Inukshuk (28 page)

“Hello?” he whispered down the stairway. “Moira?”

“John?”

“Right here.”

Halfway down, she caught him—hands cold on his bare arms, icy nose on his neck, snowmelt from her boots wetting his bare toes. Her mouth found his and he tasted coffee. Licorice. His own toothpaste and sleep breath. Pushed past her mouth to rest his chin on her shoulder, her cheek cool against his neck, and draw her closer. He heard the stairs creaking under their feet, the rustle of her jacket against him, and smelled outside air. “You made it,” he whispered. Felt her nodding. “My God. I hoped, but I didn't expect. How much . . . how did you do it?” In his voice he heard a tremor he hadn't expected. Like being a kid again. But this wasn't the simple terror and exhilaration of new intimacy—wasn't that alone anyway. It was also
knowing
: a woman other than Jane. Knowing what that meant, what it would undo for him. Her hands moved under his T-shirt to his bare rib cage, his hips.

“Warm me up,” she whispered.

“Thomas is . . .” He pointed with his chin. “His room's right up there.”

She pressed harder against him and forced her tongue through his lips. Allowed him to pull her up a step, then another. Moments longer he acquiesced, letting the weight of her pull him down, fix him in place, turn more and more real and solid against him. More irresistible. Knowing, too, it was a tease and a test: She refused to be directed upward for the simple reason that he'd indicated to her they shouldn't stay here. And why not? How many years now had he waited for just this, and already he was rushing away from it, on to the next thing because . . . why? Why always the rush forward?

He turned and led her the rest of the way, again pointing toward Thomas's room and making a slicing motion with two fingers at his throat, realizing too late she probably wouldn't see well enough to get his meaning. As soon as they were behind the closed door, he'd tell her. Say,
He was out cold earlier tonight. Sick or something. Probably no way we'll wake him up, but just the same. To be safe. I don't know what he'd think. He's a sensitive kid . . . and pretty broken up about Jane
. But watching her shadow shape at the side of his bed, he forgot
all about it. “Hang on a second,” he said, and went to the nightstand to light the dusty dinner-candle stumps retrieved earlier that evening from the downstairs utility drawer, with matches, for just this possible use. The sulfur and singed paraffin smells put him in mind of countless nights with Jane—different shadows thrown to different walls; same orange-tinged guttering light. Held out a hand for her jacket and laid it on the sweater chest. “Ah, and your hat,” he said.

“Hat?”

He lifted it from the dresser to remind her, then placed it atop the coat. Took her hands and drew her to him.

“I'd have forgotten again, for sure. Thank you.”

“
De rien
.” He chuckled and lowered his face to her neck. Opened his mouth on her skin. Felt her shift heavily against him.

“Phoque,” she said. “Fuck fuck fuck. Mr. Phoque.”

“At your service.”

“But it's not at all how I'd pictured your room.”

“How was that?”

She shrugged. “Or maybe it is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought more paintings. Books.”

“That's downstairs. In the study. It's all a total mess still, sorry. You know, from the move.”

“Don't apologize. It's a charming mess anyway,” she said. “Kind of . . . a monastic, manly man-cave mess. Like you'd expect hymns or chants in the morning.”

“Not quite. Come,” he said, and drew her with him onto the bed. Held his palm millimeters above her face, her neck, her hair. “I'm just . . . I'm still trying to make myself comprehend it . . . that you're here really . . .”

She pressed fingers to his lips. Batted his hand away and grabbed a corner of a pillow; moved closer, nose almost touching his. “
Apprehend
. But no more words, John,” she said.

He nodded. “Insufficient.”

“Traitorous and deceitful. Remember,
Poetry is what he thought but could not say
.”

“Mmmm,” he said. He did not remember. One of her poems? No. Someone else's, but whose? He ran a finger from her elbow down her arm to her neck, tracing the curve. “It's been months for me, though, Moira. Years, actually. Three? You'll have to help. Where do I even begin?”

“
Begin
? I object to the terminology. Am I some kind of conquest?”

“Hardly.” He pressed himself to her hip. “But we're not exactly on the same page here, are we?”

“You mean in terms of desperation or . . .”

