The Storm (7 page)

Then Sister Mary had beamed, and two of her blond curls slipped out from her wimple. And when Sister Mary patted her back and let her hand linger, she'd sat as still as possible, silently willing Sister Mary to never move it. It radiated heat and made the blood rush through her body so fast she could almost hear it. She began to sweat in spite of the cold concrete she sat on.

She had spent many precious minutes with Sister Mary that spring. Sister Mary's gentle, soothing touch on her arm or head made her dream about that touch every night and crave it constantly. And once when Sister Mary ran her hand over Jaq's cheek and whispered, “What a fine young woman you are. I'd love to have someone like you nearby all the time,” she'd almost fainted. She'd treasured that remark and repeated it to herself every night before she went to sleep and every morning when she woke up. And she'd vowed never to wash her cheek.

Sister Mary began to touch her more and more often that spring, and her fingers lingered longer. Jaq had walked around in a daze, marking time when they were apart. Sister Mary was the center of her universe.

One day that April, she and her mother had a huge fight. “Jacqueline,” she'd said, “this house is too small for you and me both. I hope you get married very soon and leave me in peace.”

She'd run to Sister Mary's room at the academy and tapped on her door, wanting comfort.

“Jacqueline, what are you doing here? I can't let a student visit me.” Then Sister Mary had seemed to reconsider. She'd glanced down the hall with a guilty expression, nodded at her to come in, and then closed the door quickly.

She sat in the only chair, and Sister Mary propped herself against her desk, fingering the cross that hung from her rosary. “What is it,
ma petite
? How can I help you?”

As she repeated Mother's words, her voice shook. Then she stopped and gazed at Sister Mary's strange expression.

As if in a trance, Sister Mary had slowly lifted her rosary over her head and laid it on the desk. She straightened the rosary, then restraightened it, looking far away, as if someone had taken possession of her body.

Jaq couldn't speak.

Trembling, Sister Mary had uncovered her head, dropping pieces of white linen at her feet. Her blond hair escaped, and Jaq stared, her hand moving as if in a dream toward Sister Mary's curls. Sister Mary caught it and held it tight. Oh, how thrilling her touch was as she slowly ran her other palm over Jaq's hair. Her scalp prickled under every strand Sister Mary smoothed. Sparks ignited inside her head and shot through her.

Sister Mary hesitated and Jaq had thought she was praying. Jaq was—praying the moment would never end.

Gradually, Sister Mary lowered her hand to Jaq's cheek and inched it around her neck. When she pulled, Jaq flowed toward her. Lost in that intense gaze, she almost liquefied. Sister Mary's soft lips brushed hers and an electric current jolted her, so strong it sizzled.

She hardly felt Sister Mary unbutton her white shirtwaist. God. She could barely breathe as her white cotton stockings, then her long black skirt, fell in a pile at her feet. When Sister Mary slid Jaq's underclothes off with trembling fingers, she grabbed the chair back to steady herself.

Dazed, she stood frozen while Sister Mary stripped off her own gartered stockings and slipped out of her black wool habit and rough underwear. Her white skin dazzled Jaq.

“Twin Eves before the Fall,” Sister Mary whispered, but she couldn't process the words.

Suddenly, somehow, Sister Mary lay on the narrow bed in the small room under her, as if expecting something. What should she do? Sister Mary refused to kiss her lips, but when she eased down Sister Mary's body and kissed her ample breasts, Sister Mary seemed to relax. Jaq took them in her hands, gently squeezing then sucking them, and Sister Mary moaned.

Running her hands down Sister Mary's stomach and hips, she held a portion of perfect flesh, then showered it with kisses and moved to the next pleasurable expanse. She inched her way downward, growing ever more sure of her destination—Sister Mary's blond triangle.

It was everything she had seen in her photo, and more. She blew on it, and Sister Mary's hips twitched. She fingered her way through the silky thatch, and Sister Mary jerked. Finally, she thrust her tongue into the fragrant wilderness, and Sister Mary sighed and went still.

She tasted sweet-salty, and as Jaq licked, Sister Mary began to undulate, moving in rhythm with her tongue. She lapped up and down the sides of the hard knot beneath her tongue, then drew it into her mouth, sucking and biting it gently.

