They were finding their perfect rhythm in the world. He couldn’t stop moving into her, their rhythm so perfect and in sync, their bodies refused to quit. When she tensed and called his name, he let go with her. Both of them were swept up, pushed off, falling together from the edge of desire, pressing their lips together, whispering, “I love you, I love you.”
Breathing heavy, they murmured, “I love you” in between kisses, their desire quenched, but not for long. One look, one touch, and the sensation grew hotter and hotter. The air was thick, filled with love, that strange but delicious magic with no logic.
Hank took Delilah to bed and made slow, sweet love to her, touching her with a delicate hand. He controlled the pace and the flow, savoring every moment with her like it was his last. The tension between them throbbed for release, their bodies begging for more, more, more, never stop, never stop, but please let go, let go…
He whispered on her skin how much he loved her, how she felt so right to him, how beautiful and strong she was, like the winds that that could destroy coasts, but was tender and gentle, like the warm winds that blew across the water, only causing a ripple. He could hear the echoes of her sighs as she slid her fingertips up and down his back.
He licked every part of her he wanted to claim. He wanted to claim her but not own her. He wanted to claim her like some feral, male animal would do during some mating ritual out in the wild. He wanted to claim every part of her, so that any other male knew she was his in this way only. For her, he would scare the rest away. He licked her and kissed her and moved over her in long, slow, savory motions until she couldn’t take it any longer.
She spoke low, her breathing uncontrolled. “I don’t know how to only give one part of myself to you without losing myself completely. Oh, it’s all or nothing with you…all or nothing.”
Delilah had been with men, but she’d never felt a man like she did Hank. She never had orgasms. She never felt the connection behind the action. She confessed this to Hank in the heat of moments that seemed like they would live beyond the mere shells of their bodies. She had them then in long, lingering sequences. They went on and on, one after another. Her body fluttered and came apart for him—whatever her wish, it was his to make come true.
Hank could see and feel that Delilah was finally freeing herself of whatever shackle and chain had had her imprisoned for so long. At one point Hank had to slow down, make sure Delilah was all right, because the sensations became stronger and stronger, her release louder and louder.
The spiritual ritual went on and on; time was nonexistent. Molasses had stopped. Everything had stopped as they both fell deeper, so much deeper, into that black hole where time means nothing. They were careening along on her winds of change, like a thin sheet of paper in a Southern storm.
They loved the entire night, the next day, all through to the night again. When the room had turned black and she lay there spent next to him, spent but not fully satisfied as he turned circles on her back with his fingertips, Hank told her something he swore never to tell another living soul again.
Hank told her what he had witnessed so long ago. He told her he watched as two men were murdered. He mentioned no names, described no faces, because they had become ghosts to him. He spoke of them as ghosts who were haunting him. He spoke of the man who did it as the devil. He didn’t want her to know who it was. He didn’t want her involved to such a degree.
He admitted to Delilah that he was afraid. He was afraid of losing his life because that would mean losing her. And nothing in this life was more frightening than that. Now that he’d found her, he swore never to let her go.
Delilah sat there with him, silent, listening. She absorbed everything he had confided in her and locked it away. He fell asleep in her arms. As he lay sleeping, Delilah promised him she would never let anyone hurt him. She wished him cotton candy dreams and then drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, the third day, Delilah insisted they had to eat. There was a knock at the door. She stood and stretched, her back arching toward Hank. Her naked body was splendid in the early morning light; the flow of her spine flawless, the roundness of her bottom pure perfection. He reached for her but she was gone. Her long cream dress, dried and form fitting her body, disappeared from the room so smoothly, it was like she was never even there. He was reaching for empty air. He smelled her lingering scent, and that only seemed to blow him away again.
He threw on a white t-shirt and a pair of sweats. He met her in the kitchen, where there was a hefty sized basket sitting on the counter filled with assorted foods. Delilah was starting coffee. He could smell it in the air, already feel it in his blood stream. He went to take her in his arms, but she shook her head and pointed to the other side of the counter.
“I gotta get this on. I just have to.” She refused to look at him, but he could tell she was smiling.
Hank rested his back against the counter, watching her. She fiddled with the coffee maker, took the milk out of the fridge, sugar out of the cupboards. Hank smirked, fiddled with the plastic on the basket. It was filled with fruit and cinnamon buns.
“Hazel sent it over.” She poured two cups of coffee. Steam rose and the smell wafted. “She was worried we weren’t eating.”
Hank laughed. “Good thinking, Hazel Darling.”
When there was nothing else for her to do, she turned to him. She stood with both cups of coffee in her hands, holding one further out than she should have. Hank thanked her and took it, taking a small drink. She took a drink from hers, and their eyes met across the kitchen. She shook her head and he shook his.
He put the cup to his mouth, blew it off, and took another deliberate drink. Then he smiled. Hank could see her breathing had picked up, her eyes wanting, her lips parted in that way he had come to know so well. He could hear her breath sighing out of her mouth.
They stared for a moment longer, she moaned, and then she took her coffee cup and threw it to the floor. Glass shattered and hot brown liquid ran across the stone in a steaming river.
