The Fifth Stage Part 17

I can't sleep. I've been bouncing around the bed for hours and regularly kicking Jitterbug. The dog is used to it; she just grunts, rolls over, and goes back to sleep. I wish it were that easy for me, but my brain seems to have a short circuit. Every time I drift off, some spark of thought flares up and I'm wide awake again.

If it weren't so late, I'd pop a pill, but I don't want to spend all day in a stupor, so I prop my pillow against the headboard and flip on the bedside lamp. When my eyes adjust, I grab this week's copy of Time.

Without looking at the cover, I flip through a few pages and stop on a full-page cosmetics ad. Before me, in all their undernourished glory, two models stand side by side. One has an exotic Oriental look, olive skin, satin black hair, and almond-shaped eyes. The other is pure California surfer dudette, bobbed blonde hair, bronze skin, and blue eyes that would make Paul Newman look twice. The caption reads, "Because no two of us are exactly alike." There's a truth that hits home.

Tonya has told me a thousand times that all women are physically unique, but my lack of experience with anyone but my lover has made me skeptical. Now, after kissing Rebecca only once, I see that Tonya is right. Rebecca's body feels small, more compact than the one who shared my bed for so long. Her lips are full, her hands dainty compared to my former lover's. But there's something else about Rebecca, something I can't define, that makes her different. Maybe it's her smelllike apricot brandyor maybe it's the way she tilts her head a bit to the left when she smiles.

I push those thoughts aside and turn a few more pages, stopping on an article about genetic engineering. The tag line reads, "Is s.e.xual reproduction becoming old-fas.h.i.+oned?"

s.e.x. All I have to do is see the word, and it makes me nuts. How could something so simple drive me so insane? Now that I don't have a ready supply, I'm as frustrated as a one-armed juggler. One hand will do the job, but how exciting is that? What I need is a partner with energy to spare and skin like velvet. I need hot breath on the back of my neck, a 102 103.

body responding to my touch, and the final bliss of oblivion that for the past three years I've achieved vicariously through sleeping pills and vodka.

But as my imagination creates a pa.s.sionate love scene, replacing the blank visage of a stranger with Rebecca's face, I see that reality wouldn't live up to my hopes. I will never completely release myself with someone I don't love. Tonya would say that my attachment of love to s.e.x is a childish fantasy, and maybe she's right. If real people had to be in love to have s.e.x, no one would be getting any, so if I expect physical relief, I'll have to put those silly ideas out of my head. I'll never love again, but by G.o.d, I'll have s.e.x and will find some middle ground where at least my physical needs can be fulfilled.

When the doorbell rouses me from sleep, I'm disoriented. I don't remember nodding off, yet it's nearly 8:00 a.m. I stumble toward the front door while I wrap my long cotton bathrobe around me and scratch places I wouldn't go near in polite company. Jitterbug skitters along in front of me like a car driving on ice. Her rear fishtails and looks like it might reach the door first.

Without looking through the peephole, I swing the door open and see Tonya standing on the step holding a red and white striped bag from Thompson's Bakery. She looks fresh from the shower, her blonde hair half-dry, its perfectly cropped ends clinging to the sides of her neck and falling around her forehead. With no makeup, her eyes seem innocent instead of seductive. It's a good look, but try convincing Tonya of that.

Who wants a kitten when they can have a tigress, she'd argue.

"Put on the coffee, girl. I've got fresh bagels and those apple m.u.f.fins you like so much." I catch a sniff of vanilla body spray as she charges by and tosses her leather jacket on the sofa.

"Nice outfit," I say, eyeing her gray sweatpants and orange University of Tennessee sweats.h.i.+rt. "Did the jacket come with it or did you put it together all by yourself?"

"Bite me." She swings too fast around the bar into the kitchen, and her sneakers send a harsh squeak through the house. She grabs a paper towel from the cabinet over the stove and drops the bakery bag on the table. She then stops dead and stares at me. "Are you going to make coffee or what?"

Still in a sleepy daze, I force one foot in front of the other and ramble to the counter to put on the pot. I yawn and toss Jitterbug a treat from the pantry. "What's got you up at this hour?"

Tonya falls into a kitchen chair and stretches her arms above her head. "Up from what? Haven't been to bed yet. Not to sleep, anyway."

104.

"s.l.u.t."

"Prude."

If I didn't know her so well, I might not take her carousing so casually, but considering the atrocities she's suffered, she's bound to be somewhat eccentric. As a matter of fact, she's remarkably well adjusted.

I don't know why Tonya confided in me when she did. We hadn't been friends that long, and she'd never spoken of her past. But one night, as we struggled over a sketch, she began to speak of her drug-addicted mother and alcoholic fathertales so wicked I couldn't sleep well for weeks. But Tonya spoke as if the memories belonged to someone else, recounting the events like a TV commentator, detached and dry-eyed, stating the facts and ignoring the suffering behind them.

