Valley of the Moon (33 page)

W
e got a little drunk. And why not? How else to blunt the shock? Fog lag, she called it.

I drifted and she continually pulled me back with her words. She talked endlessly and I was grateful to her for filling the space, for naming things and telling me their proper uses. She anticipated every question I had. She didn't require me to ask anything.

Seeing her in her proper time was edifying. In Greengage it had taken her many visits to find her footing and her voice. Here, in San Francisco in 1984, she was firmly stitched in.

But as bedtime approached, we became more formal with each other. We retreated to opposite sides of the couch.

“Well, it's been a long day,” she said.

“It's late,” I agreed, suddenly perfectly sober.

“The sheets are clean in the guest room. There's a towel and facecloth on the dresser. An extra blanket in the closet.”

I stood. “What time do you wake in the morning?”

She'd asked me the same question on the first night she'd stayed in Greengage.

“It's Saturday, we can sleep in. Nine or ten. Or however late you want to sleep is fine.”

She looked up at me, her feet tucked beneath her, her face unguarded.

The moment billowed, as if caught by a sudden wind. I found myself bending toward her. What was my intention? Touch her lightly on the shoulder? Kiss her cheek?

I gave a little bow. “Sleep well.”

A tide of color rose from her chest to her neck to her cheeks.

“You too,” she said.

T
he next morning I handed him a beta blocker and poured him a cup of coffee. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine, thank you.”

He'd showered; he smelled of my Pantene shampoo.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not yet.”

He stared at the coffee like he didn't know what to do with it.

“Cream? Milk?” How many times had I uttered those words when I was a waitress?

“Neither.”

“I can put the kettle on for tea.”

“No, coffee is fine.” He took a sip of the coffee and gave a small groan of pleasure.

“How long has it been since you've had coffee?”

“I can't remember,” he said, taking another sip.

I wiped down surfaces, emptied the dish rack. I felt his eyes on me. Every gesture I made felt exaggerated.

“What should we do today?” he finally asked.

“What are you up for? Do you want to take it easy? Have a lazy morning? I can get the newspaper.”

He considered my suggestion for a moment. “Let's go out.”

“You're sure? We've got plenty of time. We can take it slowly.”

“I'm sure. Do I pass muster?”

He was wearing the jeans and blue sweater again.

“Yes, but we're going to have to get you some more clothes.”

“I can make do with what I have.”

“You can't wear the same thing every day. We'll go to Macy's and get you a few things.”

As we walked down the street he kept accidentally bumping into me and apologizing.

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” he said. “My balance feels off.”

“It's going to be fine. You just have to get used to being here.”

I knew what he was wondering: Was he experiencing this disequilibrium because he didn't belong here? Had he broken some law of physics by leaving Greengage?

I reached for his hand. His palm was cool and dry, callused from hard work.

“Just until you get your balance back,” I said.

Liar. I saw an opportunity to get physically close to him and I took advantage of it. I felt ashamed.

“Lux,” he said.

I dropped his hand. “Sorry.”

He gave me a sad look.

“I'm fine. It's nothing,” I said, embarrassed.

“Lux,” he whispered urgently.

I'd never heard anybody say my name like that. In that
Lux
was everything. An entire vocabulary of longing. Of things desired. Things unspoken. Things about to happen.

“It's not nothing. We are not nothing, damn it,” he said.

He entwined my fingers in his.

The world contracted. We waded through a sea of people on Market Street, but it felt like we were the only ones there. My hand brushed the side of his thigh. He walked a pace in front of me, protectively.

A group of giggling Filipino schoolgirls in plaid skirts surged around us.

“Are we really doing this?” I asked.

“Doing what?”

“Going—to Macy's,” I stammered.
“Now.”

“Are we almost there?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes, we are going to Macy's.”

“Then what?”

Abruptly he turned right and led us out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. The air smelled of sandalwood incense and popcorn. He backed me up against the concrete wall.

“Then this,” he said, staring intently at me. He ran his thumb over my lower lip.

“Joseph.”

Then he kissed me.

