The Girl from Charnelle (14 page)

“You okay?” John asked.

“I'm just sick of lying.”

“He won't be back, and we have the next couple of days together.”

“You don't know that,” she said. “He might be back in an hour.”

“Nah. They check on you once, and they leave you alone. And we're out on the edges. No one knows this place. Trust me. It's just you and me now. Don't let it bother you.”

She didn't say anything.

“Hey, I know what'll cheer you up.”

He went to the truck and brought back a large bottle and a couple of mugs.

“What's that?”

“Sangria.” He poured some in both mugs and handed her one.

“No,” she said.

“It'll loosen you up,” he said.

“It'll make me sick.”

“No, it won't. It's weak Mexican wine, practically grape juice. You'll like it. It's sweet. Just enough to warm you up. Here, take it.” She held the mug but didn't drink. “Come on,” he said. “Wonderful on a night like this. Besides, we should be celebrating.”

She took a drink, and it did taste sweet, like juice, without any of the bitterness of liquor.

“See,” he said. He tapped his mug against hers. “Cheers.” They drank.

“Hey, let's go swimming,” he said.

“The water will be too cold, won't it?”

“Are you kidding?” He stood up and undid his belt. “Come on,” he said.

“Aren't there snakes?” She'd heard a rumor recently about water moccasins, though she'd never seen one in all her previous trips to Lake Meredith.

“Nah. You have to watch out for snapping turtles, though. I heard one bit off a guy's wiener.”

“Really?”

He laughed. “I'm joking. Come on.”

“Let me go put on my bathing suit.”

“You don't need a bathing suit,” he said. “It's dark. It's just you and me.”

“What if the ranger comes back?”

“He's not coming back. He's up at his station with a flask of bourbon and a big fat cherry pastry in his mouth, listening to a baseball game on the radio.”

He dropped his pants and then his boxers, left them crumpled by the fire. The light outlined his body, silhouetted the hairs on his arms and legs. His penis dangled between his thighs. She heard a night bird caw in the trees behind them. It made her jump.

“You go ahead,” she said.

“Not unless you come, too.”

“Okay. But go on first.”

“You don't have to be so shy, honey.”

He dove in and resurfaced a few seconds later. “Ahhhh,” he called, “Shang-raaa-la! Laura, you have to get in. This is amazing.”

The water did look inviting. She was too warm. She slipped out of her jeans and dropped them by the bank. She was hesitant about taking off her panties and bra. But he'd seen her before, and it was dark. He would see her again. Isn't that what they were here for? She both knew and didn't know.

“Come on, Lucky,” he sang. “Come on, Isabel.”

She moved to the edge of the water. Dipped her toe in. The water was cool but not cold. It felt good. She did love to swim. She stepped back, undid her bra, and placed it neatly on a rock by the water. She bent over and slipped out of her panties. She instinctively covered herself with her arms and hands, aware that the light from the fire must be illuminating her.

He swam up to the bank. “What are you ashamed of?”

“I'm not.”

“Don't be.” She dropped her arms. “I should paint you,” he said.

He held out his hand. She took it as the water edged over her knees. She stepped out so that the lake reached her thighs. He still held her hand, but he kept his distance, as in a dance. She dove past him, swam underwater several yards, and emerged into a banner of moonlight.

“Oh, my Isabel,” he said so happily that she had to laugh. Her voice echoed across the lake. She smiled and swam on her back, her body half breaking the surface.

He swam to her, reached under, and pushed up on the small of her back, so that her body broke the plane of the surface. Her skin looked so pale. She put her head back, her hair fanning out. He said something, but her ears were underwater. She just heard the muffled vibration of his voice. And then she heard, from far away, pattering on the water, and then felt a droplet land on her forehead, and then more on her breasts. She opened her eyes. John was still holding her. The water was at his shoulders. The rain landed on her face and body, and with him holding her like this, she felt like part of a ceremony she read in one of Manny's Tarzan novels, a jungle princess sacrificed to rain.