“Maybe. You're still married, for one thing. I'm . . .” He left the sentence unfinished and watched her watching him, realizing he'd stumbled right into the finality he couldn't quite bring himself to say aloud yet:
not
. Not married. Not Jane. Though sure enough his actions were changing that, real time. “Single anyway.”

“How little you know, John. Do you not want me?”

He puffed an exhale. “Only enough to eat you alive.”

“
Well,
then?”

He dipped his face to her, let her arms enfold him—soap scent, smell of her scalp, her hair in his chin stubble, mouth hungry, slick and warm on his, better than anything he could have dreamed, yet he found there was still no way to focus his desire, no way to rein it in, and no single part of her to fuse with it, exactly, so he kept moving, too fast, he thought, or maybe too slow; cool flesh of her belly on his cheek and again her mouth on his.
Carne, carnal, carnality . . . dominated by flesh . . . meat longing, the oldest knowledge of all
, he thought. As long as he stayed focused on that aspect of it, there was literally not a shred of his consciousness given to any other thing—a relief; a blessed and long-awaited release into nothing but
her
. He watched her sit up to tug her shirt off over her head, unclasp her bra, and then lift her hips to skim away the rest of her clothes, and moments later he kissed down her knees to her open thighs. Lay with his cheek on her leg, hearing the echo of his own circulation, ear caught against her flesh, and raised himself to hold her around the waist. “John. What are you—oh . . .” Familiar bloodlike metallic tang and salt as he opened his mouth on her, adjusting his arms and
settling his weight between them more comfortably, tasting more and more until she moaned so loudly, hands slapping the mattress and grabbing at his hair, the sheets, he had to stop for fear of waking up Thomas. He rose and arched over her. “Shh-shh,” he said. She bucked against him as he entered her, forcefully enough that he couldn't find a rhythm. “Wild thing,” he whispered.

“John,” she said, and froze. Pushed at his shoulder. “Condom! John. What are you doing?”

He shook his head. Somehow, in all his plan making, he'd forgotten this one detail. “I'm a married single guy. Come on. Celibate as . . . until now, celibate as a monk. You think I keep condoms around here? Anyway, I thought . . . you were always saying there was no chance you could have more kids?”

Again her hips moved with his and again stopped. “Yes, but you might give me something.”

“Loneliness? That's about the extent of any STDs you'd be in danger of picking up here.”

“Or I could.”

He stopped.

“Kidding.” She rolled from under him, pushed him onto his back, and straddled him. Tilted her hips forward and back against his, lifted his hands to her breasts and squeezed her fingers over his. And long after his pleasure had jolted from him, she went on, reared back, sweating and rocking, hair whipping her shoulders, grinding, grinding until she was spent. To his surprise (and some relief), through it all he remained rigid, if unfeeling, inside her.

“That was good, John. God, I must've come at least a dozen times there at the end.”

“Seemed like it.”

“If we never made love again, I'd say we could go out fairly gloriously on that one.”

“
Glorious
would be one word to describe it.”

“Washroom?”

“In the hall. Top of the stairs.”

She'd seemed so much denser and more iron-willed, resistant or
insistent somehow, making love, he was almost surprised seeing her separate from him at the side of the bed, retrieving articles of clothing, and returned to her usual willowy proportions and dimensions. Felt again all his affection for her and reached a hand to touch her. “I'm so glad you're here,” he said.

“And I'm so glad you're glad.”

His last conscious thoughts had to do with the time: 1:58. So more like 1:47. Late. Early. Four hours more of sleep for him and another day. Maybe he'd call in sick. Sure. He'd be within his rights. He'd taken almost no sick days since coming on board here. But what about Thomas? He'd have to check with him and be sure he knew to catch the bus. If he was well enough. Which meant . . . He blinked his eyes open again. The thing about sex he'd forgotten: It was always just sex in the end. Nothing more, nothing less, stimulus-response-release, nothing transformative. Was he disappointed? The bedroom door opened, light streaking incongruously around her with it, and she slid in beside him, the back of her head under his chin, feet over and under, arms under his and fingers entwined. “Don't let me sleep too long, John, or I'm hooped. Just a few minutes,” she said. He grunted. Thought but did not say,
We'll reset that alarm, then.... Better set the alarm or we'll sleep straight through.... Set the alarm. . . .