Sister Mary writhed and began to pant, and Jaq clung to her for a blissful eternity as Sister Mary wriggled beneath her. Suddenly, with one last upward thrust, Sister Mary shuddered and lay motionless.

Sister Mary's salty essence coated her face, and she felt content. She had apparently pleased her favorite person in the world.

But Sister Mary had jumped up, almost tossing her to the floor. Without a word, she jerked her habit on. Her hands shook as she helped Jaq button her crumpled blouse then shoved her from the room.

The next day at her private voice lesson, Sister Mary Therese had made it clear Jaq would never visit her again. She'd refused to touch her, even when they were alone. And during their final lessons Sister Mary had never looked at her. Worst of all, she wouldn't talk to Jaq except when necessary.

Fortunately, she graduated soon. All that summer, she'd dreamed about taking lessons from Sister Mary again. She walked by the school hoping to see her—even from across the campus. Most of all, she wanted to share Sister Mary's bed.

That fall her older sister asked her to live with her in London, and she'd welcomed the chance to be away from Mother and Sister Mary.

While visiting her aunts in Washington and New York, and then abroad, she'd weaned herself from her total obsession with Sister Mary. She made herself forget her curls…her breasts…her taste, but the memories still intruded at the most unlikely times. They demanded her attention and drained her. Why couldn't she erase the recollections, rip them from her mind?

Damn it. She'd thought Willie had finally sated her longing for Sister Mary, but here it was again, making her twinge.

The preacher had polished off most of the chicken and dressing, and Mrs. Russell was resting on the front porch with the men. She hoped he wouldn't stay more than an hour or so because she needed to put on her old shoes and walk the place, like she did every Sunday. She had to decide what James needed to plow and plant this spring. If she didn't write out the weekly schedule, he'd fool around and forget to do something important. He never had got the hang of planning.

She spit off the side of the porch then wiped her mouth with a blue bandanna. Snuff calmed her down and gave her a lift at the same time.

Her front yard looked mighty fine. She swept it every day with a brush broom and pulled any sprig of grass or weed that dared stick its head up. She'd built her prized flower bed full of daffodils and jonquils out of an old wagon wheel. Had to keep the place looking good so the neighbors wouldn't talk. Her kids and grandkids used to climb the fence and splinter the railings, so she'd whittled the sharp pickets herself. She could see for miles, but her fence kept stray dogs and strangers out. Everybody admired her big house up on this hill.

She pulled a tin canister from her pocket, pinched out another dip of snuff, and spread it under her lower lip with an elm twig. Then she chewed the stick to keep it nice and soft.

Staring up at the big lazy clouds, she sighed. It sure was good to be here, safe in her white wooden house that James built from the ground up eighteen years ago. When he'd finished, he hung his carpenter's apron on a nail in the attic and wouldn't even hammer together a chicken coop now. Musta been a heap of work.

Compared to the log cabin she and Calvin built when they got here from Georgia, this was a mansion. To think she'd lived in that cabin for nigh on thirty years. Yes, sir, she couldn't imagine wanting a better place than this.

If only Calvin was here, rocking beside her. She could barely remember what his hand felt like on her cheek. Come to think of it, she'd trade her fine house for their log cabin quick as a wink if she could have him back.

The screen door squealed on its hinges, and Molly sashayed out. She belonged in the parlor, not on the porch. Always sticking her nose where it didn't belong.

“Patrick, it's time to do your schoolwork,” she said. “You've been out here long enough.”

“But, Mama, I want to stay. Please? I'm almost seven. The grownups always talk about interesting things. I won't bother them. Can't I just listen?”

“Maybe you could make an exception, Miss Molly,” the preacher said.

“If you think it's all right, sir. Now, Patrick, you behave yourself.” Molly hesitated, glanced at the empty porch swing, then left.

The next thing you knew, that dry stick would want to sit out here with them on a Sunday afternoon, she thought. Great day in the morning! Then she'd want to read the newspaper first. Not even James got such special treatment.

