Reverb

I have to have more...

  I insist on the terms of the original agreement when Elisabeth extends her lease through the summer. She insists on continuing to pay rent, though it seems gratuitous since I’m practically living with them. I stay later and later every day. After dinner, and a book before bedtime for Cameron, Elisabeth and I settle on the patio and talk into the night. We talk about nothing—abstractions of belief, politics, morality, reality, world affairs, books, art. We talk about everything—her childhood in the Valley, the only kid of ‘two upper, middle-class Jewish intellectuals’; her years with Jack, her fears without him. We swap L.A. stories, from Zuma to Laguna Beach. She knows The Wedge off Newport from her short-lived surfer days. I tell her about road trips with rock bands, what it feels like creating music—how the notes resonate through my fingers right into the pleasure centers of my brain, even confess my misconception when first learning to play with Mike. I share tales of growing up with my parents in Boston. I leave Edward out, don’t refer to him, or Ian, ever. Sometimes, we just sit and watch the stars, and don’t talk at all. Every morning upon waking, I look forward to seeing them. Every night after climbing the hill to my house, I miss them.

  I start playing the guitar at night, often well into the early morning hours. Music helps kill the aloneness that looms without Elisabeth or Cameron. Get past the initial wave of pain with practice and become more fluid with scales. By the end of summer I’m actually starting to improvise. Still don’t feel ready for an audience, and refuse to play for, or even practice in front of them, and by her grace, Liz doesn’t push it. She does nudge every so often, though.

  Cool evening in late summer. We’re walking back from supper at an open café where a bouzouki player squared off with an acoustic guitarist in an impromptu jam session. I carry Cameron, asleep in a blanket we’ve devised as a makeshift carrier. Elisabeth walks beside me. Her expression is placid; her face awash with moonlight. Her backdrop is the velvet sky scattered with a billion sparkling diamonds that reflected in the glassy sea.

  “Musicians were great tonight, don’t ya think? That last piece, they were strumming so fast their hands were one big blur. Really amazing they could hold that tight rhythm together for so long, almost as long as you do sometimes when your practicing at night.” She doesn’t look at me, but I catch a glimpse of her smile.

  Sudden, absurd trepidation of lascivious invasion. “How do you know I practice at night?”

  She hesitates. “I can hear you playing when your back door is open. And you’ve had it open all summer, except the last week or so, since it’s been getting cool in the evenings. I sit on the porch and listen until around midnight. How late do you play?”

  “I usually quit about an hour or two after that. I had no idea you can hear me.” I fiddle with Cameron, adjust my body so his face isn’t smothered in the cloth, then stroke his fine hair back, let it run through my fingers, then do it again.

  “You play beautifully, James.” She looks at me. “Even with just scales you play melodically, rhythmically. Every time I hear you play, you're faster, smoother, sharper. It is quite obvious that you are still a gifted musician.”

  “Thank you.”

  She shakes her head and looks away. “I didn’t really mean it as a compliment. Honestly, I’m more afraid than thrilled by your recent awakening.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Losing you.”

  I stop walking. “You won’t.” She stops and turns back to face me. She stares at me, into me, and I touch her fear. “I love our days—the three of us together. I love our nights—just you and me. But silence is death to me when I’m alone, Liz. I’ve been playing at night to kill the void that comes without you.”

  A wide smile of pure delight spreads across her face, and lights up her eyes that are fixed on mine. I pull her in then, gather her face in my hands and kiss her. Passionately, sexually. She surrenders to my kiss and returns it. Her lips are soft, warm; her mouth open, inviting. She’s sucks me in slowly, her tongue gently caressing mine. I slide my hand through her silky hair and around the back of her neck. Then her hand’s on my face, and her touch ignites me, excites. I want her to swallow me up. Want to be inside her. Connected. Her breasts brush against my chest as she pulls back slightly for breath, tantalizing. She lets her lips linger on mine, until Cameron squirms between us.

  We separate and both look down at him, smack foreheads, laugh. Elisabeth strokes her son’s head, then strokes my cheek. I take her hand, kiss her palm. A moment’s pause and she pulls her hand away from my lips but keeps her fingers laced in mine and gently guides me forward as she resumes walking again.