 

 

HE WOKE TO MOIRA KISSING HIM and drew her on top again, hands at her waist. The candles had burned down or he'd somehow remembered to blow them out before dropping off, so he mostly didn't see her, only felt the weight of her on him, her mouth against his, and within seconds they were moving slowly in silence together. Darkness in the windows. A bar of orange-gold hallway light from under the bedroom door. Sound of her breath in his ear. Heater clicking on. Outside, wind and what must be ice or snow blew sideways against the windows,
tick-tatting
. The feeling built gradually through him so that when he came, he felt fused to her, and within minutes he was on top, every inch of him pressed to her
as fully as possible. “More?” she whispered. He pushed against her to feel the bones of her body against his. Wind gusted at the side of the house and rattled the eaves, a loose gutter somewhere banging, clattering. “Don't finish,” she whispered. He lay still, throbbing inside her, arms alongside hers, mouth at her ear. “No, go. Finish. Everything ends.” He kissed salt from the corners of her eyes, her mouth, felt her nose damp on his cheek. Afterward, they slept.

Next, he woke with her head on his arm, his crotch still damply stuck to hers, and no feeling through his fingers. “Moira.” He shook her shoulder and whipped the fingers of his numbed hand against one another, squeezing his fist open and shut. Propped himself on an elbow and again pulled her shoulder side to side, still trying to pound blood into the feelingless hand. “Hey. Wake up. It's just before six. Moira?”

Sharp intake of breath and she jolted upright, head in hands. “Jesus God. What have I done?”

“It's OK. It's—”

“Oh my God.” She patted the bedding for her clothes and stood crookedly at the side of the bed, dressing in haste, snapping elastic in place, kicking feet through pant legs, raking fingers in her hair. “What time did you say it was?”

“It's just about—”

“Dear God, they will have gone already. Another black mark for Moira.”

He stared up at her, waiting. “Can I . . .”

“If I leave immediately I might just catch them. Make up some damn excuse.” She spun her watch on her wrist, biting her lips, calculating. “No, no. I can't do that, either. I'm . . . busted.” She looked beseechingly at him, rubbed her hands together and pressed them to her eyes. Sat again. Leaned for one boot and pulled it on and stopped, collapsing forward with her face in her hands. “So what do I do now, John?” She turned back to him. “I was supposed to meet Jeremy at his father's with his gear for practice. Thursday. Thursday is not Davis's night for Jeremy, typically, but I asked him as a favor, last minute because Rick was held up out of town, so I
could come here. But I've got Jeremy's gear
with
me. In the truck. Because I was supposed to fetch him this morning. So even if they figure I overslept and went around the house looking for me or to get his stuff, it's still no good. They'll . . .” she glanced at her watch. “No, they're already at the rink for sure.” She used a flat, unhurried tone of voice he might have read as contempt, if not for the words themselves. “It can only look to them as if I have done exactly what I've done. So now what?”

“The truth?”

She nodded. “Please.”

“I meant . . . tell them the truth.”

Again she nodded. “No, I can, too. I can make up some damn thing. Over at Penny's house or something . . . crossed paths. Draw out the misery a little longer. Where in the hell . . . Oh.”

“What's that?”

“Cell phone. I just remembered. I left it in my damn car. For crying out loud.”

He put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed and released. “Look. I still say it's the best, simplest way. Whenever possible. The truth.”

“Yes, but what would that truth
be,
John?”

He let his hand slide from her. “Well, this. Us. You, me. For one thing . . .”

She drew a breath. “I think there are some things I must tell you.” He forced himself not to look away, not to shy from the emotions transforming her face—eyes swollen, skin unevenly flushed, mouth ragged at the edges. “I am not all I seem to be to you, I'm afraid—what I think you'd imagine for me anyway. Not that I'd mind if I were or could be. I'd . . .” She shook her head. “For some time now I've been involved in trying to spring myself one way and another from a marriage so bad and dead, you and I, between the two of us, wouldn't begin to find words for it. But the truth is, I'm not a good person, John. Please. And . . .”