*

Jaq sat in her idling Model T at the end of the Russells' driveway, trying to decide whether to motor on up to their house. Was she crazy? Why had she decided to drop in on them without a proper invitation? Well, Mrs. Russell had asked her to visit when she felt sociable.

After her conversation with Angus, she'd become restless and decided maybe she and Molly could have a quiet talk. She wanted to find out how much Molly actually resembled Sister Mary. Hopefully, the preacher had already left. He'd spent last night at the McCades' house and rambled on till nearly ten o'clock, but he hadn't just talked. He'd flirted with her in his indirect, sleazy way.

She'd thought Eric would set him straight, but he'd just sat there. He'd clammed up not long after they'd reached New Hope and he and Angus had talked awhile. Maybe he was missing his mother and his brothers, so she hadn't wanted to intrude. The preacher was harmless, yet he irritated her. Besides, his flirting showed disrespect for Eric, even if their marriage was bogus.

What if she got stuck with the man of God and Mrs. Russell all afternoon? Damn. It'd serve her right for dropping in on them, but that empty house was already driving her nuts.

Why was she sitting here trying to rake up enough nerve to chase Molly Russell? Hadn't she learned her lesson about unavailable women? It was bad enough to be in this out-of-the-way place. Maybe she should mind her own business, not get into trouble by pursuing Molly.

Eric and Angus would be hungry when they got home. She'd have to fix them something to eat—again. Maybe some leftover biscuits and lumpy gravy. Hell. They needed to find Angus a cook and a hired man, fast.

Oh well. What did she have to lose? She was a lost cause anyway, so she might as well do what she wanted to, instead of what other people thought she should. Maybe it'd keep her from being so damn bored, at least. Or maybe it'd keep her from remembering what happened in France.

*

The preacher reared back on two legs of the ladder-back chair. Mrs. Russell glared at him, and he straightened up.

“Mrs. Russell, Mr. James. I read in the Tyler paper yesterday that Mrs. Minnie Cunningham, that heads that gang of suffrage ladies down in Austin, has struck a deal with the governor. They're gonna let all the women in the state vote in the July primary. How do you like them apples?” He puffed up like he was telling them something they didn't know.

She'd been reading about some hussy named Alice Paul stirring up women all over the country. Got the ones that could already vote out West to set themselves against the Democrats a couple years back and had been nearly driving President Wilson crazy since then. Humph.

Why, the President had enough on his mind without them pitching a fit. Riding around the countryside on a train and wearing their prison clothes. Making speeches complaining about bad food and rats. Spoiled Yankee city women that didn't know a thing about hard times. They deserved everything they got.

All that nonsense just to let women vote. She had twice as much sense as most men, but her ma didn't vote, and neither did her grandma. If that was good enough for them, it was good enough for her.

“Well, sir, I'm too old and set in my ways to get all het up about running to town and casting a ballot,” she told the preacher. “One politician is as crooked as the next, so I don't see what all the fuss is about. I've got enough to do here without stirring up trouble like these silly women. They need about five kids each. That'd settle 'em down real quick.”

James nodded then shut his eyes and went right to sleep.

The preacher fished around for something else to discuss. “I spent last night with the McCade family and talked to Mr. Angus about his two younger sons.”

“Is that right?” she asked. “So you met the new Mrs. McCade then?”

He blushed. “Yes'm. She's an interesting person. Different from most all the women 'round here.”

“Ain't that the gospel truth? Anyways, I don't aim to waste my time talking 'bout her. How's Eric?”

The preacher looked sad. “Well, ma'am. I never knew him, but last night he didn't say much. Sat in the corner glaring at me.”

“Lordy. That doesn't sound like the Eric I've always known.”

“The War's most likely changed him,” the preacher said. “He acted like he was mad at the world, and I can't say as I blame him, being wounded like that.”

James had waked up and looked worried. “I've always put a lot of stock in that boy. He's the pride of the community.”

But she figured Eric'd been through a lot and needed to rest. Then he'd be back to his old self. She changed the subject. “What did Angus McCade say 'bout his two youngest boys?”

“Oh, he was about to bust a gut. Said they're having the time of their lives up at Camp Funston in Kansas, meeting young men from all over the country. But they said it was mighty crowded. Over sixty thousand soldiers, they reckon.”