Read Online Virgin Territory by James Lecesne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Lecesne
Ads: Link
cell phone like a maniac. I give him the same cheerful wave as before, but this time I indicate through a series of gestures that I’ll have to call him later because I’m running late. I can tell he’s not satisfied with my response, because he starts shaking and twisting his upper body as though poisonous spiders are attacking him. He holds up a finger indicating that he’d like me to wait right where I am.
“I’ll catch up with you guys,” I tell my posse, as if we’re already old friends with a long history of coming and going. “It’s a work thing.”
Felder comes charging out of the clubhouse wearing a set expression and a fancy golf shirt. He’s not a big man; in fact, he’s shorter than I am. So short that he’s forced to tilt back his small round head in order to shout at me: “Didn’t I tell you I don’t want my employees kibitzing with trespassers? Are you listening to me?”
I don’t respond, because Angela is already backtracking toward us, and she’s got a look on her face that spells emergency.
“What’s the matter?” asks Felder, speaking for both of us.
“I think we found her,” she replies, but her words are directed at me. She doesn’t even glance at Felder.
“Found who?” he asks. “Who are you talking about?”
“His grandmother.”
I don’t bother to ask her how she recognized Marie. We both just take off. Felder stays behind, fuming and lobbing emptythreats at us. According to him, we’re going to be really sorry one of these days.
Marie is sitting alone on a milk crate under a palm tree next to the entrance sign. She’s wearing her favorite dress, the black one with the pink tropical flowers and bright green leaves. Her hands are lying slack in her lap, and her hair is crooked. Something’s not right. Even from a distance, I can tell that she’s been crying. A few women are standing over her, asking her questions and offering her water from a plastic jug. But Marie can’t see them; she’s focusing on something that’s happening somewhere else. She’s trying to see the thing that’s happening in the distance, but the distance can’t be measured in yards or miles or even light-years, because the distance isn’t
outside
of her, it’s all inside, deep inside.
“Is that her?” Angela asks me as I make my way toward Marie. I nod and keep going.
There are about a dozen women hovering nearby, and they’re all relieved that I’m able to identify the woman in the black-print dress. They don’t want to think of her as a crazy person who doesn’t know where she lives. They want to think of her as saved, healed, a seer of miracles, a believer, one of their own.
“She had a vision,” a woman with bright red lipstick whispers to me as I kneel down beside Marie. “She saw something.”
Marie looks up and smiles at me. She recognizes me in that way that only a family member can recognize another family member—with the full weight of our combined history betweenus, causing us to know each other without words and at the same time causing us to know ourselves better than we can by ourselves.
“Dylan,” she says, and I can tell by the sound of her voice and by the way her lower lip is quivering that she wants to tell me about the something that’s happened to her. I lean forward, fuss with her hair, and take one of her limp hands in mine.
“What’s up, Gram?”
“I saw her. I saw her with my own eyes. She was standing right there. I’m not crazy. I know it sounds crazy, but Dylan, you have to believe me. I saw her.”
“Who?” I ask as I look over my shoulder at the place on the grass where she’s pointing. “Who’d you see?”
“Her,” she says. “Your mother. I saw her. She was standing there. Right there.”
The Other Cheek
Kat died when I was six years old. I cried myself to sleep for months. I clung to her clothes, her memory. I combed my hair with her comb, brushed my teeth with her toothbrush; I did anything I could to be closer to
“I’ll catch up with you guys,” I tell my posse, as if we’re already old friends with a long history of coming and going. “It’s a work thing.”
Felder comes charging out of the clubhouse wearing a set expression and a fancy golf shirt. He’s not a big man; in fact, he’s shorter than I am. So short that he’s forced to tilt back his small round head in order to shout at me: “Didn’t I tell you I don’t want my employees kibitzing with trespassers? Are you listening to me?”
I don’t respond, because Angela is already backtracking toward us, and she’s got a look on her face that spells emergency.
“What’s the matter?” asks Felder, speaking for both of us.
“I think we found her,” she replies, but her words are directed at me. She doesn’t even glance at Felder.
“Found who?” he asks. “Who are you talking about?”
“His grandmother.”
I don’t bother to ask her how she recognized Marie. We both just take off. Felder stays behind, fuming and lobbing emptythreats at us. According to him, we’re going to be really sorry one of these days.
Marie is sitting alone on a milk crate under a palm tree next to the entrance sign. She’s wearing her favorite dress, the black one with the pink tropical flowers and bright green leaves. Her hands are lying slack in her lap, and her hair is crooked. Something’s not right. Even from a distance, I can tell that she’s been crying. A few women are standing over her, asking her questions and offering her water from a plastic jug. But Marie can’t see them; she’s focusing on something that’s happening somewhere else. She’s trying to see the thing that’s happening in the distance, but the distance can’t be measured in yards or miles or even light-years, because the distance isn’t
outside
of her, it’s all inside, deep inside.
“Is that her?” Angela asks me as I make my way toward Marie. I nod and keep going.
There are about a dozen women hovering nearby, and they’re all relieved that I’m able to identify the woman in the black-print dress. They don’t want to think of her as a crazy person who doesn’t know where she lives. They want to think of her as saved, healed, a seer of miracles, a believer, one of their own.
“She had a vision,” a woman with bright red lipstick whispers to me as I kneel down beside Marie. “She saw something.”
Marie looks up and smiles at me. She recognizes me in that way that only a family member can recognize another family member—with the full weight of our combined history betweenus, causing us to know each other without words and at the same time causing us to know ourselves better than we can by ourselves.
“Dylan,” she says, and I can tell by the sound of her voice and by the way her lower lip is quivering that she wants to tell me about the something that’s happened to her. I lean forward, fuss with her hair, and take one of her limp hands in mine.
“What’s up, Gram?”
“I saw her. I saw her with my own eyes. She was standing right there. I’m not crazy. I know it sounds crazy, but Dylan, you have to believe me. I saw her.”
“Who?” I ask as I look over my shoulder at the place on the grass where she’s pointing. “Who’d you see?”
“Her,” she says. “Your mother. I saw her. She was standing there. Right there.”
The Other Cheek
Kat died when I was six years old. I cried myself to sleep for months. I clung to her clothes, her memory. I combed my hair with her comb, brushed my teeth with her toothbrush; I did anything I could to be closer to
Similar Books
