A Map of the World - Jane Hamilton [120]
“Please don’t tell me what I smell like,” I said.
“Rain,” she murmured. “How about that? You smell like rain.”
“Ah, rain.”
She traced over my eyebrows and eyelids, down along my jaw, brushing slowly over my mouth. I watched her. She outlined my lips with one finger before she came away. The night seemed as if it would go on indefinitely if only she would again rest against my chest. We would talk of dirt and rain. It was she who held the charm, who could make not only the clock but also the moon stop. I don’t know if she was weighing the importance of the night against real life. I wanted her to touch me, to keep stroking my face. I shut my eyes and I could still feel her next to me. Her smell was more intense without sight. “Howard,” she said finally. I knew there wasn’t much time left. I pulled up slowly. I put her loopy curls behind her ears. “How do you get a comb through this hair?” I asked. She laughed with abandon, without stifling her pleasure.
I held her face and she smiled in that hopelessly breathless way. I guess I knew there would only be that one instant to kiss her. I hesitated, seeing the night in the distance, already a memory. The desire I felt for her could only always be seen as good. She was beautiful and wise, her voice and song, her face and laugh, a salve. “Theresa,” I breathed into that kiss. I held on as long as I could, moving inside her mouth, all brightness, tongue to tongue. Her eyelashes fluttered like a small animal’s heartbeat, against my cheek.
When she pulled away I followed her mouth. “That’s all,” she whispered, gently pushing me off. We bent our heads together, knowing full well the reason for stopping. I helped her to her feet and then she let go. She nodded. That was the signal. I went to get Audrey. I walked up each stair, one by one. The night vanished quickly behind me. I considered as I moved, going down, returning to the porch, to see if that pocket of time and space was still there. The girls were sprawled all over each other, arms and legs in a tangle. They were damp, heavy. None of them woke as I moved them around. Audrey chewed and groaned. She had curly hair like her mother’s. She was warm in my arms. I couldn’t help looking at her, also seeing her in a way I hadn’t before. I held her carefully, this child, Theresa’s child. I made my way slowly down the hall, telling her that I was taking her home.
Theresa was already outside on the lawn, shifting from left to right foot, back and forth, the way a person does in winter. She was holding herself around the waist. She’d found her glasses. The nearly full moon, waning now beyond the chicken shed, made the world seem cool. She ran between the rows of dead corn, and I followed, unable to keep up with her. When we got to the edge of the property I handed Audrey over. She didn’t need to tell me not to come farther. I watched her trudge with her load along Mrs. Klinke’s hedgerow. When a dog barked up the street I went down on all fours, expecting the lights to come on in the houses. The people would stream into their backyards, looking for the trouble.
When I opened my eyes the next morning I was in my own bed. Alice’s clock said 3:30. The sun was shining on the ceiling in long, pale rectangles. It took me a minute to realize that the clock must have run down long before. I imagined Alice looking through the walls of the jail, through the metal windows, across the waking city, over the fields, to our bed, to me. I imagined her wistful smile, and her voice, her sarcastic, “What are you going to have for lunch today? I know you like that fruit salad!”
I could tell by the slant of the sun that I was already an hour late for milking and still I lay looking at the ceiling. I remembered the night before with absolute calm, what both Alice and Theresa had remarked was my strength. Theresa and