“It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.”
Chapter I
I was feeling great; resting on the aero bars, breathing easily; my legs kept up an effortless, steady tempo; the flecks of white gravel embedded in the asphalt streaked below me like shooting stars. Off to my right, the sun was about 2 diameters above the horizon in the clear autumn sky. My speedometer flirted with 35 kph. The beach road unfolded before me like a long black ribbon. The vacation season ended several weeks ago so I only had to compete with the locals and a few fishermen for the road.
A police car passed and then slowed to my pace. I recognized the officer and nodded. “Don’t go too fast” he admonished, “or I will have to haul you in.” I opened my grip in a slight wave and smiled. He returned my wave and continued down the road. A rider came into view ahead and I accelerated to pull alongside. It was Art. “Hey” I shouted, using the standard term of address in the area. “Hey Pippa!” He replied. We continued side by side down the road. A long break in the dune line revealed the wide beach leading down to the edge where surf and sand met. The panorama of sand, sea, surf, sky, clouds, and sun enchanted me as much now as when I first experienced it six years ago. It still astounded me. I only paid half attention to my riding as I stared. It still astounded me.
“You are going to miss it, Pip.” Art chirped up.
“Yes indeed. I will miss it. But it will be here when I return. That old ocean isn’t going anywhere any time soon.” I spoke to reassure myself that nothing would change until I returned. For the last few weeks, I was in denial that we were leaving, even though I agreed with the decision. I even anticipated the change; but I will miss my life on the sandbar. I likened this place to a married lover you can never have as your own but is always around and you knew would be available.
Something caught my eye on the far side of the road. Instinctively, I lowered my left hand to indicate I was slowing and then turned abruptly across the road to the beach access as Art continued down the road. A girl held a bike helmet at her side and watched as a man, her cycling partner no doubt, tended to a wheel on her bike. I cruised by in a lazy circle and stopped. “Can I help?” I asked more out of politeness than necessity since most people say everything is under control. “Maybe” came the unexpected reply, “this is her second flat in about a mile and the patch doesn’t want to hold.”
“Hmmm” I puzzled as I unclipped my remaining foot from my pedal. “When you start getting a lot of flats like that, it is time to look for something other than wear and tear on the tire.” I bent over the wheel with the tire partially off the rim. “May I look?” With an air of frustration, he handed over the wheel. “Sure. Have a try.” I examined the rim, more for show than anything, but just to be sure there was no major blips and then slowly ran my finger along the inside of the tire until I swabbed the entire inner circumference.
“Why did you do that” the girl asked?
“Just to make sure you hadn’t picked up a small nail or piece of glass that could cause the problem.”
“How will you know if I did?” “The first sign is that I will cut my finger.” I laughed. I didn’t do that, but I did feel a slight ‘stick’ about halfway round the tire.
Art cruised in and stopped, nodding to everyone as he did.
I examine the tire in detail. Unfortunately, there was no way to determine the relative location of the puncture on the tire. “Look at this!” Everyone gathered around as I pried the bead up with my fingernail to reveal a polished piece of glass embedded in the tire. “A street diamond”, I exclaimed. “This is my suspect.” I took my small Swiss Army knife from my pocket and pried the shiny glass fragment from the tire which left a half inch gash through the sidewall and the inner ply.
“How can we fix it?” There was a slight desperation in the girl’s voice, “won’t it just cause another flat and we are about five miles from the house, and we don’t have another tube.”
I removed my helmet. Attached to the back with a strip of Velcro, I carried a spare tube. “Here is a tube. Let’s see what we can do about a temporary fix for the tire. Do you have a dollar bill?”
“Sure” the man answered and opened his wallet, “How much do I owe you?”
“You don’t owe me anything. I want to make sure this holds until you get a chance to fix it proper. Just a dollar.”
He rummages through the loose bills until he found one that he thought I would find satisfactory and handed it to me. I folded it lengthwise and then lengthwise again before I positioned it over the spot where the glass punctured the tire. I then held it in place as I worked the new tube around the rim with my free hand. When that was in place, I worked the rim of the tire into the wheel. The last foot or so of the tire gave me some trouble but a rock of the wheel and a stretch of my forearms popped it in place. “Dollars are tough stuff” I added, “It should hold for a few miles.” The tire fit nicely even with the added bulk of the dollar. I took my hand pump and inflated it as much as I could, about 65 lbs. I then took a compressed air cartridge and inflated it until it was firm if not solid to a press. I deftly mounted the wheel and declared it “Done!”
“What do I owe you” the guy asked again, this time with a sense of relieve.
“I already answered that. You don’t owe me anything. Just when you see someone with a problem ask if you can help. Which way are you heading?” They stared at each other and pointed south down the road. “Rider’s up.” I commanded, “We can ride together for a while and see how it holds.”
Art rode ahead at his pace while I kept with the couple. We chatted idly about biking and the beach. I thought that perhaps I had been too assertive about the bike repair and did not want to appear patronizing. That was not the case. They were thankful for the assistance and agreed to improve their repair skills. “If you can ride it, you can fix it” I shouted as they turned off to their cottage, “And don’t forget your dollar!”
I caught up with Art who had maintained a constant separation. “Why do you do things like that?” He posed a question I asked myself frequently. “I don’t know. It just seems like the right thing to do.”
“I’ll buy you dinner.” Art changed the topic.
“No thanks.” I had been through this several times already.
“Why not?”
“You know why not. I don’t want you to be my biographer.”
“But you are an interesting person, maybe not in your opinion, but in mine. And everybody has a story to tell, and I want to hear yours”
“Yeah. Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy. That is your goal.” Art never liked being accused of anything remotely resembling the truth.
“Yes . . . but . . . besides I love you.”
“You know my situation. We have been over that a few times.”
“I know what you have told me but until I see a ring on your left hand I consider you to be available. That is one of the things that I find interesting. Besides you are leaving, and I may not have another chance.”