I, of all people, knew that life could change in a split second. You could walk through a fogbank and find yourself in the past. Or you could be strolling down the street with a man you'd considered nothing more than a friend until that man kissed you. And then you could find yourself on a cable car, him standing behind you. A Macy's bag filled with his new clothes pinned between your knees.

It felt impossible. It felt—inevitable.

“Stop thinking,” he said.

I leaned back into him as the cable car jostled from side to side. I let myself be supported. I let myself feel what it was like to not be alone.

T
here was before. There was after. And there was the seam separating before and after. She sat on her bed. I knelt in front of her.

The sky just before it begins to rain. The smell of condensation, grass, and lightning in the air. The parlor just before dusk, before the lamps are lit. The kitchen, clean and quiet, just before dawn.

Her breath, ragged.

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

I unbuttoned her shirt.

I
t was fast. Urgent. We couldn't get to each other's bodies quickly enough. A button flew off my blouse. We wriggled out of our pants.

This was metamorphosis. In a matter of minutes, we went from being friends to being strangers.

We were gentle. We were rough. We said dirty things to each other. We whispered tender words of love. And when he finally slid inside me, there was only this. The swelling and need. Building and thrusting. Hip bones rising up to meet hip bones. Backs arching. Fists clenched and unclenched.

Afterwards, like astronauts, we floated back down through the atmosphere to earth. Our beacons? The faint sound of traffic through the open window. A garlic-scented breeze from the pizzeria on Douglass.

“Did you expect this?” I asked.

He drew me under his arm. “Expected, no. Hoped, yes.”

“You hoped?”

My heart, saturated with joy, fastened me to this moment forever.

He nodded. “I did, but it was still a surprise. You were the surprise, I suppose. That you wanted this, too.” He frowned. “But why do you look so forlorn?”

“I'm afraid that I've taken something that I shouldn't have,” I whispered.

What would Martha have thought of Joseph and me? Had we betrayed her in some way? I couldn't bear to ask the question. Surely Joseph must be thinking of that, too?

“You've taken nothing that wasn't freely offered,” he said carefully.

“You don't feel guilty?”

“I feel—possibility. You, Lux, are possibility.”

“I am?”

“You are. How can you not know that?”

He tipped my chin up, forcing me to look at him.

“You are all the doors opening at once,” he said.

My insides felt liquefied, spreading, like warm yellow yolk, like sun.

I put my finger on his lips, silencing him. “Stop talking. It's too much. I can't take it in.”

“You're going to have to.”

“I can't.”

His face blurred. I couldn't hold his gaze.

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“Since when?”

“Since somebody has cherished you the way I do.”

Never.

Time slipped through my fingers. A common expression, so often and casually said it was almost trite. The truth—it was an incomprehensible sentiment that was so profound all we could do was let it wash over us. Watching our child play in the sandbox at the park. Lighting the candles on the birthday cake. The smell of waffles. The first day of school. Pumpkins on stoops.
“Oh my God, it's snowing.”
The unexpected gift of a warm March afternoon.

In the most literal sense, this was what I'd been experiencing with Joseph since the day I met him. Every time I left Greengage, the moment I stepped back into my present, the hands began flying around the clock. This wasn't an ephemeral, fleeting feeling, it was reality—my life moved quicker than his; I aged faster than he did. We never knew how long it would be, or how old I'd be when we'd see each other again.

And it made what was happening between us now almost impossible to bear.

“Joseph's here,” I told Rhonda late the next morning, on the phone. “He made it through.”

“What?” she said. “Where here?”

“Here, standing-right-in-front-of-me here. In the kitchen. Currently eating a bologna sandwich and making a face. There's no such thing as bologna in 1909. I don't think he's a fan.”

“Don't fool around with me, Lux.”

“I'm not. Joseph, say something.” I held the phone out to him.

“Um—hallo.”

I put the phone back to my ear and heard the sound of something slamming. Rhonda's fist on the table. “For fuck's sake!” she cried.

“Yes, exactly,” I said.

“How is he?”

“I don't know. Let me ask him. How are you, Joseph?”

He gave me a lazy, post-sex look. Heavy lidded, content. Again I was struck by the foreignness of him.

