Grace Summer

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                              Grace Summer
                                 Part 1
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                             (c) June 2008
                             Crimson Dragon
                          All Rights Reserved
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Lazy hickory blades sliced through heavy air like the prow of a ship
through calm warm Caribbean waters. High above, summer houseflies
buzzed without direction near the polished oak rafters where the
fans hung. The electric devices seemed out of place here: a curious
mixture of modern amongst the past, a clash of architectures, a
conflict of technology with spirituality. The scant movement of air
generated by the slowly spinning blades neither frightened the
flies, nor provided relief from the oppressive morning heat.
At the front, behind the Reverend Rhodes, stained glass rose from
floor to ceiling. Brilliant sunlight streamed through the shaded
glass there, separating as if through a prism, a rainbow of colour
framing the everlasting cross where Jesus met his divine fate
wearing a crown of thorns.
Also behind the preacher, a piano sat surrounded by the members of
the girls' choir, a mixture of races, their voices joined by gospel
melody. Their harmony rode the humid atmosphere like a dove gliding
to earth. It was not always so, here. There was a time when the
sight of a black girl singing beside a white girl would incite
passions of violence in a sleepy town such as this, but the choir
likely was too young to remember these times and it was perhaps
better that way. It certainly improved the harmony. The dove
continued to glide through the heat and the fans above continued
their lazy turning.
The pews were far from full, another consequence of the passing of
time, but those that attended through the midsummer heat seemed
dedicated and focused upon both the choir, and earlier, the sermon.
At the chorus, most of the congregation raised their voices with the
choir, an enthusiastic harmony pleasant upon the ears.
                           <---===***===--->
A trickle of perspiration trickled down the side of my neck.
Carefully, I wiped it away with the back of my hand. It wasn't often
that I attended church. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time
when there were not bridesmaids and ushers, or pallbearers, in
attendance with me. This past year marked graduation from high
school; it was the time of life where understanding, and even more
so, belief, comes at the cost of questioning.
I wore my rough jeans, sneakers and a clean t-shirt and sat near the
back of the church, well separated from the more pious of the
congregation. The air hung so laden with humidity that it was
almost difficult to breathe, a pressure upon my lungs. Yet, I didn't
leave.
Brushing hair out of my eyes, I glanced towards the front.
She was there. Pretty in her church dress, legs bare, sitting on the
aisle in the front pew. She sang with the rest of the town, her
voice as clear as a champagne flute, mesmerising the dove. Idly, I
wondered why she wasn't standing at the piano with Miss Fitzroy and
the mixed choir girls.
Suddenly, I reconsidered if it were the humid air only pressing
against my lungs.
Rebecca Rhodes.
The girl responsible for my foray beyond the periphery, delving into
an unfamiliar church where lazy hickory blades circled endlessly and
voices celebrated in song.
My lungs ached.
I brushed my hair back again while another trickle of perspiration
dripped down my back.
Rebecca turned in her seat, her arm carelessly thrown over the back
of the pew. When her eyes grazed over mine, her lips curled into a
smile as she opened her mouth to sing the chorus once more. And with
a mischievous look, Rebecca winked.
The Reverend, standing unamused in front of both Jesus and his
flock, scowled, as Rebecca swivelled gracefully back to face the
front. She did not turn again.
God help me, I think I was in love with her.
                           <---===***===--->
After church, as was the custom, the congregation gathered on the
lawn in front of the building, most of the members standing close to
the Reverend. Idle conversation intermingled with humidity wafted
from all directions.
I walked slowly through the heat, heading for the shade of an
ancient oak that had probably been but a sapling when the church was
built. Despite my attempts to avoid eye contact with the
congregation, a somewhat shrill voice halted my pace prior to my
finding the inviting shade.
"Land sakes alive! If it isn't young Flannery!"
Eyes swivelled towards me; I could feel them crawling over me like
spiders. I paused, a fatal mistake. Slowly, I turned, the sun
beating down upon my head. I forced a smile onto my lips.
"Uh, hello, Miss Fitzroy ..."
Miss Fitzroy was aging, though it was difficult to tell by the way
she approached me with the speed of a tornado. Overall, I liked the
older woman; she was kindly in the way that old spinsters tend to
be.
"I haven't seen you in church in ages! Wasn't the choir delicious
today, all fired up in this heat ..."