I turned into the beach access area hoping he would continue without me. But he followed me to the deck overlooking the dunes. I rested my bike against the sand fence and climbed the steps to the deck. The ocean stretched endlessly under an azure sky. The surf broke in lazy long rolls and spread the white spume across the brown sand.
Art stood beside me. “Great view” he noted.
“It is a wonderful view. I never tire of it.”
“Why are you leaving?”
I did not answer. Instead, I leaned on the railing and said, “I was standing right here. This very spot, the first time I saw the ocean. Right here! I recall it like it was yesterday. It was evening, the sky was dark, ink clouds, the wind was calm, the tide out, although I didn’t know it then, and the sun behind the clouds about an inch above the horizon, right back there.”
“How about a drink at least?”
“I need to finish packing. Maybe some other time.”
“There won’t be another time.” He pleaded.
“That’s OK. Nothing will change.” I took a long look at the ocean and made my way down the steps to my bike.
“You are a tough one. I really wish I knew what makes you tick.”
I looked back from my bike, gave a smile and a wave and pedaled home. The note from two days ago was still on the kitchen counter. I picked it up and read it again to myself with a smile. “Pippa, I miss you already. Can’t wait to meet you at the airport. As ever with love. R.” The writing was small, tight, and precise. However, the signature ‘R’ was the distinctive bold scrip. I placed it next to my purse so I would not forget to take it.
I disassembled the major parts of my bike and stuffed it into the molded plastic shipping crate. “No more LSD for a while” I said to myself. ‘LSD’, my euphemism for Long Slow Distances, and a modest goal I set for myself when I started regular riding six years ago. I felt a lump in my throat as I snapped the latches on the crate.
Last looks! Tomorrow early, Claire will drive me to Richmond to catch a flight. In exchange for the cab ride, I gifted the car to her. Six years of beach weather had taken a toll on the finish, but it was still roadworthy. It was not worth shipping or storing and Claire needed a car. The deal worked out for both of us.
I finished the last-minute clean-up of the house, even straightened the ‘For Rent’ sign. Tonight, I will sleep in the chair, no need to disturb the bed. The sun was just above the horizon. “The sun is below the yard arm” I said to nobody in particular but I could never remember whether the phrase was ‘above’ or ‘below’ the yardarm. I filled a thermos bottle with the ingredients for a batch of Manhattans, filled a plastic sports bottle with ice, stowed them in my backpack along with a plastic tumbler and walked to the beach. I climbed the deck again just as the sun was descending below the horizon and the low buildings cast eerie shadows over the beach. A teenage couple snuggled on the bench. I ignored them as best I could and stared over the rail. Undaunted surfers did their best to catch the occasional large wave; farther down surf fishermen waded up to their waist to cast farther out beyond the breakers; random children and families walked the surf line. The teenagers, obviously feeling I had invaded their space, left.
Alone on the deck, I removed the ingredients from my backpack and filled the tumbler with ice and Manhattan. As the sun slowly disappeared, I took a long swig and broke into a chill. I pulled my fleece around my shoulders and took another drink. I don’t think I really tasted anything, but I could feel the effects of the alcohol and the ice immediately as my forehead throbbed. I closed my eyes and thought about Art’s request. He worked for the town and one of his part-time duties was to write those folksy human-interest profiles for the local beach paper. I never wanted to be profiled. He was also a novelist in search of a publisher, and I did not want to take the chance on picking up a cheap novel and finding my life spread across the pages, especially as a minor character. I took another drink.
“Where would I start?” I thought out loud. I have always been prone to reminiscing. Not the maudlin, nostalgic, good old days but the celebratory recollections of things past; good things and bad things. I thought of life as a continuum, and I needed to select a starting point. An event, but not a random event, that was just throwing a dart. I sat back on the bench letting my memory unwind.
“Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,”
Fern Hill always came to mind when I reflected on events too much. It always reminded me of the farm. But retracing my life all the way back to Nebraska is one step too far, so let me begin with my divorce. Although I was only separated at the time, I still referred to it as my divorce. I left my husband in Nebraska and took a job as an editor for a small publisher in Baltimore, fifteen hundred miles away. I arrived in a 20-year-old Honda which lasted long enough for me to find an apartment in an old row house neighborhood a quarter mile from the office. The car then promptly expired.
I settled into a routine of walking to and from work during the week. On weekends I explored my new locale via the light rail and transit busses. During my excursions I carried a detailed urban map, a notebook, and an assortment of colored highlighters. My goal was to define the city according to the neighborhoods. Each area would be color coded with a highlighter. Arts and entertainment would merit an orange highlight; well-to-do was outlined in blue; questionable — red; eclectic but not bad areas turned yellow and the undesirable or ‘no zones’ were outlined in black. For each mark on the map, I made an entry in the notebook complete with date, general comments, and any specific establishment, event or activity that led me there. This would become my dossier on the city.
The job was new to me but not impossible to master. The first few weeks on the job were an informal internship. I was assigned tasks from different departments to become acquainted with my co-workers and to get a feel for how the various groups functioned together. My experience on the local paper in Nebraska helped along with a good academic background. After about three weeks I was able to manage most of the tasks on my own and even lend a hand when asked.
My office mates were a mixed group of mostly recent graduates or middle aged, a few thinly scattered in between. I fraternized at work with most everyone. Some of the men tested my willingness by making easily misinterpreted suggestion and comments which made their motives obvious. Since I still wore my wedding band, I accepted the overtures as a compliment but avoided playing along, at least until I had a better feel for the office terrain.
The walk to and from the office became easier and I fell into the habit of arriving earlier and staying a bit later. This was not a sign of industriousness as much as a lack of social life. I did not socialize with my workmates outside the office. There was nothing about them personally. Perhaps when I eased into a routine and became comfortable with my new environs I would. I was also still a little gun shy since my separation.
The organizational scheme of things in the office was nothing less than a hodge-podge. Projects came in; staffs assigned and then without warning people were pulled off to work other things. There was always too much work and never enough time or people, but it kept me busy. However, I was growing tired of the piecemeal assignments and was anxious to be part of a team and have long term project.
