Read Online Hungry for the World by Kim Barnes - Free Book Online Page B

there were adults on the premises, my father said, I could go there, and I soon became a fixture at Tom’s dinner table, happy to be part of his raucous family, in rooms that seemed vibrant with television and music—less silent, less rigid than my own somber home. Tom and I spent hours listening to the rock-and-roll albums I was not allowed to possess, mesmerized by the flashing colored lights he had wired to his speakers. We talked of things that, aboveground, were taboo—the rumors and stories that fascinated us: the symbolism of Paul’s barefooted march across the Beatles’
Abbey Road
album cover; the eery accurateness of my cousin’s Ouija board; the article I had read about epileptic seizures bringing on visions. Though neither of us suffered from the disorder, we wondered if Tom’s chronic migraines might not serve to bring on an otherworldly aura, transport him to another plane.
    It might have been there, in his bedroom, or perhaps in the cold interior of his car, or even in the alley behind the church, that we began to feel our virginal resolve weaken. It was a sin to move beyond the feverish kissing that kept us occupied for long minutes in the parking lot’s dark corner while our parents chatted after evening service. Tom’s hand would find my breast, I would murmur that he mustn’t, and then he would profess to great misery and guilt, and wewould both pray for strength and forgiveness. I don’t remember at what point the prayers quit working. I know that we were very young and very determined to save ourselves for marriage and that there came a moment when none of this was enough to smother the fire we had kindled in each other’s body. We agonized at first, and then we didn’t but simply began to allow ourselves the pleasure of consummation.
    We rationalized and reasoned: we were in love; we would be married the moment I turned eighteen, if not before. We imagined illicit escapes and elopements. Tom gave me a thin gold ring in which a single diamond chip was embedded, a promise that we would soon be engaged. When I showed it to my mother, she shook her head, said it was too much, too soon.
    “But you were married when you were sixteen,” I argued. “Why should it be any different for me?”
    “It just is, Kim. I didn’t know any better.”
    This meant nothing to me. All I saw was hypocrisy, unjust criticism, and restriction. My father said only one thing: I must give the ring back. I could not imagine such infidelity, and so I hid the ring in my pockets and purse, slipped it on my finger the moment I left my parents’ field of vision. I believed that nothing they could do would be punishment enough to separate me from Tom. He was the one with whom I could share every part of myself, the intimate who knew me better than any mother, father, or friend. We spent hours whispering our secrets, feeding ourselves to each other in bits and pieces, until we seemed less two people than a single, unified self. I was besotted by the intensity of Tom’s attention,the way he kissed me, took my breath into his lungs, touched each hidden part of me. How could we not call this love?
    It must have been apparent to everyone that what we were about was no longer simple infatuation but something bordering on obsession. My father’s growing disapproval of the time we spent together only strengthened my resolve to remain loyal to my lover. Soon there was little I would not do to gain a few more minutes with Tom. We wove elaborate plans to meet, skipping school, dodging teachers, urging our friends to cover for us should our parents discover that we’d sneaked from the back pew during the minister’s long-winded sermon. At one point Tom and another young man from the church consolidated their savings—enough to pay for one month’s rent of an airless apartment beneath the eaves of a crumbling Victorian mansion—a place of privacy, where we could lie together and love without interruption.
    The other boy and his