Moontrap - Don Berry (27 page)

"You know," he'd start, "it's a damn
shame Peter doesn't work that mountain o' his. Damn good land up
there."

"Yes."

"
It's a waste, t' my thinkin'. If he ain't going
to work it, he'd ought to give it up t' somebody that would. It ain't
right just to leave it sit there, lyin' idle."

"Yes."

"Peter's a hell of a nice ol' hoss, but you
know, he's bone-lazy and there's an end to it."

Mary just looked at him.

It was either that or the inevitable uninterested
"Yes." Sometimes he thought if she said "Yes"
just once more he'd go out of his mind. And then he'd have to remind
himself that, in a sense, it wasn't Mary at all, but her—strange
condition, and he would have to try to ignore it.

The biggest problem in the future, he knew, would be
to work Mary into this new world, too. In small ways he was
beginning, trying to interest her in the little things that went on.
When he'd been to Oregon City he'd repeat the conversations for her
when he got home, telling her the gossip, what people were doing,
what they were saying. Her silence made it difficult, and it
infuriated him when her gaze absently wandered off over the hills.
But he doggedly continued, with the same grim determination he was
learning to show in everything.

Sitting before the fire in the evening, he'd plan the
next few steps ahead; perhaps, before too long, they'd get somebody
to stay with Little Webb and go into town Saturday night for the
dances. Once in a while there was a sort of theater performance got
up by the local people, and it wouldn't hurt any to be seen at one of
those.

That was the main thing; to let it be seen, let it be
known that they were taking part, both of them, in the life of the
valley. He was no longer running wild and alone, separated from the
rest of them by some mysterious and unbridgeable chasm. That he was,
finally, one of them, and ready to do what was necessary.

In the last weeks of June he saw it happen, saw that
he was in fact beginning to be wholly accepted. When he entered a
store in Oregon City, the conversation no longer stopped; he joined
in easily and naturally, and thought it was going to be a bad year
for wheat and hoped they didn't have another winter like the last. It
worked. It was purely mechanical, but it worked. and he had a growing
sense of triumph. When he had finally set his mind to it, he had been
able to do it. The wasted seven years were behind him now, and how
stupid it had all been. All they wanted was for him to play the game,
and he could have done it any time, had he understood. had he been
willing to commit himself to it. But now he was doing it. and
steadily the life he was building began to take shape.

3

Beneath his grim satisfaction with the progress he
was making, there ran one strong and bitter current of torment.
Hovering always at the back of his mind was Mary, and the most basic
lack of all, the problem that showed no sign of improving: the
physical distance that continued to exist between them. He thought he
could understand it; but it was not a thing he could live with,
understanding or not. Through the last months of pregnancy he had not
made love to her at all, out of fear for the child. And after Little
Webb's birth, Doctor Beth's cautioning had made him hesitant.

But his simple physical longing was becoming
intolerable. To feel their bodies twined together again, to feel the
sudden soft release when they merged into one, to hear the tiny
animal call of pleasure in Mary's throat as he thrust into the warmth
of her body, plunging deep and long. The movement of their hips
together, the softness of her breasts beneath his hands, the feel of
her thighs gripping him, tightening and releasing in the rhythm of
joy . . .

Waiting he could understand; but there was an end to
it, there had to be an end to it. It had been weeks now since the
birth of Little Webb, and still she did not turn to him in the night,
caressing his belly softly until he awoke aroused and moved to feel
the hardness of his own flesh in her. He had waited for her to make
the first sign that she was ready to receive him again, and perhaps
that was the mistake. It was not changing as time went on; she
remained distant, unresponsive to his touch.

Well, hell, he thought. Nothin' changes less'n you
make it change. lt was not simply his own desire in question, but in
some way the whole problem of Mary's detachment from the world around
her, the world in which she would have to take a part, sooner or
later.

He was working to build a place for them here, but he
knew that before Mary could take her place in this world she would
have to take her place again as his woman. It would have to begin
there. He would have to bridge the distance that existed between
them, before all else.

The more he thought of it, the more he was convinced
that if they could share the joy of their bodies again it would bring
her back from that strange land she lived in now, just out of sight.
Back to him, and back to the real world. She had no contact now, she
was not moved. But in the joy of physical love, in the sweeping tide
that carried them both, she would find herself again. The barrier
would be broken, one time for all.

In the end he saw that the choice could not be hers;
she was waiting too, without volition. Waiting for him. Her
indifference would have to be broken, for both of them. Now she was
only a half—wife, sharing his house, but not his body. It was not
right for her, and it could not go on. And what she was incapable of
doing for herself, he would have to do. He knew that after the
physical act of love, she could not remain indifferent, could not
remain—apart. They would be together again, and it would be the
beginning.

He was elated when he had worked it out in his mind
and seen clearly what was involved. His "kindness" had been
an absurdity. No woman wanted to remain without the fullness of her
man within her; it was insane, un—normal. What contact could be
expected when there was not even the most basic contact of all, the
meeting of flesh with flesh? None. It was no wonder her lethargy
continued, no wonder the wall remained between them. And if she was
at first reluctant—it was the strangeness. And she was, after all,
his wife. In the end he knew she would realize the importance.

He watched her as she bent over Little Webb's cradle,
crooning softly to the baby, settling the light blanket around his
tiny body. The simple curve of her back was a delight to his eyes,
and he realized with a sense of anguish how much he had missed the
touch of her body.

She finally stood straight, silent again, looking
down at the cradle. She came back to the table where Monday sat, and
as she turned he took his eyes away from her, strangely embarrassed,
and looked at the fire.