Facing back towards the church, I became aware of most of the
onlookers turning back to their conversations about the upcoming
bake sale, or next week's sermon. Some eyes were openly curious,
some considerably hostile. I was a bit of a loner in the town, found
my share of trouble, and my presence was enough to inspire much
gossip. Such is life in a smaller town.
Miss Fitzroy's voice began to fade into the background, though I was
careful to nod in the correct places. If asked about the content of
the one-sided discussion, such that it was, I would not be able to
recall the details.
Peripherally, I became aware of one onlooker whose eyes remained
carefully towards me. When I shifted my gaze towards her, Rebecca
cast hers away deftly but with an enigmatic smile. She stood near
the Reverend in a tight group composed of many parishioners who
populated the front pews. While I watched, she turned her back to
me, her legs flashing in the sunlight, returning to the undoubtedly
spiritual conversation in which she had previously been engaged.
I wanted to walk over to her group, stand beside her, and perhaps
engage the group in my spiritual disarray. However, such talk would
create more of a loner and troublemaker reputation than I already
enjoyed.
Swallowing quickly and turning back to Miss Fitzroy, I cleared my
throat.
"... such a wonderful voice. I wish she'd join the choir, don't
you?"
"Who?" I asked, suddenly a little more interested. This was the
first word that I'd actually spoken to the lady, though she'd been
speaking to me for at least five minutes.
"Miss Rhodes, of course. Haven't you heard a word I've said?"
"I couldn't agree more. She has a wonderful voice."
Actually, she had a wonderful everything, but I didn't voice that.
"And considering who she is, one would think that she would engage
herself a little more in the service of our Lord ..." Ms. Fitzroy
finally allowed her voice to trail off.
At least Rebecca sat with the pious sections of the church, not in
the back pews with the riff-raff. Personally, I felt that Rebecca,
merely by attending regularly, was displaying more than adequate
service to the Lord, whoever that might be. Of course, in this town,
it was possible that Ms. Fitzroy expected a more public display of
service, such as the Presbyterians up the road who for many months
displayed the charming, but well-meant, inspirational credo on their
entrance sign: "Give 'er for God."
I blinked away the strength of the sun.
"I thought she sang like an angel," I said carefully.
Ms. Fitzroy nodded, her hair, slightly bluish in the rays of the
sun, bobbing with her head. "Of course. Of course," she muttered.
"She sings like an angel. But every time I invite her into the choir
... and her father ... he asks her every week."
"Perhaps she likes to sing from the pews," I offered somewhat
lamely.
She harrumphed and cast me one of those familiar, disapproving
looks.
"Such a waste," she mumbled. It wasn't clear if she meant me or
Rebecca.
I merely shrugged as Ms. Fitzroy turned slowly, her eyes travelling
over the remains of the congregation. People were beginning to drift
away, but the core surrounding Reverend Rhodes, including Rebecca,
showed little sign of departure.
"You must excuse me, child. I must speak to the Reverend before he
flies away."
Again I shrugged. Sweat trickled down my neck and I longed for the
shade of the ancient oak.
"It was nice speaking with you. I hope to see you next Sunday."
I grunted non-commitally as she bustled away, homing in on the
Reverend's small circle.
Walking towards the oak tree, I paused to look back. Ms. Fitzroy was
animatedly speaking with the preacher, who looked like he was trying
to fend her off with some aplomb. Rebecca stood aside, turned
slightly away. Her features wore a bemused expression. She glanced
towards the oak. When she saw me, she smiled and waved her fingers
as they hung near her hips.
Surprised, I turned away without acknowledging her glance.
Instead of sitting down in the shade as I'd originally planned, I
kept on walking. At first, I had no destination in mind.
                           <---===***===--->
In those days, what passed as roads wound dusty and beaten between
fields of corn and wheat bordered by angular wooden fences.
Earlier, I'd passed the town market, nearby the church, where I
spied the boys hanging around the aisles under the watchful eyes of
Mr. Weatherby, the proprietor. Given time, Vincent, Bobby, and Zeke
would undoubtedly exit the market with enough contraband to make old
Mr. Weatherby cringe, though it was unlikely that he'd catch them at
it.
I resisted the temptation to join the old gang, and walked quickly
by before they glanced in my direction.
Half aimlessly, I wandered the dusty road between the fences,
wondering why I'd really attended the sweltering sermon today.
Beneath the rough exterior, I knew why; I simply didn't want to
admit it to myself.
At the Torvalds farm, I turned west down a laneway more dry and
dusty than the main road. Without thought, I pulled off my shirt and
tied it about my waist. Behind me, a flatbed rattled up the road,
springs clattering. I thought I heard it stop briefly, but I didn't
turn to look.