“Hi!” She seemed to spring from nowhere into my office. “I’m Rachel. Rachel Burns. And you are Pippi as in Pippi Longstockings. You will be reporting to me.” Her tone and smile were disarming, so much so, I did not get annoyed at the Pippi Longstockings reference, something I had lived with since I was a kid.
I stood as she entered and countered, “It is Pippa, as in Pippa Passes, as God’s in his Heaven –
All’s right with the world! And it is Lagergren not Longstockings, but we are both Swedish.” Since I filed the separation papers, I had used my maiden name to reinforce, at least to myself, the finality of the marriage.
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Ah yes! The Browning poem, or was it a play, about a young innocent girl and the verse rife with blatant sexual references. It is also a town in Kentucky.”
Her off-the-cuff recall of these remote associations impressed me. If I had not had a name which served as a constant reminder of the poem and the town, I would never have known either existed.
She continued, “I apologize. I was not thinking. I hope you are not sensitive about your name?”
I was not particularly sensitive except when strangers made a joke. However, her manner was such, that I could not hold it against her. I smiled, extended my hand, and said, “nice to meet you.”
Rachel was about my height, perhaps an inch taller, but with a slighter build. She had raven black curly hair and captivating blue eyes that, unfortunately, drew my attention to the scar. I noticed it not because it was unattractive but because of the effect it had on her appearance. It wasn’t a disfiguring blemish, but it could not be overlooked. It began at the bridge of her nose directly between her eyes and continued along the optic ridge above her right eye. The scar tissue ran directly through the eyebrow, redefining it just enough to make her face appear out of balance.
I wondered how she acquired it. Was it a car accident? That was my first guess. I picture as sudden stop and her head bouncing off the steering wheel and blood splattering the interior. I did not have the nerve to ask but I figured in time I would hear the story.
“You have heard about the social hours?” she asked rhetorically because she knew I hadn’t. “Every few weeks, or for a special event, the company hosts an employee get together at a local establishment.” Rachel named the bar and the location. If I drew a straight line from the office to my apartment, the restaurant was a bit to the south, not at all out of the way. “You will be there?” she declared as a question. “I suppose so.” I replied haltingly. “Good! I have to introduce you to the rest of the company!” With that she was gone, and I was uneasy.
I accepted a ride to the social hour with a salesman. He made the most of the few minutes to chat me up and make some not too subtle advances. He was attractive, confident, charming, and unconcerned about my marital status. Although I did not fall prey to his wiles, I did consider future options.
At the restaurant I was greeted by an attractive couple handing out wrist bracelets. “This lets the bartender know you are on the company’s tab.” I nodded, paused, and responded, “I don’t think we have met. I’m Pippa.” I extended my hand which he shook vigorously, “and I am George, and this is my wife, Kathy.” He then gave a wry grin, “We own the company, and we are happy to have you on board.” I felt a rush of crimson flood my face and before I could recover Kathy chimed in, “Don’t be embarrassed. He has been mistaken for the janitor.” Her manner put me at ease but still felt mildly abashed at my faux pas.
As a new hire, I attracted a bit more attention than normal, mostly from the salesmen. There was also a Type-A project manager who was not subtle in his approach and upon meeting him, asked if I was free this weekend. After an hour or so, George called for attention to introduce the new hires. Rachel stood up, gave a wink to the crowd, and proceeded to introduce me by name, job title, and office location. Then I was on center stage. I arose slowly trying to buy time so I could think of what to say. My thumb massaged the underside of my wedding band as if to remind me to be guarded about my status. When I spoke, I kept it short and terse; a brief academic and employment history and except for the fact I was a transplant from Nebraska, non-personal. With a noticeable sigh of relief, I relinquished the stage to the next new employee.
After my performance, I mingled awhile longer until I had an opportunity to slip quietly and unnoticed out the door to make my way to my back to my apartment.
Rachel was an editorial supervisor. She was personable, efficient, tried her best to provide adequate resources, but most important did not meddle unnecessarily in your work. After my initial introduction she did not enter my office unannounced. Once or twice a day she would knock gently and poke her head in the door to ask how things were going and chat a bit, but if the project was on track that was all she did. Perhaps that was why I was a bit taken back when she approached me about the book club.
“We meet once a month at a different member’s home. This month it is my place. It is a mixed group and very enjoyable.”
I hesitated. “OK” I replied. “What book are you reading?”
“Well, this month is a doozy, Moby Dick. I suspect most everyone will just read the cliff notes or rent the movie. Everyone except Visnow, he teaches at the university.”
A smile came to me. “Really! Moby Dick. I have read that book a half dozen times at least. I am fascinated by it.”
“It looks like I asked the right person. Someone will appear intelligent. It is tomorrow and it runs from 7:00 — 9:00, but they tend to arrive early and linger later. If you want, you can ride with me after work tomorrow.”
I agreed and added “It was the devious cruising Rachel”.
What?”
“Ah ha!” I said, you have not read Moby Dick either. Rachel sighed.
I checked my notebook about the neighborhood of Rachel’s house; yellow, eclectic. She would ride me there, but I needed to plot my return. She lived in a converted carriage house in an old neighborhood struggling to become gentrified and fairly convenient from my place by public transit. The light rail would handle the north-south leg then a short walk east to Rachel’s.
Rachel was a character. She drove a well-worn two-seater Mazda sports car. Frequently the passenger seat was occupied by a disassembled bicycle or occasionally a surfboard. The surfboard was angled so it stuck out the back window of the convertible top. She obviously was very athletic and did join the after work happy hours but seemed to be inconspicuous. Beyond work and the social hours, she revealed very little about her personal life. I was always curious where she goes to surf and whether the scar was attributable to a biking accident, but I did not ask.