T
hey made it to the tent, running through the drizzle, just before it poured. John had to dash to the truck to get towels. He had grabbed the lamp on the first run from the lake. When he went to the truck again, she dimmed the light. He came back with the duffel bag and stopped at the entrance—naked, drenched.

“Towels in there,” he said and stood with the water sluicing off his back, so that he resembled one of the pictures she'd seen in her science textbook of a prehistoric man at the mouth of a cave. Then he darted out to the fire, snatched up the sangria and mugs, and brought them inside. “Kick those sleeping bags over so they don't get wet,” he said.

She'd already dried off. She threw him a towel. He stepped out of the rain, which increased the volume of the puddle inside the tent. He dried himself and then dropped his towel to the tent floor and let it sop up the puddle before it reached the sleeping bags. Shyly, she held a towel around her and grabbed her bag and pulled out a long shirt. She slipped it over her head
before removing the wet towel. He smiled, shook his head. She felt that her modesty was odd even to her. They'd just been outside on the lake, floating on the surface. But she was used to living in a house full of men, sleeping in a room with three brothers. She was used to keeping herself covered.

Through the tent flap, they stared at the rain, watched it douse the persistent embers of the fire so that the only light left was from the lamp.

“How are the sleeping bags?” he said.

“Pretty good.” She reached over and pulled them to the middle of the tent again, straightened them out. Only one edge was slightly damp.

“Do we need to get anything else from the truck?” she asked.

“It can wait until tomorrow.”

He pulled the canvas flap down. Water dripped from it, making another small puddle. He dried his arm again and cleaned up the mess, clutched the sangria and mugs and crawled over to the sleeping bags and sat cross-legged beside her. He was still naked, and she tried not to look at his lap, but her eyes kept darting there whenever she thought he wasn't looking. She couldn't help thinking it looked like there was simply a small animal hiding in a wet, brown nest.

“I'm cold,” she said and climbed into the sleeping bag while he poured the sangria.

She thought at first she wouldn't have any more, but it did taste like grape juice, and it seemed to have no effect on her.

“Thanks,” she said as she sipped.

She finished her mug, and he poured her another. He dimmed the light, set the mugs aside, and then he got into the sleeping bag with her.

“Oh, yeah. That's the ticket,” he said and scissored his legs a couple of times to heat the flannel even more, his leg brushing against hers. “Come here,” he said. “Warm me up.”

 

In the faint glow, under the covers, he pulled off her shirt. She felt exposed, but he held her so close that she could feel the hair from his chest and stomach against her like soft fur. As they kissed, she kept her legs together. He drew her to him, hooking his leg over hers, and thrust against her a few times with a sudden comic force that made her laugh. She had thought about this for the past month and a half, ever since that night at the end of spring break, and she kept reeling back and forth between anticipation and
a skittish nausea. On the trip here, she'd been nervous, but it had subsided, come back, and then calmed in the lake so that she no longer felt so anxious. She liked the way he smelled and felt against her, but it seemed like there was this small animal between them, alive, with a will of its own.

He kissed her throat, skimming his hand over her breasts and ribs, and then his head bobbed above her breasts, his mouth on one nipple and then another. His mouth brushed over her ribs to her stomach.

“Ticklish?”

She laughed and rocked back and forth. He grabbed her and blew against her belly, creating a fart noise.

“Don't!” she shouted and then covered her mouth.

“Sshhh,” he whispered. “You're going to wake the bears.”

“Bears?”

He kissed her ribs, ran his tongue over her hipbones, and circled his mouth around her stomach slowly. The rain was coming down harder now, thumping on the tent and trees, and she shivered. She looked down, saw his head on her stomach, and again felt exposed. She pulled the sleeping bag over his head so that it covered them.

The lower he got, the more intense he became. It made her nervous. The muscles in her legs twitched, pulling together.

“John,” she said. She reached for his face, wanting to slow him. “Hey,” she whispered. “John.”