Soil swirled up from my footsteps as the sun beat mercilessly down
across my bare shoulders. The mid-summer wheat rippled beside me as
the cicadas sang. Aside from the movement of the fields and the song
of the insects and the steady drone of my footsteps, nothing moved
nor breathed in the oppressive heat of the day.
I didn't mind.
I wanted to be alone. To think.
It wasn't to be.
It felt like a typical mid-summer day.
It turned into a fateful day.
                           <---===***===--->
Under the shade of a river elm located well west of the Torvalds
fields, I settled with the bark scratching against the skin of my
back. Perspiration trickled down my arms, but the sun muted through
the branches high above and I could imagine that I was somewhere in
Paris. Of course, I had as much chance of ever visiting Paris as I
had of flying myself to the moon and back, but it was a dream of
mine at the time. Or perhaps it was a dream to simply walk out of
this town without a glance over my shoulder.
For a while, I watched the river flow by, its water blissfully
unaware of me, only passing through the township on its long journey
to a distant ocean. The locals lovingly referred to the waterway as
"Mississippi Creek", though I suspect it had a more official name.
Situated somewhere to the north of me, I'd avoided the swimming
hole; even in this heat, I doubted if any local kids had ventured
out to partake. The air remained silent except for the singing of
the cicadas and the soft whisper of the flowing water.
Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back against the solidity of the
tree.
And if it weren't for the sudden sound of her voice close to my ear,
I might have fallen asleep to the calm gurgling of the river and the
midday heat.
                           <---===***===--->
She laughed as I jumped to my feet, scrambling as if I'd been caught
shoplifting at Weatherby's. I whispered something that is best not
repeated in the presence of a lady. Of course, that only made the
girl laugh harder.
Kneeling at the base of the elm where I'd been sitting, Rebecca
wiped at her eyes. Her raven hair flowed down her back nearly to the
dry grass. She still wore the dress I'd seen her wearing in the
front pews of the church, her long, bare legs tucked under her like
a cat relaxing in the shade. Her white top stretched tantalisingly
across her chest, the seams slightly parted to reveal glimpses of
pale skin beneath as she moved.
Realising that my eyes had roamed the length of her, I forced them
to her face. I doubt very much if I fooled anyone.
Biting her lip, she suppressed another giggle. "I didn't mean to
startle you ..." But her grin belied her words.
She'd certainly meant to startle me, though why, I had no idea. My
heart hammered in my chest, but not only from the adrenaline imposed
by my surprise. I couldn't speak, though my brain was crying out to
my mouth to say something witty or at least something to regain my
composure.
Rebecca gestured towards the base of the tree.
"Don't be silly," she said easily. "Sit back down. You looked
comfortable."
Warily, I crouched down and eased myself back into my former
position. Rebecca shifted herself around until she sat crosslegged,
remaining carefully in the shade, facing me. The corners of her
mouth trembled as if she were struggling not to laugh.
Regaining at least a modicum of composure, I swallowed.
"Hi," I said.
She smiled.
"Hi," she replied. "I saw you at the back of the church today."
I nodded.
"Only people with a purpose sit at the back of Reverend Rhodes'
hellfire sermons," she mused.
I didn't answer. She didn't seem to expect one.
"Are you going to answer my question?"
For a moment, I was totally puzzled. Then I realised that when she'd
startled me earlier, it was with a question. A question that I'd
only half-heard as my flight or fight instinct had kicked into high
gear.
"I'm sorry?" I murmured.
She laughed again.
"I asked you if you were the infamous Flannery McBride."
I didn't answer, but merely stared at her. Her brown eyes had a
depth to them. I was expecting more of the vacant and shallow
ignorance of a fundamentalist bible-thumper. It wouldn't make her,
at least physically, any less attractive to me, but I was intrigued
by what seemed to be a genuine intelligence reflected through the
windows to her soul.
She grinned mischievously.
"The same Flannery McBride that was arrested two months ago? The
same Flannery McBride that told the chief of police to go 'f'
himself?"
Word travels fast in a small town. I don't know why I had hoped that
Rebecca wouldn't know all that. It wasn't my finest hour, though I
recall that what I'd actually suggested to the good sheriff was
likely anatomically difficult even for a contortionist. Amongst
some comments about his general ancestry. All in all, not my finest
hour, but of the offhand suggestions to the sheriff, I had few
regrets.
