Silence and the Word (6 page)

I can’t help it, I laugh as she grabs at it
and you can tell she’s gonna explode like a grenade or a firework,
and I’m clutching my stomach and laughing and knowing I’m gonna
feel just rotten about this later. Cassie gets this look on her
face, all twisted, screwed up tight and she reaches back with her
fist and then slams it at my face, and if that had landed it would
have hurt like hell. I may be big, but I’m not slow and I grab that
fist and hold it. Her hand just disappears into mine with a thump
and oh, this is the worst thing to do but I swear I can’t help it;
I’m still laughing as I hold her hand inside mine, our hands
shaking together with the force of it—and then she starts laughing.
I’m serious. The laughter just bursts, sunshine across her face and
we laugh and laugh until we’ve got sore stomachs and damp eyes and
when we’re done laughing there’s such a good feeling, such a warm
fellow-feeling in that room, like nothing I’ve known, like this is
gonna be a friend for life smiling at me with her eyes.

Her hand’s dropped down but it’s still in
mine, the other one still holding up that damn towel. Her hand so
warm, practically vibrating with the energy in her, and I want to
open it up, open that fist gently and squeeze her hand tight. Maybe
drop a kiss into her palm, and I’m looking in her eyes and I know
that she can see my wanting in them. I can’t read her though. Her
hand twists in mine, uncurling and squeezing for one brief moment
and I think maybe she’s feeling what I’m feeling. Maybe Cassie’s
feeling that warmth uncurling in the belly. But instead of hanging
on, she lets go. Lets go of my hand, which is feeling so cold and
empty in that moment, like something’s missing, like I’ve lost a
limb that’s supposed to be part of me.

It’s then that she takes this one step back,
slow and careful. That might have been it, she might have just
walked away right then, but Jase’d left his backpack on the floor,
and she steps right onto it, losing her balance and sticking a hand
out, catching the edge of the doorframe and almost falling but not
quite. And the towel slips. Just a little, and then she catches it
up again, leaning against the door frame, steadying herself. Then
she stands up straight, her eyes locked on mine, on me sitting
there, on the edge of jumping up to catch her. Cassie gets this
look. There’s this big grin on her face as she slowly takes both
top edges of the white towel and pulls it open, open like a wall of
white and she’s posed against it. Small dark breasts with almost
black nipples, surprisingly large. A flat stomach, and a mound
shaved bare, a triangle between her thighs. I want to feed her. I
want to put some meat on those skinny bones and then kiss my way
along them. I want to drag her into bed and screw her ’til we’re
both sore and screaming. But she takes another step back, still
smiling, and so I sit there on that cream-colored couch, thinking
of how she’d look lying on it, arms stretched up above her head,
legs bent and waiting. Sitting still has never been so hard.

“It’s their house,” she says, and I know what
she means. She’s not really my sister, not really…but poppa’d never
understand. And I am despairing in that moment, despairing until I
realize what she’s saying.

“I start school in October,” I offer. A long
silence, waiting to hear her reply. She slowly wraps the towel back
around her, hiding those slight curves.

“Maybe I’ll come visit.” She tilts her head,
considering, and then nods, once, as if she’s made a decision. Then
she turns and walks down the hall.

I go back to reading, but even hours later,
when the kids are back and the house is shouting again, I can still
feel her smile warming the room.

He called.

“Hey. I’ll be arriving in town on Wednesday,
around seven. If you’re free—”

“Of course. Call when you get in.”

He arrives with a black duffel slung over a
shoulder. He looks much the same. The last of the blond turned to
grey a few years ago; the extra weight dropped away. He is not
quite as gangly as a stork. He looks good to my eyes.

There is curry on the stove, but I have
turned all the burners off, left the lid on the rice. When he steps
through my doorway he drops the bag and pulls me into his arms; my
hands pull his shirt out of his pants, slide underneath to touch
the skin. He drops kisses on my forehead, and his hands slide down
to curve around my ass, to pull me closer to him. He kisses my
closed eyes, my cheek, my neck. I shiver and then pull him into the
house, letting the door swing closed.