  We’re hand-in-hand until we get back to her house. I put Cameron in his crib. Elisabeth makes some sweet Tunisian tea, and we go out to the patio, under the blanket of stars enjoying the last of the mild summer nights. I sit on the bench that runs along the back of the house under the kitchen window per usual. But instead of the lounge chair, Elisabeth sits next to me, brings her feet onto the bench and leans back against me, cradling her sippy cup mug in both hands. She stares up at the stars.

  “Look there. Wow.” She says it with childlike amazement. Like Cameron. Same delivery. “You can see the Milky Way perfectly. That’s so beautiful.”

  “It is.” The stars of the Milky Way are so dense it looks like a white dust cloud arcing across the night sky. The moon’s setting, allowing individual stars to twinkle and dance so brightly their single images are mirrored in the flat sea, making the water sparkle. We sit and watch the light show, her body warming mine, silently absorbing the scene and committing it to sweet memory.

  “You know, I’ve been angry at Jack for the longest time—years before he died.” She pauses to sip her tea. “Thought about leaving him a thousand times. We talked about breaking up a good amount, too. I was always wanting more of him than he was willing to give me. At least, that’s how I saw it.” She’s going round about to what she really wants to say, and I feel her hesitation. “But lately, it’s been dawning on me that my anger may have been...well, misplaced.”

  I wait for her to continue, but she just sips her tea, stares out at the water. “You’re going to have to take it further if you want me to understand.” Her soft profile is dimly lit from the ambient light from the kitchen, and I catch a glimpse of her smile.

  She pulls away from me, brings her feet to the deck, straightens and sips her tea again, then scooches next to me, so our legs and hips are touching, but doesn’t look at me. “Jack was a brilliant journalist, not only because he objectified everything, but he strove for excellence, pursued it with passion. It was one of the very things I loved about him. His commitment, regardless of the risks or hardships, inspired me to be equally dedicated. So I followed him around the world, providing the visuals for his stories. Got my first NPPA when I was twenty-five.” She flashes a tentative smile. “And I’d like to tell you it was the pinnacle of my dreams, but truth is, it felt rather hollow. Even then I was tired of the reality of it all, and ready to go home, make a home, start a family and settle in.”

  “I’m getting Jack wasn’t on that page.”

  “Good guess. We fought about it constantly. I’d spent all those years acquiescing to his way. He owed me the turn around. Closing in on thirty, and my biological clock became a time bomb. Yet, even when Jack agreed to work at having a kid, it wasn’t enough for me. I’d assumed I’d have more of him, but, of course, that wasn’t the case. His pursuit of excellence still dominated his time.” She sighs with the weight of the memories. “Thing is, I’m beginning to see my expectations were out of line. I should never have agreed to a life with a man whose priorities I couldn’t accept, nor fault, since I knew of, even admired him for, from the start.” She drinks her tea, still does not look at me. “I don’t want to go there with you.” She practically whispers.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I don’t ever want to put you in the position of having to choose.”

  “Between what and what??
??

  “Between music, Cameron and me.”

  I sit up and face her. “You win. You don’t know that by now, or is it that you don’t trust it?”

  She leaning back against the house, her eyes fixed on mine. “James, you’re clearly a purveyor of excellence, and have devoted a huge amount of your time and energy passionately pursuing, at least the guitar, to get as good as you are. It’s how one becomes great at anything. I didn’t get that with Jack. I just got hurt that he denied me what I felt I was due. But I get it with you.”

  “'Lisabeth, I. Am. Not. Jack.”

  “No. You’re more insular than Jack ever was. Our first twenty years we were connected at the hip. It wasn’t until half way through college that his career took off, and took over. Music isn’t just your career choice, James. Anyone who plays like you do, well, it’s obviously more of a lifestyle. Your commitment to pursuing it is beyond passion—at this point, probably deeply ingrained in your self-perception.”

  I smile at her phrasing. “Thank you, Sigmund.”

  Her clear amber eyes flicker with humor, but suddenly darken with her expression. “And while I’ve come to realize, sacrificing for excellence on occasion is essential to achieve it, I beseech you, don’t ever make me ask you to choose, James.” Her eyes hold me captive, pleading. She’s deadly serious.