"The same Flannery McBride who might cause my hide to be tanned, if
a father knew his only daughter was even looking at, much less
talking to him?"
This time, I nodded in the affirmative.
"I'm Flan," I muttered.
She promptly stuck out her hand. Her fingers were long and feminine,
her nails, while not manicured or painted, were even and groomed.
"I'm Rebecca Rhodes. Only daughter of the preacher man."
I hesitated for a moment, then touched the girl for the first time
as I gently shook her hand. Her touch was warm, friendly,
inquisitive and sensual.
She nodded once, her easy laugh and grin dissolved into a grave
seriousness. In one fluid motion without using her hands, she rose
to her feet.
"It was wonderful to meet you, Mr. Flannery McBride," she murmured.
And then she simply walked away towards the laneway leading back to
town.
It was going to be an interesting summer.
                           <---===***===--->
The heat wave continued with no respite. The following day, I again
wandered across the dusty laneways towards the river, settling again
shirtless against the elm. Closing my eyes, I absorbed the heat and
the soft sounds of the river bank.
Somehow, I knew she'd come. We had arranged nothing, only our odd
conversation from the day before. But I knew she'd return.
Her feet made no disturbance of the atmosphere. Like the previous
day, I had no idea she had arrived until she spoke, nearly in a
whisper, near my right ear. Her breath against my neck was even
warmer and more moist than the laden air.
Today, I was expecting the unexpected and her voice didn't startle
me to my feet as it had yesterday. Rebecca didn't seem surprised by
my lack of response. Once bitten, and all that.
"So, Flannery," she whispered, "exactly why were you sitting at the
back of my father's church on Sunday?"
I turned and opened my eyes. Today, she knelt in denim and a country
blouse. She was at least as beautiful as in her Sunday best.
Sidestepping her question: "Don't you ever use a normal greeting?"
She laughed. "Such as?"
"Hello?"
She grinned and moved herself around until she again sat in front of
me crosslegged, her runners tucked neatly under her thighs. She
stuck out her hand again.
"Hello, Flannery," she said with an enigmatic smile.
I hesitated. I wanted to touch her so badly I ached. But I
definitely didn't want her to know that. Nevertheless, I slowly
grasped her warm fingers.
"Hello," said I. "Most folks call me Flan."
I half-expected her to rise and leave me as she had the previous
afternoon. But she didn't.
"I know." Then after a pause. "I'm not most folks."
No. Indeed she wasn't.
I glanced behind me, left and right. There was nobody else. Not her
father storming up the lane. Not the boys. I'm not entirely certain
why I was expecting an appearance. Rebecca grinned as if reading my
mind.
"The boys are still casing Weatherby's, probably wondering where
'Flan' is today. My father is napping safely at home."
"I wasn't ..."
Rebecca laughed lightly again.
"You were."
I fell silent.
"Why do you hang out with them?" She, of course, meant Zeke, Bobby
and Vincent.
I simply shrugged. There wasn't any good reason. They mitigated the
boredom.
"They're kind of simple, ain't they?"
That was a kind way of putting it. True, though.
"They back me up," I said carefully.
Her eyes lit up, the intelligence there blazing again.
"Like they did in May?"
I shrugged again and she nodded carefully, the smile never leaving
her lips. Her eyes assessed me, saw through me as though my skin
were merely a translucent mirror. Her gaze was a little
disconcerting.
"Why did you come to my Daddy's church yesterday?"
"Was I unwelcome?"
She hesitated. "Unexpected. And unexpected is unusual around here.
Answer the question."
"And if I don't?"
She shrugged. Her breasts rose with her shoulders, straining against
the buttons. "You don't have to answer. You don't owe me anything."
I considered the statement.
"I have questions."
She raised her eyebrows and bit at her lip. Without further comment,
and without using her hands, she rose to her feet again.
She bent and trailed her fingers across the line of my jaw. It
burned where she touched me, and I desperately wanted her to stay.
"We all have questions, don't we?"
Her feet disturbed the atmosphere as little leaving as arriving.
When I glanced behind the tree, she was gone.
                           <---===***===--->
It was Thursday before I saw her again.
Her breath against my ear caused shivers to descend my spine.
"Will you sit in the back this Sunday?"
Determined to play out our ritual, I opened my eyes, turning to my
right: "Hello, Rebecca."
She scooted in front of me and smiled, dropping easily into her
crosslegged pose again. She held out her hand which I grasped,
savouring her warmth.
"Hello, Flannery."
