Read Online Resurrection Dreams by Richard Laymon - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Laymon
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a few boats far out, the silhouettes of fishermen sitting motionless with their poles. Somewhere, a loon cackled. She heard the distant putter of an outboard, but couldn’t spot the moving boat. It was probably out behind Skeeter Island.
The ground sloped down toward the public beach and playground. She shortened her strides, wary of the dewy grass, and almost reached the bottom before her right foot slipped. Gasping, she saw both her feet fly up. She landed on her rump, tumbled backward, and dug her heels into the grass to stop her skid.
Brilliant, she thought.
She had that strange tightness in the throat familiar from other times (not very many and mostly long ago) when she’d fallen on her butt—a sensation that was like an urge to laugh and cry at the same time. It faded after a few seconds. Vicki told herself to get up, but she continued to lie there, panting for air. She felt the cool dew through her shorts and panties. The slide had pulled her T-shirt halfway up her back. The grass against her bare skin made her feel itchy, and it was the itch that soon convinced her to sit up.
She reached behind her with both hands and scratched. She was mildly allergic to grass. The itch would probably keep bothering her until she got back to the apartment and took a shower.
The back of her shirt was sodden. She had to peel it away from her skin before she could lower it. Then the wet fabric clung to her. She stood up, bent her arms behind her, and kept on scratching as she walked toward the beach.
She left the grass. Her shoes sank into the sand. At the water’s edge, she was about to continue her run but spied a stick floating just offshore. It was about two feet long, and would make a wonderful back-scratcher. Since her shoes and socks were already wet from the dew, she went ahead and waded into the river. The chilly water rose around her ankles. She crouched, snatched up the stick, reached behind her back with it, and sighed as she scratched herself through the damp T-shirt.
The sky in the east was lighter now. Soon, the first rays of sunlight would break through the trees across the river.
She remembered the time she watched the sunrise with Paul. That was only a week before he went away. Late in the night, they had both crept out of their houses. They met and spent hours roaming the woods north of town, holding hands and talking quietly. It was a sad, sweet time. Long before dawn arrived, they found themselves here at the beach. They sat on the swings for a while. They silently climbed to the top of the slide and sat up there, his arms around her. Then they slid down together and wandered to the shore.
Vicki let the stick fall from her hand. She stared at the diving platform floating on oil drums a distance offshore.
They left their shoes and socks on the beach, that morning, and swam out to it. They sat on its weathered planks, shivering in their wet clothes. Then they lay down and hugged each other and the chill went away. It was as if she and Paul were the only people in the world. They kissed so long and hard that their faces were red around the mouth when the sun finally came up.
Remembering it, Vicki felt a hollow ache.
So many people, later in life, claim they have no regrets, say they’d do nothing differently if they had a chance to go back. But Vicki had a major regret. It filled her with sadness whenever she thought about that morning with Paul on the diving raft. If she had it to do over again, she would’ve made love with him there before dawn on the gently rocking platform. She had opened her wet blouse for him, and he had fumbled open her bra and lifted it up around her neck and caressed her breasts. That was far more than they had ever done before. It seemed daring and wonderful. Paul had never seen or touched a girl’s breasts before, and he was the first to look at Vicki’s and touch them. His hands never strayed below the waistband of her jeans, and she never touched him down there though
The ground sloped down toward the public beach and playground. She shortened her strides, wary of the dewy grass, and almost reached the bottom before her right foot slipped. Gasping, she saw both her feet fly up. She landed on her rump, tumbled backward, and dug her heels into the grass to stop her skid.
Brilliant, she thought.
She had that strange tightness in the throat familiar from other times (not very many and mostly long ago) when she’d fallen on her butt—a sensation that was like an urge to laugh and cry at the same time. It faded after a few seconds. Vicki told herself to get up, but she continued to lie there, panting for air. She felt the cool dew through her shorts and panties. The slide had pulled her T-shirt halfway up her back. The grass against her bare skin made her feel itchy, and it was the itch that soon convinced her to sit up.
She reached behind her with both hands and scratched. She was mildly allergic to grass. The itch would probably keep bothering her until she got back to the apartment and took a shower.
The back of her shirt was sodden. She had to peel it away from her skin before she could lower it. Then the wet fabric clung to her. She stood up, bent her arms behind her, and kept on scratching as she walked toward the beach.
She left the grass. Her shoes sank into the sand. At the water’s edge, she was about to continue her run but spied a stick floating just offshore. It was about two feet long, and would make a wonderful back-scratcher. Since her shoes and socks were already wet from the dew, she went ahead and waded into the river. The chilly water rose around her ankles. She crouched, snatched up the stick, reached behind her back with it, and sighed as she scratched herself through the damp T-shirt.
The sky in the east was lighter now. Soon, the first rays of sunlight would break through the trees across the river.
She remembered the time she watched the sunrise with Paul. That was only a week before he went away. Late in the night, they had both crept out of their houses. They met and spent hours roaming the woods north of town, holding hands and talking quietly. It was a sad, sweet time. Long before dawn arrived, they found themselves here at the beach. They sat on the swings for a while. They silently climbed to the top of the slide and sat up there, his arms around her. Then they slid down together and wandered to the shore.
Vicki let the stick fall from her hand. She stared at the diving platform floating on oil drums a distance offshore.
They left their shoes and socks on the beach, that morning, and swam out to it. They sat on its weathered planks, shivering in their wet clothes. Then they lay down and hugged each other and the chill went away. It was as if she and Paul were the only people in the world. They kissed so long and hard that their faces were red around the mouth when the sun finally came up.
Remembering it, Vicki felt a hollow ache.
So many people, later in life, claim they have no regrets, say they’d do nothing differently if they had a chance to go back. But Vicki had a major regret. It filled her with sadness whenever she thought about that morning with Paul on the diving raft. If she had it to do over again, she would’ve made love with him there before dawn on the gently rocking platform. She had opened her wet blouse for him, and he had fumbled open her bra and lifted it up around her neck and caressed her breasts. That was far more than they had ever done before. It seemed daring and wonderful. Paul had never seen or touched a girl’s breasts before, and he was the first to look at Vicki’s and touch them. His hands never strayed below the waistband of her jeans, and she never touched him down there though
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