But he kept moving his face in smaller circles. The stubble from his chin and cheeks prickled. The muscles in her legs felt tight. He looped his arms under her legs, pressing his shoulders against her thighs. She put her arms over his shoulders to draw him back up. She wanted to breathe for a few minutes, settle down. But then he did something with his mouth, something that made her think of the light, rapid flutter of hummingbird wings. She closed her eyes. His head was very still, but his tongue kept fluttering. She felt as if she were levitating. She couldn't quite locate her center of gravity. There was a sound, a low kind of familiar thrumming that didn't seem to be coming from her. She could hear it closer and louder until it was like a vibrating whistle.

He pulled his head away, rose to his knees, and leaned over to kiss her neck. She heard a crinkling sound and felt his hand between them. He kept kissing her neck. She wanted to rest for a few minutes. She felt dizzy again. And then he put his full weight on her.

She said something, “Hey” or “Wait,” but maybe he couldn't hear her. She wasn't sure; she could hardly hear herself.

His body pressed tightly against her own, her legs open around his. She needed to catch her breath. And then, in a sudden gasp, he was inside her. She felt a sharp spike of pain shoot through her abdomen and lower back. She could hardly breathe before, and now it felt as if her lungs were about to explode. He groaned, and she thought her breath might return, but it didn't. Her ears plugged, like when she was underwater too long.

She wanted to say something, but there was only this underwater feeling, like she couldn't make it to the surface. She wanted to say his name, but she couldn't form the words. Language seemed on the other side of the surface, beyond the pressure in her chest. She tried to turn to see his face, but even that seemed impossible. She shifted her eyes and could barely make out his jaw. He hooked his arms under hers and moved steadily and then faster, caught in a lurching momentum of his own, beyond her voice.

The rain came down hard now. The drops pelted the top of the tent. She tried to concentrate on the rain, and then, surprisingly, she could breathe again, just short, quick snatches of air. In her head, she counted the drops. One, two, three, four, five…twenty…fifty. She focused, heard them hit and drip down the side of the tent. She heard him again, his own breathing labored, and then his body tightened into a point of compact stillness.

When he resumed his motion, it was a slow, mechanical rhythm. She no longer felt like she was going to drown.

Finally he pulled away, and she had the sensation that he'd turned her inside out. She felt another spike of pain, worse than before, followed by a throbbing ache that made her whole body stiffen. He rolled beside her, breathing deeply. The rain still came down hard. When she closed her eyes, she felt off balance, spinning. She listened intently to the rain, listened as it subsided. He draped his hand over her ribs, laid his leg over hers. He traced his fingers along her chest and stomach. His touch was gentle again, restrained. But she did not move. She hurt.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, but she didn't think he really wanted her to answer.

 

The rain settled into a slow drizzle. She lay there, still, and concentrated on the sound of the dripping water from the trees. When she sat up, her stomach
cramped. She tightened her muscles until the pain receded and then straightened her back. Had there been a rock underneath her? She breathed to clear the aftereffects of the cramps. She put her hand beneath her, on the sleeping bag. She pressed her fingers between her legs: thick, wet, mucusy. An alarm went off in her head. He'd put something on, hadn't he? She brought her fingers to her face. It smelled like blood. Her first time; there was supposed to be blood, and some pain. That's what she'd heard. So this was normal.

“You okay, Laura?”

He put his hand on her shoulder, moved his fingers over the back of her neck.

“I have to pee,” she said.

“Need some light?”

“No.”

“Just a little?”

He reached down and turned the lamp up. For a shocking moment, the tent was ablaze, but he quickly adjusted the knob. He reached between his legs and pulled off the condom and tossed it into the corner of the tent. She looked down; the plaid flannel of the sleeping bag was darkly stained. He pushed back the tent flap with a watery thud.

“I think it's over,” he said. “It's pretty muddy, though. Be careful. Here, give me your hand.” His voice was gentle.

She slipped her nightshirt over her head and bunched the shirt between her legs. She grabbed one of the towels and moved to the opening and looked under his arm to the darkness outside. It sounded like it was still raining, but she realized it was just the trees dripping.