Her words gave me some insight into the infamous Fly By Knight, told me at least part of why she behaved the way she did. Now, as I consider my own s.e.xuality and how I feel so isolated from the rest of the world, I understand her even better. Not to say my experience is anything like hers, though. I've been shot in the heart. She was emotionally slaughtered, maimed before she even had a chance.

I sneak two cups of coffee from the half-full carafe and join Tonya at the table. Taking a bite of apple m.u.f.fin, I savor the cinnamon and brown sugar, letting it roll around my mouth before was.h.i.+ng it down with a hot gulp of black coffee. "So who was it this time?"

"She was in town for the insurance convention. I think she said she was from Atlanta."

"Hitting on out-of-towners, huh? Think that's a sign you've done everyone in town?"

"Hey, I saved her. You should've seen the woman who was. .h.i.tting on her when I got there. I swear to G.o.d, she looked just like Bob Dylan, scruffy beard and all."

I laugh, spewing crumbs onto the table. "I know who you're talking about. Her name's Priscilla. I met her through Joanna and Karin about a hundred years ago."

"Anyway, after a few drinks, she tells me her husband doesn't understand her needs as a woman."

"Why does she have a husband if he doesn't do it for her?"

"Didn't ask." Tonya intentionally drops a piece of bagel on the floor, and Jitterbug s.n.a.t.c.hes it up before I can protest. "Her name is Alison, by the waywith an Aand we had a very nice time together."

She leans forward and grins. "But I'd much rather hear about your evening."

105.

Elizabeth Kingsley is a dead woman. I bet she was on the phone to Tonya the minute Rebecca and I left the party. What a juicy talk they must have had, guessing how long my date would stay, how far we'd go.

I can just hear them going on and on about how wonderful it was that poor little Claire had finally taken her first step toward healing. Holy Mother, they were probably on the phone for a solid hour.

"Hope you've got free weekend minutes," I say. "Bet your cell phone was smoking by the time you two got through."

She exposes her ear. "It wasn't exactly smoking, but it did get a little warm. See? My ear's still red."

"So what was my neighbor's take on the evening?" I pull another m.u.f.fin from the bag.

"Said she seems nice and that she's pretty." She swallows a bite of bagel. "Got any cream cheese?"

I nod toward the refrigerator. Jitterbug collapses by my chair and lays her head on my foot. "Yes, Rebecca is both nice and pretty."

"f.u.c.k her?"

"Fly, for G.o.d's sake!"

"Didn't think so." She ambles to the refrigerator, s.n.a.t.c.hes a container from the shelf, and sits back down. "Going to f.u.c.k her?"

I try to answer, but no words will come. If I can't tell Tonya how I'm feeling, I can't tell anyone. It was Tonya who spent a month living out of an overnight bag, shuttling between her own house and my newly empty one, her arms that rocked me to sleep after a hundred crying fits.

She's the one who told me it was okay to feel bad for a while.

I scan her face and wonder how she stays so young. She looks only a day older than when we met, smooth skin unmarred by laugh lines or crow's feet. Her eyes still dance to the rhythm of her different drummer; her heart still longs for something she can't name.

I swallow my last bite of m.u.f.fin. "I don't know if Rebecca wants s.e.x from me."

Tonya's glance lingers on me for a second before her attention returns to the cream cheese and bagel. "Here's a good rule of thumb: if she doesn't try to f.u.c.k you by the second date, she's not interested."

"Where'd you get that rule?"

"Made it up."

"Well, it's stupid."

"You got a better one?"

"No."

"Then believe it." Tonya takes a small bite and swallows quickly.

"When are you and this Rebecca person going out again?"

106.

"We didn't talk about it. Thought I might call her later." I stuff the rest of the m.u.f.fins back into the bakery bag and dust the crumbs into my palm.

"You should. Maybe she'll be free this evening, and you'll be a new woman by this time tomorrow."

"Rus.h.i.+ng things a bit, aren't we?"

"Rus.h.i.+ng? How can it be rus.h.i.+ng? Maybe if you were a nun or something, but by my standards, you should've bagged her last night."

"By your standards, I'd have been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g every woman in town the day after" I chop off the words, letting them linger in my brain.

The day after. The worst day of my life. How can the feeling still be so vivid, hurled from nowhere like an ice pick stabbing me between the eyes? I reach for the counter to steady myself. It won't come back to haunt me, not today. I'll never go through that again, even if I really do have to become a nun, or duct-tape my knees together for the rest of my life.

Tonya yawns. "I'm tuckered. Mind if I crash for a while?"

She leads me down the hall, and we crawl into bed together. My best friend wraps her slender arms around me and kisses my forehead.

"Sleep now," she whispers, as she has a hundred times before. "You'll feel better when you wake up."

I snuggle into her breast and thank G.o.d she's here.

Tonya will always be here. I'll make sure of that.

CHAPTER 21.

During our first few months together, Lora and I were careful to hide our relations.h.i.+p. We always maintained an appropriate distance, never touched in public, and never let anyone know how much time we spent together.