She wrapped her arms and legs around him, almost knocking him over. His cup fell out of his hands, the glass slipping right through his fingers. They turned in circles as they moved toward the kitchen table, their mouths coming together from the pressure of some frantic storm.
Time stopped all together once again. As the morning sun burned through the glass and stone, not even the heat of it could burn away the promises and secrets that had been shared.
The only ones burning were Hank and Delilah.
“Hank, we need to get out of here. I have to. I’m burning up real bad. I have to find some balance. Cool off.”
Hank stopped moving his bottom lip against her navel for a moment. Her hands released the leather of the red couch when he did. She glanced down at him and him up at her.
“It’s all right, darlin’. You want to take a walk along the beach?”
She smiled and nodded. “That’d be real nice. But first, before we do anything else, I have to get those stitches out. Melody said it’s time.”
Hank agreed. He sat still while she snipped the threads and pulled them out, cleaning it carefully afterwards. They changed, and for the first time since they arrived, they took a walk outside. The air was warm and salty, somehow making their skin feel softer. A nice wind blew in easy, constant strides. The waves lapped and crashed against the shore. As they walked their feet sank into the sand. It was just the right temperature.
In the bright glow of the day, Hank studied her carefully. She was free of makeup, the natural light leaving her perfectly exposed, hiding nothing. He paid close attention to the areas where the scowl lines were once so apparent. They were still there, but they seemed just a tad bit softer. Less sharp.
Hank hoped by the end of their life together, they would totally disappear. More so than the lines, it was the crescent-shaped scar indented into her skin that caught his attention. He was curious about the shape of it but decided against mentioning it.
Delilah noticed him staring and shook her head. She looked away from him, a smile on her face. She was wearing a wide-brimmed, floppy hat. June-bug had one. Every summer she would remove it from the closet, blow the dust off, and wear it with her retro style glasses. He knew southern girls liked them. They were funny about their skin. But he didn’t like when she hid under it. He enjoyed watching her smile and the way her face lit up when she did so.
Seeming to read his mind, she removed the hat from her head, and when she was a few feet away, she flung it to him like a Frisbee. He jumped in the air and caught it. She stretched her arms and legs, and then she began to perform dizzying flips. She front flipped three times toward him, twice backwards, and then she went straight for him again. When she got to him, Hank froze. He thought she was going to crash right into his chest. Instead, her legs landed around his neck, and she started to laugh.
“Delilah, where did you learn to do that?”
She flipped back and stood up straight. She took her hat and placed it back on her head. “Aunt Katherine, she liked for us to be well rounded. We took ballet, tap dancing, gymnastics, we played just about every sport, and each of us played an instrument. We had to study hard, play harder.”
“Why did your Aunt Katherine raise you?”
Delilah looked up at him, her eyes shining in the reflection to the sun. It seemed to Hank the warm air was trapped in that green field. The honey sun oozed, the blue skies were as bright as the sand. Her eyes were the most pleasant place to be lost. If he could get past those storm rings.
“Hank, I was orphaned when I was just a girl.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes, she’s gone.”
“And your sisters? Were they orphaned too?”
“Yes. Aunt Katherine found them and put us all together. I will never be able to thank her enough for that. My sisters and me…we’re all we have.”
“How’d she find them all?”
“Pretty easy. She just followed the blood trail.”
“Your mother.” Hank swallowed audibly. “She was murdered?”
Delilah wrapped her fingers around his. The wind blew against them as they watched the water roll in and out. “What about you, Hank? What are you going to do about your mama and daddy?”
Hank took a deep breath in, feeling the salt in his lungs, exhaling, feeling the rush of the moments he had spent with her. “I don’t know. I don’t understand how this could’ve happened. My mother and father, they really disliked each other. My father never admitted that because he’s big on forgiveness, and I suppose he had forgiven her at some point. The split was not amicable by any means, but when he picked Randy and me up, they were peaceful enough. Apparently he forgave her to the point where he felt love for her again. I never saw it coming, though, never.”
“Maybe they just loved each other so much, they couldn’t be together. That seems to happen a lot. You love someone so much that suddenly love becomes the enemy. You get your feelin’s hurt when they say the wrong things, or do the wrong things. You take every little action as a personal attack. They love you so much, yet they don’t know all the right words to say, all the right things to do. And you believe they should. I’m not sure, really. I think I’m just talking out of my head again. I’m not good in love, Hank.”
Hank put her hand to his mouth. “You’re good with me, darlin’.”
She took his hand and pulled him toward the house. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Hank could feel that ole wind changing again. Felt the pressure rise, felt the change in direction in which the sand blew, saw it in the backward rolling of the waves. He sensed her goodbye, and he had to turn it around. “Delilah, how about we get something to eat again? I know you’re hungry. I’m starving. Let’s go out a bit. Let’s just go be Hank and Delilah for a while.”
It took her a moment to answer. “All right. Hank and Delilah, for just a little while longer.”
After they made it back to the house, Delilah went to shower. Hank was gathering his clothes so that he could join her. But he knew he had to back away, just a little. Her mood was shifting and he could feel it. She was afraid, and Delilah didn’t do fear. He knew it, and that scared him. He was falling so hard he couldn’t help the flail of his arms.
