Read Online Flying in the Heart of the Lafayette Escadrille by James van Pelt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James van Pelt
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her hand, very proper and gentle. She didn’t move, but let it rest there. It didn’t make her feel anxious. Her stomach didn’t tighten. This is a good dream, she thought; no contact phobia. Joan would be proud.
At the roulette wheel, the young woman’s husband won a lot of money. Bogart had rigged the game so they would win and she wouldn’t have to make an unnamed sacrifice to save them both. Everyone congratulated Bogart, and he squirmed. Meadoe sighed. The scenes no longer seemed to be in order, but she liked it just as much. She leaned a little to rest her head on her companion’s shoulder. The theater air washed her in warmth, very warm, and sweat trickled down the side of her face. She didn’t mind though. She was comfortable. “Yes, Ugotti, I do respect you more,” said Bogart.
Her companion turned in his seat. She knew it was a he, and his hand came across her to stroke her other arm. His breath touched her cheek, but she kept watching the movie. Bergman told her husband she’d been lonely in Paris, but she didn’t tell him about Bogart. She didn’t tell him she’d fallen in love.
The hand on her arm moved. It stroked the side of her breast. Now Meadoe wasn’t really watching the movie. She heard it behind closed eyes. Everything was gentle. Not like the time with Christopher Towne. Very slow. And the air almost burned, as if she faced an oven, but the hand was cool and slow and pleasant. She knew she sat on her own couch in her own livingroom—she knew she was dreaming—but she also was in a theater. Both places at once. Not alone in either place.
Sam sang again, “It’s still the same old story, a fight for love and glory, a case of do or die.”
Meadoe sighed. Made a small sound in the back of her throat. Heard herself make it and thought, I’ll have to be quiet, or I’ll wake myself from this dream.
The hand moved again, to the front of her blouse, parting the cloth (doesn’t it have buttons? she thought), and the coolness was on her bare breast, holding it lightly, barely stroking. She turned to offer herself more easily, her breath caught high in her lungs, her skin a thousand times more sensitive than she’d ever felt it before.
Then a loud click. She sat straight up on her couch. The video had finished and ejected. She shook suddenly and realized she was covered with sweat, literally dripping, and the front of her robe was open.
She showered again before going to bed.
Monday morning, on the way to the library, Meadoe bought the video.
August 3 and 4, Monday and Tuesday Night: In the Interim
It took willpower to undress for bed both nights. Even with curtains, Meadoe felt watched. Pictures of her parents on her dresser seemed to have been rearranged. The medicine cabinet door opened on its own accord. No matter where she tuned the radio, it eventually played oldies. She listened to Chet Huntley read the news from a station she couldn’t get in the car and there was no listing for in the newspaper. It played polka favorites for an hour at 7:00.
When she finally turned out her light, she lay rigid on her back, hands at her side, looking at the ceiling. Did a floor board creak? Did the spoons drawer rattle in the kitchen? She thought, if I shut my eyes and then open them, will a face be staring into my face? Dare I sleep? Can I?
Then so softly at first, so imperceptibly she wasn’t sure it hadn’t started much earlier and she’d dismissed it, a voice talked steadily. It rose and fell. No words she could distinguish, but it lasted a long time. When it broke off, she stopped breathing, listening as hard as she could. Then sobbing. A young man’s muffled weeping as if it were miles away. It was hardly there—no more than wind against the house; no more than a whisper of a sheet dropping across a long, long room, but it was beside her too.
When she slept, she didn’t dream. She woke refreshed.
August 5, Wednesday Afternoon: An Interview
Meadoe stood in front of the
At the roulette wheel, the young woman’s husband won a lot of money. Bogart had rigged the game so they would win and she wouldn’t have to make an unnamed sacrifice to save them both. Everyone congratulated Bogart, and he squirmed. Meadoe sighed. The scenes no longer seemed to be in order, but she liked it just as much. She leaned a little to rest her head on her companion’s shoulder. The theater air washed her in warmth, very warm, and sweat trickled down the side of her face. She didn’t mind though. She was comfortable. “Yes, Ugotti, I do respect you more,” said Bogart.
Her companion turned in his seat. She knew it was a he, and his hand came across her to stroke her other arm. His breath touched her cheek, but she kept watching the movie. Bergman told her husband she’d been lonely in Paris, but she didn’t tell him about Bogart. She didn’t tell him she’d fallen in love.
The hand on her arm moved. It stroked the side of her breast. Now Meadoe wasn’t really watching the movie. She heard it behind closed eyes. Everything was gentle. Not like the time with Christopher Towne. Very slow. And the air almost burned, as if she faced an oven, but the hand was cool and slow and pleasant. She knew she sat on her own couch in her own livingroom—she knew she was dreaming—but she also was in a theater. Both places at once. Not alone in either place.
Sam sang again, “It’s still the same old story, a fight for love and glory, a case of do or die.”
Meadoe sighed. Made a small sound in the back of her throat. Heard herself make it and thought, I’ll have to be quiet, or I’ll wake myself from this dream.
The hand moved again, to the front of her blouse, parting the cloth (doesn’t it have buttons? she thought), and the coolness was on her bare breast, holding it lightly, barely stroking. She turned to offer herself more easily, her breath caught high in her lungs, her skin a thousand times more sensitive than she’d ever felt it before.
Then a loud click. She sat straight up on her couch. The video had finished and ejected. She shook suddenly and realized she was covered with sweat, literally dripping, and the front of her robe was open.
She showered again before going to bed.
Monday morning, on the way to the library, Meadoe bought the video.
August 3 and 4, Monday and Tuesday Night: In the Interim
It took willpower to undress for bed both nights. Even with curtains, Meadoe felt watched. Pictures of her parents on her dresser seemed to have been rearranged. The medicine cabinet door opened on its own accord. No matter where she tuned the radio, it eventually played oldies. She listened to Chet Huntley read the news from a station she couldn’t get in the car and there was no listing for in the newspaper. It played polka favorites for an hour at 7:00.
When she finally turned out her light, she lay rigid on her back, hands at her side, looking at the ceiling. Did a floor board creak? Did the spoons drawer rattle in the kitchen? She thought, if I shut my eyes and then open them, will a face be staring into my face? Dare I sleep? Can I?
Then so softly at first, so imperceptibly she wasn’t sure it hadn’t started much earlier and she’d dismissed it, a voice talked steadily. It rose and fell. No words she could distinguish, but it lasted a long time. When it broke off, she stopped breathing, listening as hard as she could. Then sobbing. A young man’s muffled weeping as if it were miles away. It was hardly there—no more than wind against the house; no more than a whisper of a sheet dropping across a long, long room, but it was beside her too.
When she slept, she didn’t dream. She woke refreshed.
August 5, Wednesday Afternoon: An Interview
Meadoe stood in front of the
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