  I'm fixed on her, inside her head, feel her fear and still underlying anger. “I won’t.” I reach out to her then, hold her face in both my hands and kiss her again. Her warm lips part and I draw her in, get lost in contact, her taste, smell sweet sex on her skin. We part slightly, but stay lips to lips. She runs her tongue over mine, kisses me again, and again. I feel her smile, then mine, kiss her again and we finally pull back. “I promise you, you and Cameron will remain my priority.” Let my hands fall from her face but keep my eyes on hers.

  She smiles, nods humbly, then reaches up with both hands and cups my jaw, kisses me quickly, drawing my face up in her hands before separating them as she stands and straightens, releases me.

  “Be with me tonight.” Elisabeth’s tone is tender, and teasing. In the dim light I can barely make out that she’s extending her hand to me, the night sky behind her silhouetting her form.

  Their forms descend on the bed like a pack of wolves. Billy slams inside me, up my ass splitting me open, my screams garbled and choking as he pumps me raw. He just laughs, the grin plastered on his face so wide it becomes the Cheshire cat, the animated one from the Disney movie. And the white snakes are rushing up my arms and I watch them, helpless as they slither across my chest, and I scream in terror as they wrap around my cock. And I’m writhing and moaning, crying and cussing, and they’re laughing as Billy slams into me again and again. But I fight and kick until I get one leg free and then someone’s head is between my calves and I lock them around his neck, clamp down as hard as I can, lifting him off me, crushing his larynx by the sound of his gurgling, and breaking his neck. I hear it crack, like snapping a large twig, feel his body go slack between my legs, the weighted silence that follows, then someone whispers, “Holy fucking Christ. I think he’s just killed Billy.”

  I sit on the bench paralyzed, except for the trembling. My heart’s coming through my chest. Feel Elisabeth looking down at me, feel her shame, her confusion when I don’t reach for her hand. I can’t move to save my life.

  Take her hand. You want to be with her, be with her.

  “I can’t.” I shake my head. It’ll hurt. “I could hurt you.” I can barely breathe. Want to crawl under the bench.

  Run.

  She drops her hand to her side. I look up at her, her face suddenly illuminated with the kitchen’s dim light. I feel her uncertainty, her eyes searching to see into me. Then her expression slowly morphs with understanding into her casual smile. “Move over.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Scooch.” She sits next to me and bumps up against me until I’m two-thirds down the bench, then brings her legs up, stretches them out and rests her head in my lap.

  Her hair cascades over my legs like a warm blanket. She stares up at the stars, dark lashes framing her glistening eyes scanning the twinkling sky. Hard to make the color of her wide-set eyes; strong features of her long, oval face are difficult to see in the dim light, but her dark, thick lips are closed, set in a placid expression. In fact, her entire demeanor is calm, relaxed, and I sense no confusion, nor ire. I manage to stop trembling. She laces my left hand in her right, brings my hand across her to rest on her stomach. I stroke her hair with my free hand, try slowing my heart rate.

  Can she feel my heart pounding? Does she sense my shame, my moral dissonance—fearing my own essence now, more than anything outside of me. She closes her eyes, surrenders to my touch, the way I’ve seen Cameron mesmerized by hers. I lean back against the house, let my head drop back and close my eyes, but continue stroking her hair—bringing its silky smoothness between my fingers again and again.

  Fifteen minutes pass in silence and I’m thinking she’s fallen asleep, but then I hear her inhale to speak.

  “You know, the first time Jack and I had sex it was very awkward.” She pauses. “We were seventeen, on a road trip up at my cousin’s house in the Berkeley hills. We stayed in the unfinished upstairs master bedroom of their second floor addition. Only three of the four walls were up. The west wall was just framing, which gave us a fantastic view of the bay, and even San Francisco beyond, but it was freezing in there. We had separate sleeping bags, but decided to share one and snuggled really close to keep warm.”

  She holds my hand on her stomach, connecting us, spinning a parable for what she’s afraid to say straight out. I don’t open my eyes. I want to stay in her story, watch the scene unravel with the offhanded manner of her telling.