"Why do you come here?" I asked.
She smiled. "Why do you?"
Actually, I didn't know the answer to that, at least not in full.
When I didn't answer her, she shrugged.
"I probably come here for the same reasons you do."
I doubted that, but I smiled which caused her to smile, too.
"You know the liquor store in town?"
"Jacobs?"
She nodded. Actually Zeke and Bobby had been looking to buy spirits
there for months, trying to figure out how to make fake ID good
enough to fool Mrs. Glenning, who had terrible eyesight and who
operated the old register. Of course, everyone in this town knew
everyone else's age, so even fake ID wasn't going to cut it. But, of
course, Zeke and Bobby weren't exactly the sharpest tools in the
shed either.
Rebecca smiled and placed a bottle in front of her. Slowly, she
turned it until the label faced me. A black label stared at me: Jack
Daniels.
I bit my lip.
"You oughtn't raid your Daddy's cabinet, I reckon."
She laughed.
"Daddy? It borders on a sin to drink this stuff. He'd preach it to
the town if he wasn't concerned about an open revolt. In our house?
He'd be worried that I'd raid it. There's not a drop of this at
home."
"Then ..."
"Mrs. Glenning has terrible eyesight."
"You ..."
She nodded.
I thought Zeke and Bobby might be impressed with this choir girl
after all. As it turned out, I was dead wrong on that score. Right
here and now, I shook my head.
Slowly, she reached forward and spun the top from the bottle. Her
eyes glued to mine, she smiled and raised the bottle to her lips,
her throat working prettily. She didn't gulp the spirits, but she
drank it without flinching or grimacing at the taste. Lowering the
bottle from her lips, she licked a drop from the corner of her
mouth. Silently, she held the bottle out to me, a challenge in her
eyes.
I hesitated, but eventually wrapped my fingers around the bottle and
lifted it to my lips. Fire seeped down my throat and into my belly.
Nearly immediately, I could feel tendrils of fuzziness trickling
through my mind. I wanted to kiss her.
She placed the bottle between us and grinned. Carefully, she screwed
the top back onto the bottle; the fire water sat between us like a
chaperone, silently watching from the tinder grass near her left
sneaker.
"How did you ..." I began.
She raised a finger to her lips and laughed conspiratorially.
"One needs to have secrets, does she not?"
I shrugged glancing up into the branches of the tree above. When I
returned my gaze to Rebecca, she had shifted her position until she
was lying in the brown grass, her face turned upwards into the
strength of the sun. She raised one slender arm and pointed.
"That cloud there ..."
I glanced up, following the line of her arm.
"... it looks like a dragon. Don't you think?"
With a bit of imagination, it did look like a dragon, a big white
fluffy dragon complete with wings and a puff of vapour rising from
where its snout might be situated. As the sun reflected from its
under surface, the cloud glowed crimson, but for a moment.
She shifted her arm.
"And that one. The small one there. In front of the dragon?"
"Mmmmm."
"Looks like a virgin sacrifice."
I gazed at the cloud she pointed at, but it took some time to see
the shape of the bust of a girl. It wasn't as clear as the dragon,
but again, with the liberal application of imagination, one could
see at least a virgin there.
Rebecca sighed.
"Sometimes I feel trapped in this place."
I knew what she meant. But my instinct was always to be obtuse.
"You aren't chained to a boulder here. You could visit Mrs.
Glenning again, if you wanted; go home."
Rebecca turned her face to me, raising an eyebrow. She bit her
tongue, returned to watching the sky and did not venture further
words for some time.
"Do you want me to go home?" she asked.
I shook my head, perhaps too vigorously.
"Whatever happens," she said softly, more to the sky than to me,
"it's only a hazy summer. You know that, right?"
I didn't understand what she meant. Not then. But I felt a lump form
in my throat and I nodded. Rebecca may or may not have seen my
silent response.
"You'll sit in the back again this Sunday, won't you?"
She turned her face from the clouds again. I didn't know the answer
to that question, but somehow, it seemed more of a statement than a
question as it passed her ruby lips.
Smiling, she flipped herself over and pushed herself to her feet. As
she passed me, she touched the top of my head, her fingers slipping
through my hair, the gesture more intimate than I assumed she'd
meant.
She moved noiselessly past me. I peered behind the elm in time to
see her skipping out of sight down the lane.
The bottle of Jack still sat where she'd been, mocking me.
Carefully, I twisted the top onto the bottle firmly and then tucked
it up high into a fork in the branches of the elm.