“I can't see.”

“I'll take the lamp out and hold it for you.”

“No, I can do it myself.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah,” she said hoarsely.

He stepped over the sleeping bag and grabbed the lamp. He saw the stain on the bag. When he looked back at her, the lamp illuminated his face. Wrinkles lined his forehead.

“Are you sure you're okay?”

“I need to go pee,” she said, reaching for the lamp.

“Let me help you.”

“Just give me the lamp.”

“Here,” he said, moving to the entrance. “I'll hold it.”

“No!” Her voice was much louder than she intended, with a ferocity that surprised them both. Her voice echoed on the lake. They stood still, facing each other. His face had a stunned, slack expression. He seemed frail and ridiculous, standing there naked in front of her. “Just give me the lamp,” she said quietly.

He handed it to her, and she left the tent, stepping onto the cold, wet ground. Blown leaves gathered at her feet. She walked around the tent where he couldn't see her, set the lamp on a flat rock, pulled her shirt up, and crouched. She tried to urinate but felt her stomach cramping again, and then the pain flared hotly in her back. Her hair dangled in her eyes. She lost her balance and pitched forward onto the ground. Mud on her face, a twig lodged in her mouth. She spit weakly and then laughed. What a fool she was. The ground was cool and hard, but strangely comforting. The pain was gone, but she just wanted to lie there for a minute.

Footsteps fast over wet leaves. She thought of a movie she'd once seen, a western, where an Indian scout lay on the ground in the rain and listened for the hooves of the cavalry. She remembered the scout's words, in that truncated movie-Indian language: “They come.” She laughed again.

And then he was there beside her, his hands on her face, brushing away the hair from her eyes and mouth. “Laura?”

“Yes,” she said. Or thought she said.

“Laura, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she said, louder. She just wanted to rest here for a moment longer.

“Can you get up?”

“Yes.” But she didn't move. He placed his hands under her arms and lifted her gently to her knees. “I'm okay.”

“Put your arms around my neck. I'm gonna carry you back to the tent.”

“I have to pee.”

She squatted again and closed her eyes. The night had calmed. The trees continued to drip. The lake sucked against the bank. And then the fluid came from her, hot and burning at first. She felt the wet warmth circle her feet. She opened her eyes and was surprised by the lamplight. He stood by her. He'd not even taken the time to put on a shirt. She was comforted by that thought.

“Done?” he asked.

She nodded.

 

“Can you stand up?” he asked her inside the tent. “Just for a minute, while I get a towel?”

“Yeah.”

She felt wobbly when he let her go, the inside of the tent spinning slowly, but then the dizziness subsided. She watched him set the lamp down and gather more dry towels. He draped one of them over the wet stain where she had been and then brought a couple back and set them on the floor of the tent.

“Let's get you out of that shirt.” He gathered it from the bottom with his fingers and began to roll it over her body. It was wet and cool but felt oddly comforting. “Raise your arms.”

She lifted her arms, which felt heavy, and he rolled the shirt over her breasts, shoulders, and head and then tossed it into a corner. She teetered.

“Steady, now,” he said and clasped her waist with one of his arms and reeled her into his shoulder. “You seem really warm.”

“Nope.” She laughed. “I'm freezing.”

He let go and then was quickly back with a towel. As she tried to dry off, she began to shiver again, so he draped another towel around her shoulders and wiped the twigs and mud from her cheeks, chin, and neck with the corners of it.

“What's the matter?” She laughed again. “Don't you want to kiss me now?”

He ignored her. “You're still bleeding some. Did you bring something for it?”

“No,” she said. “It's not supposed to be my time.”

He grimaced at that, shaking his head. “Okay.” And then again, as if reassuring himself: “Okay.”

He got another towel, cut the end with his knife, and ripped three wide strips. He handed the strips to her. “Here,” he said. “Use these.”

“What?” Then she suddenly realized. “Oh.”