It was unbelievably frustrating. I wanted to hold her hand. I needed to kiss her. As often as possible, we'd meet after work. Lora would steal a couple of leftover slices of pizza, we'd stop by Pic Kwik for a fountain soda, and off we'd go, roaming back roads and logging trails, looking for a secluded place to share an intimate moment. But we weren't the only ones in search of privacy, and most of the places we found saw a fair amount of traffic from straight kids. So, even alone on a country road, we had to be careful. Climbing into the back seat for a quickie was out of the question. It was one thing for two girls to get caught at a make-out spot but quite another for them to get caught in the back seat with their clothes off and the winds.h.i.+eld fogged up.

So my lover and I held hands and talked, which was probably a good thing. Instead of building our relations.h.i.+p on s.e.x, we built it on bonds forged during those long talks. We talked about everything school, religion, how narrow-minded our parents were, and we even had a lengthy discussion once about which was better, sanitary napkins or tampons. How many boys could you talk about that with? It was marvelous. I had a confidante, a best friend, and a sweetheart all rolled up in one neat little package.

On a sunny April afternoon, I sat in Pizza Oven's parking lot tapping my foot in rhythm to the Devo music crackling through the dashboard speaker. Lora's s.h.i.+ft would be over soon, and we'd take off and leave the real world behind. I cranked down my window, laid my head back, and closed my eyes. The county road crews had mown the median along US 19, and the cool, clean aroma of cut gra.s.s filled the car.

Springtime had always been good for my spirit. It awakened my love of the outdoors and sparked a renewed sense of purpose. But that 107 108.

year, the red and purple April tulips seemed more fragrant, the forsythia a brighter shade of yellow, and the sun a bit warmer on my face. I felt alive, more than I ever had before.

I opened my eyes and saw Lora sauntering toward me. Her hair was pulled back in a floppy ponytail that looked as though it might break loose in the slightest breeze. She'd changed into Levis and a pink b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt and carried the usual duffel bag under her arm, no doubt stuffed with her dirty work garb. She s.h.i.+elded her eyes with her hand and smiled. I leaned over to unlock the pa.s.senger door, but she shook her head.

"I want to drive today," she said and dug her keys out of her purse.

"Aren't you tired?"

"No. Come on."

I locked up the Datsun and joined Lora in her Pinto. She tossed her duffel bag into the back seat and jabbed the key in the ignition. She turned the key, the engine came to life, and we were off. As soon as we cleared the parking lot, I reached across the console and took her hand.

She held my hand tightly but didn't speak as she steered onto Bluff Head Road and headed out of town.

Something in her demeanor seemed a little off. She only nodded or shook her head when I tried to make conversation. By the time we left the main road and pulled onto a rutted tractor path, I was exhausted from trying to get her to talk.

Lora navigated the path cautiously, avoiding deep ruts and fallen branches. The sun was beginning to dip into the western sky, and as we worked our way into the forest, shade fell around the car, hiding us, protecting us.

We sat in silence, and for at least thirty minutes, Lora wouldn't look at me. She just held my hand and picked occasionally at a loose st.i.tch on the steering wheel.

"I can't do this anymore, Claire," she finally said. A faint shaft of evening light danced through the surrounding trees and cast swaying shadows across her face. She squeezed my hand but kept staring straight ahead. "I can't stand what we've been doing."

Can't stand it? I lived for these moments. My heart stopped for a second, and my hands went cold.

I struggled to talk and finally managed to whisper, "Has Jock started calling you again?"

"He hasn't called in weeks."

That was good. The one thing Jock Richardson had taken more seriously than sports was trying to get Lora to come back to him. He'd 109 sent dozens of roses, called ever day, and even tried to get me to talk her into reconsidering. I had promised to talk to her, and I had. What poor Jock didn't know was that my talking to Lora had nothing to do with her going back to him and everything to do with keeping her for myself.

Now I feared I would soon share his fate.

Lora turned to face me. "I've been thinking that since we're both going to State in the fall, maybe we should find an apartment close to campus. It wouldn't have to be anything big, but at least we could be alone. Think about it. We could make love in a bed instead of sneaking around all the time."

"Oh, G.o.d." I gasped as air found my lungs again. "I thought you were breaking up with me."

"I'll never do that." She put her other hand on my knee. Something rose in her eyes, a look I'd never seen on her or anyone else. "I love you, Claire."

She'd spoken the words before, but never with the purity I saw in her face, the devotion I heard in her voice. Tears welled in my eyes.

She went on. "I don't want to spend another night wis.h.i.+ng you were beside me. I don't want us to act like a couple of kids anymore. It's time we grew up."

"You really want us to live together?"

She nodded. "I think you want it, too. I see it in your eyes every time I have to go home. I hear it every time you say goodnight over the phone."

"But State is only thirty minutes away. My parents expect me to commute for the first year. They say it's a good time to learn to be independent but still have them to fall back on."