“I'm very well, thank you,” he said.

“Are you giving him the beta blockers? Have you taken his pulse? Forget it, I'm coming over right now.”

“There's no need—”

“There is a need and I am coming. I love you. I am coming and you can't stop me.”

With that, Rhonda hung up.

“Your pulse is a little high. I think you should bump the dose up. Take one in the morning, one in the evening, okay? As long as you do that, you should be okay. Don't do anything that would overexert you. No running, no exercise. Don't let Lux drag you to aerobics class,” said Rhonda.

I could just imagine the look on Joseph's face seeing all those women in striped leotards doing the grapevine. If anything would send him straight back to Greengage, that would. But what about sex? Did that count as exercise? Is that why his pulse was raised? I studied Joseph's face. There was no sign of any stress; in fact it was the opposite. He looked stoned. I probably looked stoned, too. Our eyes kept meeting and then quickly we'd look away. We were too new.

Rhonda unpacked a bag of McDonald's. French fries. Big Macs and apple pies. She slid a plate over to Joseph. “Dig in.”

The two of us watched Joseph take his first bite of a Big Mac. In Greengage he ate nothing but the freshest produce and meat. Would the burger taste like cardboard to him?

“Mmm,” he said.

“You like it?” I asked.

He nodded and took another big bite.

“It's the secret sauce,” said Rhonda, biting into her Big Mac.

“Well, now that you've eaten McDonald's, you are truly one of us,” I said, stuffing a handful of fries into my mouth.

Later I walked Rhonda down the stairs.

“You realize that man is in love with you,” she said.

I played dumb. “What?”

I wanted to keep us a secret for a while. Just until I knew for sure that it was real.

“Are you crazy?” I said.

She stopped. “Look at me.”

“No.” I pushed ahead of her on the staircase.

“Lux, what the fuck. Look at me.”

I spun around and faced her, my hands on my hips. She broke into a broad smile.

“My God, you're in love with him, too.”

I groaned.

“What's wrong? That's not a bad thing. That's a really good thing.”

“Don't tell anybody.”

“Who am I going to tell?”

“Ginger.
Benno
.”

“Where is Benno?”

“He's staying at a friend's house. He'll be back tonight.”

“But why don't you want to tell him? He adores Joseph. He'll be thrilled.”

I hung my head. “I don't want to get his hopes up. What if it's a fling?”

“A fling? You've been traveling back in time for almost ten years now in order to see this man, and he risked life and limb to get to San Francisco. He put all thought of his own safety aside—that's how much he wanted to be with you here.”

She grabbed me by the upper arms and shook me a little. “You have loved each other through time. A fling. Please, Lux. Don't insult what the two of you have.”

“I'm an idiot!” I cried.

She hugged me. “No, honey. You're just scared. You have something to lose now.”

After Rhonda left, Joseph carried me to bed again, like a child or a bride; I felt like both.

He carefully undressed me. After he slid off my underwear, he climbed into bed next to me, shirtless, but still in his jeans. I could feel his erection through the material, stiffening against my leg.

I got a condom out of my bedside table. We hadn't used one before, but I'd just finished my period, so I was safe.

“Here.” I pressed the condom into his hand.

He looked confused, then embarrassed. “I don't need this. We don't need this.”

I sat up. “Look, last night was an anomaly. What happened between us—it was so unexpected I didn't think. But I'm thinking now and you have to wear a condom. The chances are slim I'd get pregnant, given where I am in my cycle, but I can't risk it.”

“I wouldn't have done that to you. I wouldn't have put you at risk.” He grimaced. “I'm sterile. I'm unable to have children. We don't have to use any kind of contraception.” He rolled over onto his back and stared dejectedly up at the ceiling. “The reason Martha and I never had children was because I wasn't able to.”

I'd just assumed they hadn't had children because they were so devoted to the farm; Greengage was their child.

“I had no idea. You and Martha seemed so content.”

“Nobody knew, except Fancy.”

“Did you want children?”

“God,
yes
.”

He was so amazing with Benno. Such a natural. “I'm so sorry, Joseph.” He laid his head on my chest and wept.