“How was your flight?”

“Fine.”

“That’s good.”

When he touches me, I feel like I am slipping
down through the years. With his eyes closed and his fingers on my
cheek, does he see the girl of twenty, her slender body? Or the
woman of thirty? Of forty? When he touches my hair, is it still
black instead of silver? I wear a long green dress, with brass
buttons. He unbuttons them slowly, kissing my collarbone, my
throat, licking a line down the clasp of my black bra. He unhooks
the bra, lets my breasts swing free a moment before taking them in
his rough hands. His hands disappear beneath them, but I can feel
the fingers curving underneath. Then he is lifting one up, taking a
nipple in his mouth, and I am shaking again, leaning against the
wall, tilting back my head and thinking of nothing, contracting
down to a single shining point of pleasure.

“Can you stay, or do you need to be in the
city?”

“The conference sessions don’t start until
nine. I’d like to stay with you.”

“That’s good. There’s coffee in the kitchen.
The grinder’s in the—”

“—bottom cupboard.”

“Right.”

We are on my bed, naked in the last light of
the sun. I haven’t drawn the shades; I want the light on our
bodies—I want to see my dark arms against his pale stomach. Maybe
the neighbors are watching. A ripple of pleasure runs through me at
the thought. Let them look. He looks down at me, looks to see what
new marks time has etched on my body. Not so many, since the last
time. A few lines here and there; a little less weight. I still
love to cook, but eating often seems more effort than it’s worth. A
taste of each dish, a moment savoring each flavor—that’s
enough.

After all these years, we stay essentially
the same.

He lowers his head and tastes me. I bite my
lower lip, squeeze my eyes tightly shut. My hands move to his head,
my fingers curl in his hair. I arch up to meet him, and he slides a
finger inside me, then two. Sounds rise in my throat, until my lips
slip open and they go free. Sometimes, I try to be silent; it can
be good, that fierce concentration. Not today. Not this first day.
Today I let him know what he does to me, still.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Then I am riding him, my hands on his thighs
behind me, his hands on my breasts, his eyes watching me. His right
hand slides down between my thighs, urging me on and up and over
until I am dissolving in the light,
into
light, or rain, or
stars. I collapse against his chest, and his arms hold me close,
not too tight. He seems a little less solid each time, as if his
bones are dissolving, the calcium leached from them into the air
and blown away. A fragile harbor, and one where I can’t stay—but I
rest there, just a little longer.

“You won’t stay?”

“I can’t.”

“Okay.”

We talk late into the night; I fall asleep
before he does. In the morning I wake and watch him, tracing the
lines of his face with my eyes, riffling through the memories of
days and months and years. I wait as long as I can bear, and then I
break, give in to desire and take him in my mouth, caressing him
with lips and tongue, amazed once again by the pleasure and pain he
brings me, still.

The snow fell gently over the gravestones,
piling thick and dense on tall crosses, rectangular stones, low
Gothic iron fences. Anjali sat on one of the thicker stones, a
heavy coat wrapped around her sturdy frame, her long hair loose and
covered in snow. She could no longer read the inscriptions, not
with the snow and the nighttime darkness. But she knew them by
heart. Beneath her were Mark and Deborah Williams, united at last,
a dove blessing their stone. Across the path were Matthew Olsen,
beloved of God, and Elizabeth Olsen, faithful wife, married in
1831; both of them died in the 1880s. Two carved books on their
stone—the Bible and the Book of Mormon. Next to Elizabeth was
Jessica Olsen, also presumably a faithful wife, though her
inscription was more discreet than that—only the marriage date of
1849 to tell you that she had been Matthew’s second wife. And a
birth date of 1833, a death date of 1852. A fallen tree on the
carved granite. That story told itself.

There weren’t as many like that as she had
expected. The carefully maintained ground reached upwards through
the Avenues, from 3rd Avenue to 9th, and then up even further.
Anjali had walked all around it in her three years in Salt Lake,
but she still wasn’t sure she had covered every inch. There was a
small Jewish enclave, halfway up the hill, but most of the stones
in the graveyard were clearly Christian, and even more clearly
Mormon. But still, mostly monogamous marriages. She wondered if in
the other cities of Utah, you would see more stories like poor
Jessica’s.

