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Authors: Jayne Anne Phillips
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The last night, we camped out in a National Forest. Nearly dusk already, and the ground was damp; I raked leaves into a broad pile to make us a softer bed, provide some insulation. The mountains and the air smelled of autumn, soil, rich mulch.
“Sit down here and get warm.” Thurman piled more wood on the fire. “Enjoy the wide open spaces. Tomorrow you’re safe, if not sound. Remember safe? You’ll get used to it again real fast.” He blew into the fire, then leaned back and gazed at me through a wavering column of heat. “You scared?”
I touched the border of stones we’d built to surround the campfire. The stones were rough, and warming. “The shakes are coming, right now,” I told him. “I can feel them.”
“No,” he said, “you’re OK. I’m sitting right here looking at you.”
“You can’t always see them. Sometimes they’re just in my gut.”
He took one of my hands and squeezed it, then kneaded my palm and worked down each finger. He pulled hard on each joint and talked as though neither of us were paying any attention to how hard he was pulling. “You’re fine,” hesaid. “We’re going to lay down in the leaves and take some deep breaths, then all those jangles will go somewhere else.”
I closed my eyes and I could feel the shade creeping across the leaves. Leaves fell slowly at long intervals, dropping with a papery sound. “I think it’s better if I sit here and cry,” I said.
“You can’t. You’re not a crier.”
“Let me try. Tell me a bad story.”
“I got no bad stories.” He picked me up in his arms and knelt to put me on the ground. The leaves were thick under us, old leaves smelling of dry mud. “Only one story,” Thurman said. “We’ve been in that truck three weeks. A few more hours, and you’re home.” I remembered a song that used to play on AM radio when I was gawky and twelve, the tallest girl in the class.
Be my little baby, Won’t you be my darling, be my baby now.…
I laughed. That’s what I was, a baby, a frozen six-year-old baby going back to the start of the cold.
“Funny story, huh?” He kissed my eyes. “Don’t get hysterical. I won’t force you. Male pride, the Code—”
“You couldn’t rape anyone. You might get mad enough to start, but at the crucial moment your equipment would fail you.”
“You’re right. I was born with a kindly cock.” I felt his legs against me, his hard stomach, the buckle of his belt. He unfastened it to keep the metal from hurting me and touched me low on my hips.
“You get turned on when you’re paternal,” I said. “You’re going to be hell on your daughter.”
“You’re hell on me,” he said. “You’ll be someone’s good lover someday when I’m drinking beer alone in a tavern and hearing the pinball machines.”
I opened his shirt and pants and slid down against him. Lake smell, like Georgia, taste of a bruise. He was in my mouth, his hands in my hair, then he moved to stop me and turned my face up. He bent over me, holding my arms, his eyes angry and surprised and wet. “No,” he said.
“Thurman.” I was crying. “I just want you to drop me off tomorrow. Me and the suitcases and the box of books. I don’t want to see you meet my mother, none of that. All right? Please.”
The cold was moving up through the ground. He felt me shiver in the dark and pulled me on top of him. I lay there and he held me with one arm. His chest was wider than my shoulders, smelling of the cold tinge of the leaves. He was awake, smoking a cigarette and staring into the trees. He exhaled with a long breath.
“It’s all timing,” he said. “This whole joke. Timing and the shakes.”
“You’re better off without me. You don’t want any fast lanes.”
He moved his warm heavy hand to the back of my head. “I’ll tell you this about fast lanes. Don’t close your eyes. Keep watching every minute. Watch in your sleep. If you’re careful you can make it: the fast shift, the one right
The last night, we camped out in a National Forest. Nearly dusk already, and the ground was damp; I raked leaves into a broad pile to make us a softer bed, provide some insulation. The mountains and the air smelled of autumn, soil, rich mulch.
“Sit down here and get warm.” Thurman piled more wood on the fire. “Enjoy the wide open spaces. Tomorrow you’re safe, if not sound. Remember safe? You’ll get used to it again real fast.” He blew into the fire, then leaned back and gazed at me through a wavering column of heat. “You scared?”
I touched the border of stones we’d built to surround the campfire. The stones were rough, and warming. “The shakes are coming, right now,” I told him. “I can feel them.”
“No,” he said, “you’re OK. I’m sitting right here looking at you.”
“You can’t always see them. Sometimes they’re just in my gut.”
He took one of my hands and squeezed it, then kneaded my palm and worked down each finger. He pulled hard on each joint and talked as though neither of us were paying any attention to how hard he was pulling. “You’re fine,” hesaid. “We’re going to lay down in the leaves and take some deep breaths, then all those jangles will go somewhere else.”
I closed my eyes and I could feel the shade creeping across the leaves. Leaves fell slowly at long intervals, dropping with a papery sound. “I think it’s better if I sit here and cry,” I said.
“You can’t. You’re not a crier.”
“Let me try. Tell me a bad story.”
“I got no bad stories.” He picked me up in his arms and knelt to put me on the ground. The leaves were thick under us, old leaves smelling of dry mud. “Only one story,” Thurman said. “We’ve been in that truck three weeks. A few more hours, and you’re home.” I remembered a song that used to play on AM radio when I was gawky and twelve, the tallest girl in the class.
Be my little baby, Won’t you be my darling, be my baby now.…
I laughed. That’s what I was, a baby, a frozen six-year-old baby going back to the start of the cold.
“Funny story, huh?” He kissed my eyes. “Don’t get hysterical. I won’t force you. Male pride, the Code—”
“You couldn’t rape anyone. You might get mad enough to start, but at the crucial moment your equipment would fail you.”
“You’re right. I was born with a kindly cock.” I felt his legs against me, his hard stomach, the buckle of his belt. He unfastened it to keep the metal from hurting me and touched me low on my hips.
“You get turned on when you’re paternal,” I said. “You’re going to be hell on your daughter.”
“You’re hell on me,” he said. “You’ll be someone’s good lover someday when I’m drinking beer alone in a tavern and hearing the pinball machines.”
I opened his shirt and pants and slid down against him. Lake smell, like Georgia, taste of a bruise. He was in my mouth, his hands in my hair, then he moved to stop me and turned my face up. He bent over me, holding my arms, his eyes angry and surprised and wet. “No,” he said.
“Thurman.” I was crying. “I just want you to drop me off tomorrow. Me and the suitcases and the box of books. I don’t want to see you meet my mother, none of that. All right? Please.”
The cold was moving up through the ground. He felt me shiver in the dark and pulled me on top of him. I lay there and he held me with one arm. His chest was wider than my shoulders, smelling of the cold tinge of the leaves. He was awake, smoking a cigarette and staring into the trees. He exhaled with a long breath.
“It’s all timing,” he said. “This whole joke. Timing and the shakes.”
“You’re better off without me. You don’t want any fast lanes.”
He moved his warm heavy hand to the back of my head. “I’ll tell you this about fast lanes. Don’t close your eyes. Keep watching every minute. Watch in your sleep. If you’re careful you can make it: the fast shift, the one right
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