Rachel showed up at my office a few minutes before 5:00 the next day. “Give me about 30 minutes. Meet you at the front door.” Whether that was an order or just a declaration I could not figure out, but she was waiting when I got there. Most everyone had left and just a couple cars remained on the lot. She opened the passenger door and adjusted an old quilt over the seat. “There might be some grease from the bike sprocket” she said matter of factly. “I don’t want to get a stain on your skirt.” Her comment made me conscious of the fact that very few women at the office worse skirts except for the occasions, such as business meetings, that required them. Since my separation, I have not had a chance to shop for suitable slacks for the office and have relied on skirts, blouses, and suits. The reminder made me feel I would be over dressed for the evening.
The sports car roared off the lot, the effect amplified by a deteriorating muffler, wound about the side streets, and passed within a block of my apartment. Whether Rachel was aware of how close she was I could not determine. We swung through a part of the city I had yet to explore; run down and deteriorating; worthy of a black outline on my map. The scenery changed as we picked up the thoroughfare south and entered Rachel’s section of town. Block upon block of large subdivided Victorian townhouses, businesses; bars, restaurants, variety stores and markets, intermixed with the residences. She saw a parking spot on the street and veered sharply into it before anyone else, who may have had an eye on it, could react. We walked down an alley called Morton Street; hardly a ‘street’ and barely wide enough for a car and stopped at a door. “Is this it?” I asked trying to mask my incredulity, “It is a garage.” “Quite so” she quipped back, “but in this part of town it is called a ‘carriage house’. It must have something to do with the age. If you originally put a horse and buggy here it was a ‘carriage house’, if you stored a car, it was a garage.” She chuckled and I could not determine if it was at my naiveté or because she agreed it was a garage. “Would have liked a parking space when bought this place.” she lamented.
The interior was as I expected, very Rachel with furniture appropriate for the structure in quantity and style. The kitchen was small but uncluttered. She pulled small sandwiches, veggies and finger food from the refrigerator and placed them on the sideboard already set with chips, mixers, wine, and liquor. An ice chest on the floor was chocked with beer and sodas.
“Almost done! Take a look around while I set out the plates and plastic. The bathroom is upstairs on the right.” With that I proceeded to wander about the small house. The walls held an eclectic mix of prints, etchings and lithographs, nothing out of the mainstream but not what I would normally associate with her carefree manner either. They were rather sensible, cultured, discerning. The wall up the stairs was adorned with old photographs, relatives perhaps, old maps of London and Charleston, and a handwritten deed or lease that was dated 1815.
The upstairs had a larger room in the front, which was Rachel’s bedroom, a bathroom at the top of the stairs and another smaller room in the back which was organized as an office. I examined the bedroom from the doorway. I felt I would be entering hallowed ground if I entered uninvited. It was sparsely furnished with a bed, chest of drawers, nightstand, and table with a TV.
The small room had a desk with a PC and shelves and bookcases lining the walls. Interspersed among the books were photos; small and framed. I ventured in to have closer look. They were of Rachel competing. Several were races with her crossing the finish line, standing in a crowd under the race banner or straining to pass someone. Some showed her on a bike; in a few she was a solitary figure, crouched over the handlebars and passing what appeared to be a checkpoint. There was a cluster of photos showing riders racing on a course set out along around a parking lot and building. They were grouped at a start, multi-colored outfits crowded together behind a starting line. Others had clusters of riders jostling for an edge on sharp turns.
An entire shelf was taken up with surfing pictures. The waves and surf varied, but Rachel was unmistakable. She seemed ageless. The only indication of time was her hair. In some it was short, very short, while others showed long sodden tresses reaching far beyond her shoulder. I thought about her hair; now it was somewhere in between.
The last triptych to catch my eye was the most intriguing. The center picture was Rachel holding a rifle in her right hand. Her arm was raised and bent at a 45-degree angle. The butt nestled in the crook of her elbow with the barrel pointing skyward. In her left hand she held a paper target with the bull’s eye obliterated by bullet punctures. The flanking pictures showed her firing handguns at an unseen target. In one, the pistol looked normal in her grip and there was no sign she had just fired it. The other picture had her holding a gun that was completely out of proportion to her hands. Both her arms extended forward; the gun was a blur obscured by a large flash of fire and smoke. It was a powerful and slightly disturbing portrait of Rachel.
The doorbell summoned me back to the downstairs to greet the club members.
I comported myself well. Dr. Visnow did act as de facto moderator and most of the member espoused the accepted interpretation of the story especially that Ahab was monomaniacal (if I heard that word once more, I swore I would scream). Visnow listened politely and Socratically attempted to move the discussion further along. When I mustered the courage to render my opinion, I stated that I did not revile Ahab. In fact, I thought of him as a powerful leader. Rather than monomaniacal, to me, he was focused. He defined the goal and set about to achieve it regardless of the consequences. I reinforced my argument with my second favorite quote of the book when Ahab vows, “What I’ve dared, I’ve willed; and what I’ve willed, I’ll do!” If the rest of the group thought me a bit pretentious, so be it. Visnow was impressed. “Ah yes, Ahab’s protocol that the force of will can overcome all obstacles, even a Leviathan”
After the discussion during the social hour, he monopolized my time, asking about my background, literary interests along with where I worked, lived, and did for excitement. It was not unpleasant, and I went along with everything except for where I lived. It was the most socializing I had done, outside of work, since I arrived in Baltimore.
The crowd eventually left, and I helped Rachel clean up. “Let me give you a ride home. It is getting late.”
“No need to do that. I can call a taxi to get me to the light rail which almost drops me at my door.”
“Then let me drop you at the rail stop. That will only take a couple minutes.” This seemed and appropriate compromise, so I agreed. In the car we chatted about the book club and yes, I did enjoy myself. She wanted my opinion on Dr. Visnow; likable, interesting but a bit peculiar. “See you tomorrow” she shouted as she pulled away from the stop just as my train was arriving.
The next day was a normal workday. Rachel thanked me for attending and again asked if I enjoyed myself; “of course, of course”. Other than that brief exchange it was business as usual. A week passed and I put the book club behind me. Rachel did not mention it and I did not give it much thought.
