She stooped to trace the imprint with her finger. It was the distinctive print of a boot.

  “Have your kids come down this way today?”

  The older woman looked at her oddly. “No, why?”

  “Here’s a footprint here by the water. I just wondered.”

  Mrs. Johnson came back and bent to examine the track, then straightened. “None of mine’s been this far since the weather turned. This step’s been made recent, by a heavy man with a small foot in a new boot. We’d better find Fate. Better find him right quick.”

  Hurried steps returned the two women to the Johnson’s home. They waved to the men and the parade of youngsters in the distance trooping back from the pasture.

  Sara’s breath caught and she felt a familiar warming between her legs as she watched Bo striding toward her, tall, powerful, supple, funny, sexy, courageous, caring...

  “Stranger’s walking here ‘bouts,” Mrs. Johnson told her husband after he got near enough that she could say it in a normal speaking voice. Fate looked at her with interest.

  Bo turned his alert, questioning eyes from Mrs. Johnson to Sara who nodded.

  Fate said, “Show me.”

  On the river bank approaching the site, Mr. Johnson told the ladies and the children to stay back. Bo stepped out into the shallow water and hunkered several times to run his fingers in more tracks. Mr. Johnson spoke quietly. Bo responded with grunts and nods or shakes of his head.

  They walked up river following footprints a long way then doubled back.

  “There’s five of ‘em,” Fate said, addressing no one in particular. “Four city folks and one neighbor, looks like. Could be they’re looking for deer track.”

  Sara heaved a grateful sigh and looked at Bo. He kept his eyes averted. She looked at Mrs. Johnson who was regarding Mr. Johnson closely.

  “Is that all it is, then, deer hunters looking to set up camp?” Mrs. Johnson asked.

  Mr. Johnson shook his head. “Don’t much believe it is. They got dogs.” He glanced at Sara. “Looking for this little lady here, most likely.”

  She shivered. Her rescuers had come. Finally. But she’d already been rescued, in a far more significant way than she could explain.

  She looked at Bo. His dark eyes were steady on her face. He motioned with his head. He wanted to leave. She went to him, slipped her hand into his, turned as he turned, and fell into step beside him.

  Suddenly she remembered her manners and looked back. “Thanks, Mrs. Johnson, for everything. I look forward to visiting you again real soon.”

  The Johnsons called good-byes as Sara and Bo cut through the underbrush and into the woods.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bo’s gait quickened as they neared the cabin. Releasing Sara’s hand, he went directly to the shed. She followed, watching him, beginning to feel nervous.

  He removed the cover from
his motorcycle. Rummaging among stores in a dark corner of the shed, he produced containers of oil and a five-gallon can of gasoline. He checked spark plugs, filters and the fuel line before filling the gas tank.

  He wiped the body of the machine with a shop rag, then stepped on board and pumped the starter. Two tries and the motorcycle roared to life. He looked both pleased and relieved.

  Nerves prickled along her arms when Sara realized what he was thinking. “I’m not leaving.”

  His gaze was intent. He pointed to her then to himself.

  “We’re both leaving?”

  He nodded.

  “No, Bo, this is your home. You don’t want to leave the life you’ve built here. Not for me.” Turmoil bubbled inside her. She’d begged him to take her home. But now that he was willing, she wanted to stay with him, where ever it was, just until she was tired of him. Not now. Not yet.

  Then another startling thought: Did he plan to go home with her?

  Oh, no.

  As she stared at him, alarmed, his eyes caught hers and narrowed with vague understanding. Abruptly, he turned. She followed him outside. He looked south and west to determine what the approaching weather might be.

  She caught his arm. “Bo, please.”

  He pulled away without looking at her and she trotted behind him back to the cabin. He dug a knapsack out of the steamer trunk, tossed it on the table and began grabbing things: the rifle and the shotgun, his billfold, a small leather pouch, a handful of jerky, a change of clothes. Finally he dug out a satchel which he filled with what looked to be half a ream of a typed manuscript and several volumes from his bookshelf.

  It appeared that he planned to be away a long while. Did he think he was going home with her?

  She wasn’t ashamed of him. Not really. Not exactly.

  He went back to the shed and wheeled the motorcycle to the cabin.

  She paced, watching him through the open door. To be honest, she didn’t want Bo to meet her parents or her friends. But how could she tell him that?

  She couldn’t. Not after all he’d done for her.

  If he were determined to go with her, she would just have to figure a way to explain him to...to everyone.