The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [281]
Roger breathed in, half-conscious of the remembered scents of fresh baking and tea, furniture polish and ammonia. No cigarettes at the decorous gatherings held in the manse’s parlor—and yet his father’s jackets too had smelled of smoke.
Once Gayle told me that she’d gone out with Chris and hadn’t had time to shave her legs, and she spent the whole evening trying to keep him from putting his hand on her knee, for fear he’d feel the stubble. Afterward, I never shaved my legs without thinking of that, and I’d run my fingers up my thigh, to see whether I could feel anything there, or if it was okay to stop shaving at my kneecaps.
The hair on Brianna’s thighs was so fine it could not be felt; and only seen when she rose up naked over him, with the sun behind her gilding her body, gleaming through that delicate nimbus of secrecy. The thought that no one would ever see it but himself gave him a small glow of satisfaction, like a miser counting each hair of gold and copper, enjoying his secret fortune undisturbed by any fear of theft.
He turned the page, feeling unspeakably guilty at this intrusion, yet drawn irresistibly by the urge to penetrate the intimacy of her dreams, to know the images that filled her sleeping mind.
The entries were undated, but each entry began with the same words: Last night, I dreamed.
Last night I dreamed that it was raining. Hardly surprising, since it was raining, and has been for two days. When I went out to the privy this morning, I had to jump over a huge puddle by the door, and sank up to the ankles in the soft spot by the blackberries.
We went to bed last night with the rain pounding on the roof. It was so nice to curl up with Roger and be warm in our bed, after a wet, chilly day. Raindrops fell down the chimney and hissed in the fire. We told each other stories from our youths—maybe that’s where the dream came from, thinking about the past.
There wasn’t much to the dream, just that I was looking out a window in Boston, watching the cars go past, throwing up big sheets of water from their wheels, and hearing the swoosh and rush of their tires on the wet streets. I woke up still hearing that sound; it was so clear in my mind that I actually went to the window and peeked out, half expecting to see a busy street, full of cars rushing through the rain. It was a shock to see spruce trees and chestnuts and wild grass and creepers, and hear nothing but the soft patter of raindrops bouncing and trembling on the burdock leaves.
Everything was so vivid a green, so lush and overgrown, that it seemed like a jungle, or an alien planet—a place I’d never been, with nothing I recognized, though in fact I see it every day.
All day, I’ve heard the secret rush of tires in the rain, somewhere behind me.
Feeling guilty, but fascinated, Roger turned the page.
Last night I dreamed of driving my car. It was my own blue Mustang, and I was driving fast down a winding road, through the mountains—these mountains. I never have driven through these mountains, though I have been through the mountain woodlands in upstate New York. It was definitely here, though; I knew it was the Ridge.
It was so real. I can still feel my hair snapping in the wind, the wheel in my hands, the vibration of the motor and the rumble of tires on the pavement. But that sensation—as well as the car—is impossible. It can’t happen now, anywhere but in my head. And yet there it is, embedded in the cells of my memory, as real as the privy outside, waiting to be called back to life at the flick of a synapse.
That’s another oddness. Nobody knows what a synapse is, except me and Mama and Roger. What a strange feeling; as though we three share all kinds of secrets.
Anyway, that particular bit—the driving—is traceable