Second Thursday, Payday! Things always seemed to go smoother, and everyone was more accommodating. I suspected a cause-and-effect relationship. Rachel uncharacteristically bounced into my cubicle and flopped in the available chair. “How goes it?” she inquired in something less professional than her normal manner. I nodded OK. “Good! I have a question. Would you like to stop off for a drink and a bite after work tomorrow?” Before I could answer, she continued “a couple of friends are meeting down by the theater about 5:30 or so. I am going to stop down for a while and thought you might want to join us.”
“Is this something to do with the book club?” I asked hesitantly. “Oh no. Just a couple of friends. They are finishing up rehearsal and I thought you might like to join us.”
For some reason I was apprehensive. Maybe she was too casual or that she seemed suddenly out of character from her workplace persona. I demurred. “Will Dr. Visnow be there?” I asked to buy some time for thought.
“No. He will not be in attendance, but if I called him and said you were planning to stop by, I am sure he would go out of his way to make it. Would you like me to ring him and ask?”
At that suggestion I felt myself blush and balked at an answer. Before I could think of a cleaver or appropriate response, Rachel continued. “He is really smitten with you. The following day he called me to ask about you and has been badgering me for your phone number since. If you want, I’ll pass it along.”
“Why does he want my phone number?” My words even sound naïve to my own ear.
“He wants to get you to bed, of course. It is part of his self-characterization; the prominent professor who has students, socialites, faculty wives and interesting strangers begging to bed down with him. He just assumes you want to do the same. Do be shy to admit if you want to. I slept with him myself.” The last pronouncement brought a smile and a chuckle.
“Were you lovers?”
“No way. It was a fling. He wanted to; I wanted to, so we did. Once done, it was over, and he did not pester me anymore. Not a bad way to end a relationship!”
There was something about her unassuming response that was winning. I am not sure what it was, but she seemed unaffected and natural. Without giving it another thought, I agreed to go. “Meet me at my car after work. If you don’t enjoy yourself, there is a rail stop in the same block.” She stood up and gave an exaggerated shrug, “so you can leave whenever.”
My apprehension returned as I left the building Friday after work. Rachel was again arranging the blanket over the passenger seat. “Nothing to worry about. I was biking last weekend and I may have gotten some grease on the seat.” Her comment conjured up one of my first impressions of Rachel; driving into the parking lot in the rain with the top down and her bike, covered in plastic, wheels removed and crammed into the passenger seat. A security chain looped through the bike frame, the wheels, the door handle and secured with a large lock. I smiled.
Rachel accelerated off the parking lot, cross the light rail tracks, again passed dangerously close to my apartment before roaring onto the expressway. In less than a mile, and we cruised through an old stately neighborhood with large townhouses, some past their prime and others recently renovated. A bar, art school, opera house, symphony hall, a monument on the median swept past as the car curved around the urban street. Without any warning, she veered into an open space at the curb and cut the engine. That maneuver must be part of the urban driving culture I decided. “Great spot! And no meter! I live in the city, so it is my divine right to park on the city streets whenever and wherever I like.”
With that she was out of the car and walking. I caught up and she pointed across the street to the bar stuck between a restaurant and an art supply store. “That’s Ryan’s. Not much to look at but comfortable.” Inside a bar ran along the left with a row of booths along the opposite wall. A large open area with a scattering of random arranged tables cluttered the front near the street windows. Rachel waved at the bartender who replied with a nod as he poured a draft and walked directly to a booth with two girls. Rachel slid beside one and me the other. “Pippa” Rachel exclaimed pointing to me, “Stacy” as she pointed across the table, “Tanya” and she pointed to girl seated beside me. “Now we all know each other.” I felt a bit awkward at the curt introduction, but everyone said “Hi” and nodded.
In short order we were friendly, if not friends. Stacy was a contract musician rehearsing for the upcoming opera season. Tanya wrote for a regional magazine and was an unpaid member of the opera chorus. They rehearsed that afternoon and just wanted to unwind.
The waiter stopped by to take orders, a wine and iced tea. Rachel paused, “It is Friday and I have been good all week; I’ll have a Manhattan.”
“A Manhattan? I have never had a Manhattan.” I noted. “Manhattans always seemed so out of date, much like something my grandfather would order.”
“You should; especially on a Friday. Mixed well, it is the most sublime concoction.”
“Sold! I’ll have one.”
With that the happy hour officially commenced. The next couple hours consisted of friendly, casual, unassuming chat on a wide range of unimportant topics. It was wonderful. Rachel, Tanya, and Stacy all had an easy manner and were excellent company. The time passed too quickly. The bill came, charges split evenly, and Tanya and Stacy rose to leave. We hugged good-by like old friends considering a short time ago we met and nodded to each other.
Rachel and I sat finishing off the last of our Manhattans. “Well, we can finish up and leave or stay and have another” I commented.
“Or, we can just leave and have another elsewhere” Rachel retorted.
Leaving did not appeal to me. The atmosphere and company were very pleasant, I did not want it to end but I sensed Rachel was tired of the environment and perhaps of my company. I passed the decision as artfully as I could; “well you are driving, so I will accede to your wish.”
With that Rachel got up and walked to the bar. “Rory!” she barked. “I need the fixin’s for manhattans to go. Full bottles.” The bartender acknowledged her request, squatted down behind the bar.
“You need the bitters too?”
“Everything.”
He surfaced with 3 bottles. “These OK?” he asked. Rachel strained at the labels. “Yeah. They’ll do.” A paper bag, exchange of cash, a receipt and we were outside walking towards her car.
“Now you make the decision” she said, “your place or mine?” Rachel’s self-assuredness was intimidating. I felt I needed to assume a similar demeanor, so I countered. “Your place is, I am sure, much nicer. If we go to my apartment, you do not have to see about getting me to the light rail. I suggest my place.”
Rachel reached behind the driver’s seat and firmly wedged in the package. “Can’t take a chance on that breaking!” She started the car pulled away from the curb and asked, “Where to?” I forgot that she did not know where I lived. “As if you are going to the office” I replied and sat back while she retraced her route. When she approached my block, I gave her specific directions and suggested she take the first parking spot she saw and, with her urban driving instincts, she did.