“It wasn’t what you’re thinking, you
know.”

The voice startled her. Anjali had been
coming to this cemetery at night for months now, walking, sitting,
trying not to think; she had never seen another soul. Anjali
twisted sharply around, to see a slender girl standing ankle-deep
in the snow. She wore a thin blue skirt that reached to the ground,
and a long-sleeved white blouse with a high buttoned collar and
matching buttons at the sleeves. She was very pretty, with blonde
hair piled high on her head and wide blue eyes. She looked like an
angel, standing there in the gently falling snow.

“Wasn’t it?” Anjali asked softly, not wanting
to question this moment, for fear that it would dissolve,
disappear.

“You can’t possibly understand,” the girl
said, her voice throbbing with passion, with grief. Her eyes saw
right through Anjali, fixed on Matthew’s stone, tall and impassive
across the path.

Anjali laughed briefly. “You’re right. I
don’t understand anything.” And perhaps a hint of her own emotions
colored that laugh, because the girl actually focused on her, those
blue eyes narrowing.

“Where are you from? Not from here.” That
much was obvious.

“Sri Lanka.” Clearly, that meant nothing to
her. “It’s an island, near India.”

“I’ve heard of India. My great-grandfather
sailed there; he sent my grandmother this. That’s what my mother
said.” The girl’s hand went up to her throat, to touch a slender
gold chain that circled it.

“It does look Indian.” And it did, the gold
heavier, darker than American gold, with a rich luster even in the
moonlight that suddenly made Anjali ache for home, for the noise
and heat of the Colombo markets, the auto-rickshaws screaming past,
the bullock-drivers trundling their carts along, patient and slow.
She still hadn’t written back to her mother. She didn’t know what
to say. “I’m Anjali.” She didn’t know what to say to this girl
either, but at least it would be safe to talk to her.

“Jessica. You knew that, didn’t you?” Jessica
stared, curious, at Anjali.

“Yes.” She had known, despite her rational
scientific training. There are more things on heaven and earth… .
She had always believed, always hoped that.

“And you aren’t scared?” Jessica took a step
closer, and another, so that her skirt was almost brushing the hem
of Anjali’s coat. Even in the cold graveyard, a chill emanated from
the slender girl.

Anjali shrugged. “My grandmother talked to
ghosts all the time. They don’t bother me.” Though maybe it was
thanks to Neil that she could stay so calm right now. She had been
feeling numb for months.

“Good.” Jessica smiled, and took a step back.
“It’s been a long time since I had a girlfriend.”

Anjali’s PDA beeped at her, warning her that
it was time to go home, shower, get ready for class. It was still
dark, but the sun would be rising soon over the mountains, and her
students would be waiting.

“I have to go. Will I see you again? Do you
have to stay in the cemetery, by your stone?” Anjali knew the usual
rules for ghosts, but she wasn’t sure if any of them actually
applied. Her grandmother had had a hundred rituals for dealing with
them, ranging from leaving a dish of ghee outside the kitchen door
to always putting a dash of homemade mustard on her wrists. She had
never been able to explain why these things were important—and
somehow, Anjali doubted that American ghosts followed the same
rules.

“I’ll find you, anywhere in the city. This is
my city, you know. I helped build it.” Jessica smiled again, and
with that smile she went from very pretty to just plain beautiful.
There was a certain strained exhaustion on her nineteen-year-old
face, but Anjali could understand why Matthew had wanted to marry
this girl. At a nubile sixteen, she must have seemed like a spring
morning, like water in the desert.

“I’d like to hear that story.” Anjali stood,
shaking her head to loosen the pile of accumulated snow on her long
hair, stamping her feet to bring back the circulation. She had good
boots on, but she had been sitting still for a long time. She
turned downhill, and started walking towards home, leaving Jessica
behind her, once again gazing at Matthew’s grave.