"You need nothing?" she said softly.

"
No," Monday said, shaking his head slowly.
"Nothing."

"
I am very tired," Mary said. "I go to
bed."

Monday nodded.

He listened to the rustle of calico as she took off
her clothes, the slow, measured whispering of the fabric against her
skin. Watching the fire he could see it clearly in his mind, and had
no need to turn. The slim triangle of her back, the full breasts and
softly curving belly, the gentle swell of her thighs . . . He
suddenly realized his fist was clenched tightly on the table in front
of him, and deliberately relaxed. He was obscurely annoyed with
himself for being so tense; there was nothing so damn strange about a
man wanting to make love to his wife.

Deliberately he calmed himself and waited a few
minutes after he heard the slight creak of the bed and the soft
sounds of the covers moving. The fire was dying, and normally he
would have let it go, but tonight he wanted light, he wanted to be
able to see his woman. He went to the woodbox and got other small
log, putting it carefully in the center of the coals that still
glowed bright orange and red. He watched until the tongues of yellow
flame began to lick up the sides of the wood, then turned and went to
the bed.

Mary was lying on her side, her face toward the wall,
as she had slept since the birth of little Webb. As Monday took off
his shirt he let his eyes caress the gentle curve of her hip beneath
the blanket, a soft hill raised from the plain. Always now, she slept
with her face turned from him; it was part of it. Before the baby she
had always been turned toward him, watching him undress, lifting the
covers to welcome him to the sight and comfort of her body. He had 
issed the welcome, but tonight he was almost grateful that she did
not watch him.

His throat was tight with anticipation, but he
consciously kept himself in control. As he sat on the edge of the bed
to remove the heavy boots, he felt her stir slightly, still awake. He
lifted the covers and slid under, moving far over so the length of
his side rested gently against her back. He lay still for a long
moment, letting the peace of sensation seep into him, savoring the
light, tantalizing touch of her skin. He must not hurry. He must be
gentle, as gentle as though he had never known this woman before.

The wood had fully caught now, and long shadows
danced against the walls and ceiling. Watching the shadows, he let
his hand rest on her full thigh, almost absently.

After a moment he turned to her, dropping his arm
over her naked body. He felt the softness of her flesh stiffen as he
moved, and then relax again. He waited.

His hand rested just below her breasts, and slowly he
began to caress the taut muscles of her stomach, soothing her gently,
letting her feel the love in his fingers. He pressed harder against
her, feeling the urgency of his own rigid organ pressing between her
thighs. He kissed the back of her neck softly, and stroked the length
of her body from the full rich breasts to the crisp triangle of hair
between her thighs that seemed electric to his touch.

She moved slightly, and he stopped again, waiting for
her to turn to him. But she remained facing the wall, and her tension
did not ease. He ran the tips of his fingers along the inside of her
thigh, gently, questioningly, feeling the softness of flesh warmed
against flesh, the tiny mound that lay beneath the masking mystery of
the dark matted hair that curled against his palm.

He probed gently, hoping to feel the warm curving
thighs open to welcome him, to feel the pressure as she thrust
against his palm with desire. After a moment he took his hand away
and gently clasped her shoulder.

"
Mary," he breathed in her ear, gently
pressing her shoulder toward him. She did not answer.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then tightened his
grip firmly on her shoulder and pulled her toward him. Unresisting,
she turned on her back, but her eyes remained closed.

With a sudden motion he swept off the blanket and
threw it to the floor. He raised himself on one elbow and leaned
forward to kiss the deep warm valley between her breasts. He stroked
the inside of her thighs gently, and at last felt the release of her
tension, and her legs
parted slightly as she
relaxed.

He slid one leg over her body; deliberately he let
his weight swing over to rest between her thighs, moving gently. He
searched with stiff anxiety in the tangled hair, and suddenly felt
the moist warmth of her opening to receive him. He penetrated her
body slowly, letting himself enter gently, long, until at last the
flesh of their groins touched, and he leaned forward to rest the
weight of his chest on her soft breasts.

"Mary," he whispered.

He began to move his hips slowly, rhythmically, and
with a sense of terrible relief heard her gasp, with the old and
loved sound of wakened passion. He raised his head, wanting to see
again the love in her eyes. The flames were high, and the firelight
cascaded across her cheek. His own  breath caught sharply in his
throat.

Her face was twisted and disfigured in a mask of
loathing and revulsion that struck him like a physical blow. He
recoiled suddenly, his eyes wide with shock, and in the suddenness of
the motion twisted back to the side of the bed.

Instantly Mary turned back to the wall. Monday lay
still for a moment, staring terrified at the ceiling, where the same
shadows spun and danced.

He felt the sudden shaking at his side as Mary's body
began to jerk in the rhythm of silent sobbing.

He turned to her again, instinctively putting his
hand on her shoulder. As he touched her she stiffened again, and he
jerked his hand away as from a fire.

"Mary," he said desperately, "Mary, I
didn't know—"

When she could control herself enough to speak, he
could barely make out the words. "Don't hate me," she said,
her voice strangled with anguish. "Don't hate me."

"Mary, my god—" He closed his eyes. What
have I done? he thought desperately. What have I done?

"Mary," he said aloud. "It's all
right, Mary. It's all right. "

But he knew it was not all right, and even as he
tried to think of some way to soothe her, even as he murmured things
that had no meaning, he sensed the black shapes of guilt dancing
along the wall, and the fire twisted his shadow into something he
could not recognize.