“Not bad” I commented, “I’m just a few houses up the hill.” Rachel retrieved the parcel from behind the seat and then reached farther down behind the seat and came up with a small canvas purse.
The house had a front entrance to a small vestibule which in turn had two side by side doors. The one on the left opened to the stairs to the apartment on the second floor. My door was to the right. The entrance was a small area way with the bathroom to the right and a small kitchen to the left towards the back. The remaining area was split in two, a room in the front of the house and one towards the rear. I occupied the front room almost exclusively. There was a futon, a castoff homemade coffee table, a small yard sale purchased table and a radio. The back room had my clothes; clean hanging in the closet and soiled in a pile in the corner; nothing else.
Rachel surveyed the layout. “Quite Spartan, but OK. You don’t intend to stay here the rest of your life, do you?” she asked rhetorically. “Does that radio play a CD?” She pressed the capture button and the lid lifted. “It should. Does it?” With that she rooted around in the canvas purse and put a silver disc into the changer and closed the lid. No sound emerged, so she opened a closed the top a few times, each time a bit harder until the small LCD displayed a track number. “There. Now we have some opera.”
As the alien sounds, at least to me alien, filled the front room, Rachel began lining the bottles on the table. As if on cue, I got some ice from the kitchen in a plastic bucket and a bag of home-made trail mix, since I had little else to offer.
Rachel mixed the drinks, adjusted the volume on the CD player and made herself at home by sitting on the floor and leaning against the side of the futon. I took my drink in hand and sat beside her.
“I had a very enjoyable time this evening.” I started, “I need to get out more often now that I am reasonably acclimated to the city.”
“You can always call Visnow if you are bored.”
“Do you want to do that?” I asked apprehensively.
“Only if you do. He already plugged me, so I no longer interest him. If you asked him, he would be here in a flash. Once he finishes knocking the bottom out of you, he won’t be inclined to call again. That is the good part.” Her familiarity was slightly unsettling.
“What do you usually do on Friday nights?” Rachel continued.
I paused trying to formulate a response that was truthful but not too uninteresting. I could not do that, “Well” I stalled for a second hoping for a divine inspiration, but none arrived, “I come home from work, have dinner, read awhile, take a bath, shave and go to bed.”
Rachel chuckled and reached across to brush the back of her fingers against my calf. “It doesn’t feel like you need to shave tonight. Unless you need to shave those parts that don’t normally show.”
I blushed slightly, as she artfully changed the subject.
“Do you like opera?”
“Never attended or listened. I guess I don’t really know.”
“It is an acquired taste for some, but I have always liked it. That’s how I met Tanya. I was new to the city and looking for something to get involved with. I enjoyed opera and saw a notice where they were looking for volunteers. Tanya was the volunteer coordinator for the company. What brought you to Baltimore?” she followed.
I was afraid the alcohol would make me be too open, so I paused and thought a bit. “A divorce” I finally blurted. “Not yet final. I wanted out of the Midwest. Did some research. Thought I could get a job and afford to live here.” I raised my glass in mock salute and added, “I knew I could not afford Manhattan.”
Rachel laughed.
“What brought you here, if I may ask?”
“A relationship. I had been with this guy since undergrad and all through his med school. He landed an internship in town, and we moved here. Things change. When the residency was up, he wanted to practice elsewhere, and I wanted to stay. He left and I stayed. There was no angst whatsoever. You would think that after all that time together there would be a twinge of regret. Nope. Our affection for each other did not change but our ideas about life certainly did, so we wistfully parted.”
The brief monologue flowed so easily, I was certain she had repeated it several times, perhaps even rehearsing it aloud as she looked in the mirror.
“Do you keep in touch?” I tentatively inquired.
“Sort of. A couple times a year we might meet up. If he is in town for a conference or I am travelling through his area. Nothing really planned, just a phone call if we are in the same vicinity.”
“What do you do? Talk about old times? Try to restart the relationship?”
Rachel drew a long sip of her cocktail, paused for a moment, and then slowly exhaled making a low, shrill whistle as she did. “Well, if you really must know, we fuck. We don’t make love; we just fuck. Think of it as Auld Lang Synge on New Year’s Eve. It is fun but the next day it is over.”
“Like your tryst with Visnow?” I added attempting to clarify her statement.
“Exactly. Only with Visnow it was a one-time fling. No repeat performances.”
Before I could think of a response, she stood up. “Need another drink?” I stared at my half empty glass. “You will in a minute, but I’ll make you another while I am up.”
I suddenly felt like I had been too nosy. It really isn’t any of my business who she sleeps with; or who she is in love with. Her casualness led me to pry a bit too much. Maybe I hurt her feelings. Twilight was waning; neighborhood noises drifted in the open window; Rachel turned on a lamp with a very dim bulb casting eerie shadows about the room, I suddenly felt I had lost the closest thing I had to a friend; I was mortified, and I just wanted her to leave.
Rachel mixed the drinks. Picked up hers and took a gulp, then topped it off with bourbon. She then rooted around in her canvas purse, pulled out a plastic bag and held it up. “Want a joint?”
I stammered, “I have never done that.”
“What? Didn’t you go to college?” She chuckled as she sat down on the floor and held up the wrinkled joint between her thumb and forefinger.
“I have never even tried.” I reiterated.
“I’m not forcing you too. Do you mind if I do?”
My midwestern guilt perked to the surface. Open windows! Someone would catch the smell and call the police. I would have a record and never get a good job. My stomach turned as a lump formed on my throat. “Shouldn’t you close the window?” I suggested thinking that would prevent detection.
“We could but I think a little ventilation would be preferable. Do you want to try?”
I know I shouldn’t I said to myself but if I turned her down, she may leave and never speak to me again. I was caught. “OK. I’ll try it. But I have never even smoked a cigarette and don’t think I can inhale.”