She was everything he never knew he wanted. He wanted her and their road show for the rest of his life. But that damn Pistollette was there, and he couldn’t forget her, either. She had some strange, mystical hold over him. As much as he hated when she came to his mind, she did. Steady, slow, and poisonous. She was a patient one, and he knew that, too. It was a dark alley where she waited, but every so often she’d stick that masked face out and go “boo,” scaring the tar out of him.
The phone rang and Hank jumped a little. He picked it up on the third ring.
“Baby?” A raspy voice grated through the receiver. It was a man, breathing heavy, a little frantic sounding.
“Who are you looking for?” Hank said.
“Who the hell is this?” the man yelled.
“Who the hell is this?” Hank yelled back.
“Listen here you, little chicken shit, put Delilah on the phone. Right now.”
“I don’t think I can do that, not until you tell me who you are.”
The phone cracked and whined in the background. It sounded like it was being beat against a hard surface. “You have no idea what you’re doing! You’re playin’ a fiddle in a damn guitar band. If you don’t put Delilah on the phone right now, I’m going to cut off your balls and hang them on my rearview mirror as a trophy. I’m going to sit back and watch as they bounce back and forth, just for the damn fun of it. Do as you’re told.”
“Is this Paulie?” Hank turned around, checked to see if Delilah was standing behind him, but she was still in the shower. The water was still running.
The man sounded like he was having a heart attack—he couldn’t get anything out but profanities. Then the phone went dead.
Hank stared at it for a moment, wondering if he would call back. Wondering if she was in love with two men and was playing him. At least he came clean, told her the truth. He hoped the son of a bitch would call back.
The phone gave off a warning. Eager to get the cockfight started, Hank picked it up on the first ring.
“I’m not giving her the phone until you tell me who you are,” he said, his jaw clenching.
“The name’s Curly. Curly Izza Cootie, but I don’t want to talk to her. I want to talk to you.”
Hank sank back on the bed, the softness of it cradling him. He took Delilah’s pillow, situated it underneath his head, and then he let out a deep breath. “Hey, little brother.”
“When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know, why?”
“Just asking. Are you alone?”
“Yeah.”
“You probably don’t have much time, so I’m going to make this brief. Tommy wants to talk, too. I’ve been watching real good around here lately, Hanks. I’ve mostly been watching the girls. They use me as their run-around guy. If they got underwear that needs washin’, they call ole Curly to do it. Just as we expected, as a unit, they are so good it’s mighty frightening.
“But I’ve been watching them separately. Josephine Love, she’s the meanest of the bunch, Hank. A true man hater if I ever did meet one. She’s deathly quiet, like the calm before the storm. She’s thoughtful about everything she does, when she’s not rude.
“Hazel Little, she’s darling all right, until she has one of her fits. She’ll hand you a bun and the next thing you know, your nose is in it, all the way up the nostrils. Anything can set her off, too. Melody, she seems to be the most caring of them all. But just like a melody, she’s sneaky. She floats and sometimes you’re not even sure she’s there until boom! She’s right up in your face. Like she’d slip a Mickey Finn in your drink and then hurt you.
“The most playful is Gillian. She pokes me all the time, like I’m a game she wants to play. And no doubt, she’l
l win. She greets me every damn time with ‘Curly Cootie, Curly Cootie, take me to bed, ohhhh shit, Curly Cootie,’ sung to the very familiar tune of ‘Strokin.’ She’s the lewdest one—more flamboyant than the rest with all her boy toys. A real Lorena Bobbitt type, though. Lure you in with all her singin’ and then cut it right off and throw it out the window. Better yet, she loves sweet tea, that girl. She’d probably use it as a stirrer.”
Hank heard something in Curly’s voice as he was going on about them that made him almost sit up. His voice didn’t hold that hard-edge, fearful tone like it used to. Something had changed.
“Curly…”
“What, Hank?”
“Come clean. Why do you sound like that?”
Curly paused and then blew into the receiver. “All right, all right. I’m in love with them, Hank! Not hot love, but like sisterly love. I love them all, just like sisters. Even though they have very dangerous ways of showing their affection, they’re good to me, Hank. I never had girls fawning over me like you and Randy. I know you went through an awkward stage, but you grew out of it, and women love you. Look at the woman that’s there with you now—bona fide beauty. I never had that, Hank. I’m still awkward. But these women, they don’t make me feel that way.
“They tell me I’m a nice boy, and nice boys should always win. Jo, even though she hates me the most, she knocked a girl off her stool for me the other day. She hit the floor and all. And do you want to know why? Because she said she wasn’t good enough for me! They set me up with a real pretty girl, Hank. We went out and we had such a good time. They fussed over my hair and dressed me up like I was their Ken. I impressed the girl so much, she asked me out!”
Curly’s voice went lower. “Hank, I don’t know what happened to these women. I just don’t know. But whatever it was, they must’ve been hurt real bad. My heart breaks when I think about it. It hurts for them, Hank.”
“I don’t know, Curly. I wish I did. Did Tommy find anything?”
“Hold on, he wants to talk to you.”
Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah Page 19