  “Well, of course, Jack got a hard-on almost instantly. We were both virgins, and although I wasn’t committed to keeping it that way, I was afraid if we had sex it would wreck our friendship. Like death and taxes, adding sex to the mix certainly changes things, like it or not.”

  I smile down at her. Her eyes are still closed, her expression still placid.

  “Anyway, to make a long story short, we did it. I let him, in other words. He’d been wanting to for so long, and I’d always stopped him. But that night I figured there was no turning back once we were in the same sleeping bag. I’ve always abhorred the idea of being a prick tease. And it was painful and clumsy and over in about a minute once he was inside me, which honestly, I was glad for because it hurt like hell with him in there.”

  Surely, she’s not randomly sharing this slice of intimate history. There’s something she feels a need to communicate, but fears her usual direct approach. And though I feel trepidation rising, curiosity overrides it so I spur her on. “And you’re telling me this story because...”

  “No reason in particular.”

  “Right.” I catch her whisper of a smile, shake my head, but with humor, before dropping it back against the wall and closing my eyes again.

  “The thing is, it got better. Sex, I mean,” she continues softly. “Our first few times it was awkward, or it hurt, or it just didn’t feel the way everyone always raved about. But eventually we found our rhythm, and somewhere after that I had my first orgasm and realized what all the hype was about.” She pauses. “And even though I haven’t had sex in almost a year now, desire has not abandoned me.” She pauses again. “Just thought I’d let you know.” She yawns, let’s go of my hand and rolls onto her side, curls up and buries her hands under my leg, using my lap as a pillow. Within moments her breathing becomes even and I realize she’s fallen asleep.

  I let myself free fall into her warmth; her softness; her sweet, rich, seductive scent. I know she’s just come on to me. I’m just not quite sure what to do with it. Yet. I smile, which persists as I drift off. The sleep is restless. The bench is hard. It gets cold out there at some point. There are dreams—exploring the tide pools with Cameron; laughing while gorging on fruit with Elisabeth, the fruit j
uice dripping slowly down the front of her body. In one dream, I’m on her porch, guitar in my lap strumming a fast, rhythmic progression—Em-Am-E-F#-G#-F#-Em...a new one that sticks when I wake late in the night. But the nightmares do not come.

  Chapter Ten

  James removes her head from his lap and stands. She tucks her hands under her cheek to lift her face off on the weathered pine bench and opens her eyes as the screen door shuts. It’s dark, even the stars seem dimmer. She sits up, still groggy, looks around for James but doesn’t see him, then hears the screen door again, feels the weight of her quilt over her shoulders and looks up at him.

  “Sorry I woke you.” He takes her hand and brings her to her feet, then guides her to sit on the lounge chair, then kneels in front of her. He smiles his adorable, single-dimpled grin. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see ya later.” His full, soft lips cover hers with warmth, and then he’s gone. She falls onto the lounge chair, curls her feet up under her blanket and listens to him crunch the earth as he climbs the hill.

  And Elisabeth is alone.

  Except she isn’t. Cameron sleeps just the other side of the wall. Five minutes later, James starts playing and they’re connected again.

  She gets up, checks on Cam while heating water for tea, then pours herself a cup and comes back out to listen. Connect. She craves him now. She wants to be with him, or hear him all the time, know he’s close. Safe. Alive. Even if Jack were, he wouldn’t be enough anymore. Not now. Knowing what is possible.

  Elisabeth sits on the bench cradling her tea, listening to him strum the guitar—fast and fluid, then switch to picking, keeping the same tight rhythm without missing a beat. The music resonates off the hillside and echoes down from his house. He knows she can hear him now. He means for her to. She smiles, wonders if he is, hopes he is...and is suddenly chilled with the notion. Will the very thing connecting them now eventually tear them apart?

  She would never ask him to choose between her and music. But she didn’t have to stay with him if she doesn’t like his choice. I won’t. Not again. James is with her now. More often than not he’s present, pays attention, listens, questions. This is nothing like with Jack. She had no idea this was even possible. She’s the best part of herself when she was with James. He engages her. Challenges her. Empowers her. He sees her as beautiful. She feels beautiful.