“I’ll teach you.” And with that she clenched the joint between her lips and lit it with a pocket lighter. The tapered end smoldered softly but grew to a red ember as she sucked the pungent vapor deep into her lungs. She took the joint from her lips and passed it to me as she held her breath to get the full impact of the pot. I puckered like an adolescent’s first kiss and pulled the smoke into my mouth, held it for a few moments and blew it out in a long steady puff before passing it back to Rachel. It felt hot and acrid on my tongue, and I did not inhale.
“How is it?” Rachel asked.
“OK, I guess.” I had no frame of reference.
“You need to breathe it in. If not, the best you get is a good contact high and you can get that standing on most street corners after the bars close.”
I took that as a slight admonishment and not a put down. She took another drag and returned it. “Need another drink?” as she stood to return to the table. The room was hazy, and a mild euphoria affected me. “You should make them by the pitcher” I joked and laughed aloud as I said so.
I quickly took another drag and dropped the short segment of the joint on the coffee table as it burned my finger. “Shit. That hurt!” I whipped my hand to take away the sting. The marijuana smoke created a soft-focus effect as I looked over at Rachel who seemed spectral though the haze. “I burned my finger.” We both laughed.
She then reached over head with one arm in a stretching motion as if to yawn. It was then I noticed her blouse was not tucked into her waistband. It was also unbuttoned. I felt a surge of anxiety followed by a gentle wave of unconcern as I noticed.
She returned to the floor next me and lit another joint. “Have you gotten tired of it yet?”
“No” I dared, not wanting to show any sign of cowardice.
“Good. I can give you a lesson on how to inhale if you like.” I could not reply soon enough. “Here is what you do. Take a deep breath. When I tap you on the forehead, exhale through your mouth. I will handle the rest.” Rachel took a couple short shallow drags followed by a long deep draw. When her lungs were full, she turned and tapped my forehead; I expelled as much air from my lungs as I could. With that, she pinched my nose closed, placed her mouth to mine and exhaled steadily. Reflexively I drew in her pungent breath. I stifled a cough and held the fumes inside as long as I could and the exhaled in a sudden cough.
My head felt mildly dizzy as the pot acted on my nervous system. I should have been ashamed of what happened but didn’t; rather I was overtaken by a giddiness that I had never felt before. “Wow” I added, “that made a difference.” The room seemed to slowly wobble.
“Want to try doing it yourself or do you want another lesson?”
Why I answered as I did, I will never understand but Rachel, sucked on the joint, again tapped my forehead and pinched my nostrils and put her mouth to mine. This time was different. Instead of a steady rush of second lung pot smoke there was a gently coupling of our lips as the smoke escaped from our mouths and wafted about our faces. When the exchange of smoke was complete, Rachel separated but remained close enough to lubricate my lips with her tongue. As she did my hand touched her bare side and my fingers grazed the seam of her bra. “I shouldn’t be doing this.” I protested.
Rachel pulled back but my hand drifted up her bare side underneath her blouse. She shrugged and the blouse floated off her shoulder to the floor. My fingers traced along the edge of her bra and lightly brushed across her breasts. The feeling was unique. So many timed my breasts have been groped, caressed, and cuddled but, except for my solitary love making, I have never touched a woman’s breast. Idly and with no pressure I softly felt her.
Somewhere in my conscience I was aware I should not be doing these things, smoking grass, drinking, and sensuously touching someone of the same sex. I was confused. The sensation of touching Rachel’s breast aroused and shamed me. The guilt and the uncertainty made me draw my hand away.
Rachel’s face was still just inches from mine. I felt her breath against my cheek and in a husky whisper she asked, “Don’t you want to see me naked?”
Not knowing why, I answered “Yes.”
Rachel began to stand. She shed her bra in a single motion as she was rising. A twist of her fingers and her slacks opened and dropped to her ankles. In the hazy atmosphere a white cotton thong shrouded the delta. She toyed with the waistband before artfully stepping from them. My hand rubbed lightly up the front of her thigh almost to her hip but stopped just inches from her trimmed pubic region. My eyes focused as best they could on the small cleft visible at the lower point of the triangle. I felt she possessed me. “You can touch.” She uttered softly but I heard it as a command. My fingers softly traced a path across the velvety mound to the tempting slit; then stopped and looked up. Our eyes met. She sensed my apprehension as she knelt and faced me. “I will leave now if you want.” Her voice was detached and unemotional devoid of subjectivity, placing the burden of the decision squarely on me. I felt lightheaded but I had made my decision and now must act. ‘What I’ve dared, I’ve willed; and what I’ve willed, I’ll do!’ raced through my mind. I answered by leaning forward and kissing her breast. First lightly as I would the cheek of a child. Rachel straightened so her breast jutted closer. I became more fervent. I pressed my teeth to the white flesh, bit and sucked. Rachel trembled. “That hurts, that hurts.” I balked, “Don’t stop”, she muttered. I continued biting and sucking over the soft white flesh until my lips settled on her nipple. With abandon, I took it in my mouth and violently pulled with all the suction my cheeks could muster. Her body swayed back but I did not release and reined her back with teeth and lips. Her hands wrapped around my head forcing my face onto her welted breast.
I relaxed my lip lock and rocked back panting. My breathing evened out, “Don’t you want to see me naked?” I returned her question.
“Oh god yes! Yes, I do.”
“Well then you need to undress me.”
Her fingers moved with lightning speed to my blouse. Starting with the top, each button slipped through her fingers and separated. The final button, which was below my skirt waist, she effortlessly retrieved and undid. With agonizingly slow tenderness, she parted the blouse and moved her hands to cup both my breasts. I closed my eyes as she tenderly caressed each one with a slow rotating motion. I purred.
The next instant she was standing over me pulling at my arm to bring me to my feet. I rose. She surveyed me like a sculptor deciding which spot of marble to chip away next. She motioned me to turn, and I did. She then unsnapped my bra and let it fall. I felt her hands glide over my back feeling my shoulders, spine, ribs and lastly hips, unsnapping the side button of my skirt as she did. I took a baby step forward as her hands eased inside the elastic of my slip and in one fluid motion she dropped to her knees and pulled my skirt and slip to the floor. I stepped from them but did not turn towards her. She ran her hands up the back of my legs and kneaded her fingers into my ass. A strange desire, a longing, a need to satisfy something that was lacking swelled in me as she lowered her hand and slid it down the crack of my ass between my thighs and rested with her fingertips probing for my clit. I bent forward to accommodate the gentle intruder, but she stopped and began to gingerly tug my panties down; slowly at first as until they cleared my hips and then directly down.
I turned. Rachel squatted before me reading curves, creases, scars, blemishes, every aspect of my body. When our eyes met, they remained locked as she rose and eased me to the futon. I momentarily lost my balance and sat. She pushed me back and crawled beside me, never losing eye contact. We embraced and kissed. It was deep and long and as sensuous of any I ever had. Our bodies pressed together; our mouths, breasts, bellies, hips, legs, and feet all touched along a carnal meridian.
Rachel placed her hands on my temples, kissed me then slowly pushed me down. I kissed her chin, and then neck as her gentle hydraulic forced me lower. At her breasts I sampled her nipples with my tongue again sucking them fiercely. This was broken when she pushed harder. I knew what she had in mind and was not sure I could meet her expectations.
‘What I’ve dared, I’ve willed; and what I’ve willed, I’ll do!’ Captain Ahab’s protocol kept going through my head but this time it was not to convince me as much as to reinforce my resolve.
I let Rachel’s arms maneuvered me off the end of the futon and between her legs. She positioned my face, spread her thighs, and pulled me towards her. I touched the end of her slit with my tongue and dragged it up and down over her lips. I reminisced about the hundreds or thousands of times a tongue licked me there and now I experienced what caused that sensation. I licked lazily letting my tongue slip in her as the warm moist walls collapse on my tongue. Her tart juices flowed in my mouth and rolled off my lips and down my chin. I was enraptured.
Rachel retook control and steered me into her pleasure. “Here, here! Harder, harder! Softer! Gentler!” She urged as I explored her.” More, more” she coaxed. With abandon I zeroed in on her firm clit and drew deep. Rachel trembled. Hungrily I pulled and sucked wanting her to explode in my mouth. As I worked, she whined; sharp wincing wails each time I applied suction. Her hands again grabbed my head. She spread her legs wider angling her feet over my shoulders. I pursed my lips over her clit and pulled fiercely. “That hurts! Don’t stop!” she contrarily begged as I continued. Her back arched and turned from side to side as I pursued her with laser like focus. “Uh, uh, uh” she choked out followed by a loud deep moan and her body listed to one side and relaxed like an uncoiled spring.
I too relaxed and let my head rest on her velvety mound. I was satisfied. I had not come but I was satisfied. My partner was satisfied, and I felt a warmth I never felt before. I was complete.
Her warm hands caressed my head and I looked up at a soft contented smile. A nod drew me towards her, and I crawled up and rested my head on her shoulder. I listened as her breathing slowly return to normal. Her nipples, even under my gentle touch, lost their firmness.
Rachel turned slightly and wedged her knee between my thighs. I complied and as I did, she wrestled me on top of her. Our breasts touched as I straddled her waist and her tongue strained to reach my ear. I shimmied up slightly as she gently bit my lobe and tugged. A shiver went down my spine as I cuddled closer to let her continue.
She whispered softly into my ear “Was that your first time?”
“Yes”
“You are very good.” And she continued to nibble my lobe. Her hands reached my ass and grabbed my cheeks; gently at first and then strongly with her fingernails digging into my flesh. I squirmed at the first sense of pain but pushed back as I wanted more. As she continued the harsh lovely kneading, I moved my ass in rhythm with her groping. “You have a nice heiney” She breathed into my ear, “I want it.” I giggled at the term my mother used for my bottom when I was a child.
I complied as her rough gripping of my ass coaxed me farther up. With small skids I crept up her torso until my head touch the wall at the end of the futon. At that point, I rose on my knees and leaned against the wall. I looked down. Rachel slowly disappeared between my legs until I only observed the upper half of her face. Just before her mouth disappeared from view, she smiled and blew me a kiss.
Her first assault was a long slow lick along the length of my labia. My mind raced back over the army of hungry mouths that shared that meal. This was the most fulfilling. Her tongue entered and probed deep. I felt her tongue thicken and slop around my inner walls. I murmured something incomprehensible. My face rested against the wall letting the dry plaster cool my face. Rachel continued here expert stimulation varying her technique just enough to increase my arousal with each nuanced change. Each time I adjusted my hips thinking it would stimulate me, she moved my in another direction and caused my passion to flare even more. My juices flowed freely from my vagina against my thighs causing her cheeks to adhere to me as she licked. Her licking turned to sucking and soft lapping became a slurping sound.
She then attacked!
With fierceness I had never experienced her mouth locked onto my clit. She was an animal intent on devouring me completely. She pulled. I strained to escape but as I did, she increased her ferocity. A sexual remora, attached to a host, sucking me until I could no longer relent. My clit was on fire, chafed with desire; my temples throbbed; my pulse raced and pounded in my head; every muscle in my body tensed as the carnal pressure reached a boiling point. I gasped for breath thinking I would die. I was lightheaded; the room vibrated; I moaned or yelled as I came violently like I never had in my life. My arms collapsed. My only support was the wall pressing against my face. The room smelled of warm underarm, musky spent pussy, and humid air. My sweat and spit coated the plaster. I licked and tasted the dry-wet amalgam of plaster and paint. I thought I was dead.
What happened next, I don’t recall. I awoke when a chill breeze wafted across my bare body. I was huddled next to Rachel. Her leg swung over my hips and her arm around my shoulder. I roused. So did Rachel. She wrestled the cover from behind her and covered us. I reached with my foot and caught the lower hem with my toe and coaxed it over our legs and snuggled closer for warmth.
I was about to doze off again when she softly pleaded “I love you.”
I did not know how to respond.