Then I returned to the grass, closed my eyes and tried to remember
her scent.
                           <---===***===--->
The temperature continued to rise until Saturday. For me, and many
of the town's younger inhabitants, Saturday was the same as any
other day during the summer. No school. No responsibilities. No end
of summer in sight. North of me, I could hear the faint cries and
yells of younger children swimming at the bend in the river where it
was safer to swim. Someone had connected a long knotted rope to an
overhanging branch; the kids of the town figured they were mini
Tarzans and Janes, complete with the undulating jungle calls.
"What was it like in jail?"
Her voice reminded me of Odysseus' Sirens. It tickled the edge of my
ear. I opened my eyes and smiled.
Her face was flushed in the heat. A dot of perspiration lay
unbrushed above her eyebrow. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as if
she'd run down to the river's edge.
"Hello, Rebecca."
Her eyes sparkled in mischief. Quickly, she moved from beside the
tree and sat beside me, holding her hand out.
No longer as nervous with her as I had been, I touched her hand.
"Hi, Flannery."
Then before I could say anything else, she rose to her feet,
stretched on her toes and retrieved the bottle of Jack which had
lain in the fork of the tree untouched since Thursday. My shirt
hung today from a smaller twig that projected from beneath the fork;
it fluttered sedately whenever a mild and welcome breeze sliced
through the overwhelming heat.
I tried not to stare as she stretched, but that required more
willpower than I possessed. I tried to remind myself that she was a
preacher's daughter, but somehow that only made my desire that much
worse.
With another mischievous grin, she sat with the bottle cradled in
her lap. After a moment, she spun the top off and sipped at the
spirits.
"You didn't drink any," she said, eyeing the bottle.
"It's yours. Why would I?"
She handed the bottle to me and I sipped lightly.
"It's ours," she replied solemnly.
I didn't reply. Rebecca leaned back on her hands and we both
listened to the cicadas and the distant shouts of the children
playing downstream.
"It's hot," she announced, somewhat unnecessarily.
I shrugged. Everyone knew the heat wave was going to last for most
of the summer. Assuming I went, the church tomorrow might be like a
sauna.
Rebecca glanced at me, an internal assessment churning behind her
flashing brown eyes. Her eyes rose to the fluttering shirt hanging
in the tree.
"It really isn't fair, you know," she finally breathed.
"Life isn't fair."
"No it isn't. If it was, I ..." she began, then she thought better
of whatever it was that she was going to say and her voice fell
silent. Then her eyes flashed and her fingers rose to her throat.
She wore jeans again, and a simple white cotton blouse. Her runners
were tucked under her thighs.
Carefully, watching my eyes, she undid the top two buttons on her
shirt. Pale skin flashed where the shirt parted.
"Don't get any ideas, now, Mr. Flannery McBride," she whispered.
I had ideas, all of them probably in the same arena of which she
warned. There was no use trying to suppress them.
"It really isn't fair that men can run around shirtless, and girls
cannot. Especially in this heat. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. McBride?"
Dumbly, I nodded. Rebecca leaned back on her hands, tilting her head
back to the sky and pushing her chest out. Whether she was aware of
the sensual effect of the pose or not, I had no idea. She probably
was.
Rising up again, she looked at me. Again, I saw the intelligence
behind the beauty of her eyes. Peripherally, I watched as her
fingers carefully undid all her buttons to her waist. Pale skin and
the whiteness of her bra flashed in the gap of her shirt.
Slowly, she rose and, moving beside me, she slipped the cloth from
her shoulders and then neatly hung the blouse atop my rough shirt
upon the same twig.
Then she slipped off her shoes, her feet unadorned by socks or
stockings, and then padded barefoot to the river's edge. She bent
and rolled up the cuffs on her jeans and sat down, her back to me,
her skin only interrupted by the satin strap that held her
underclothing on.
She sighed as her feet dipped into the current.
Smiling, she glanced over her bare shoulder and gestured to me. Her
brunette hair cascaded over her right shoulder as she turned.
"Aren't you going to join me?"
I swallowed thickly, unable to tear my eyes from this girl.
"I don't think that would be a good idea."
"Don't get any silly ideas," she laughed again. "And bring the
Jack."
Dumbly I nodded and she turned back to the river.
Retrieving the bottle, I walked over to her and sat crosslegged
beside her. I didn't remove my runners to join her in the river.
For a moment, I watched her bare toes upon the river stones under
the ripples until she laughed and punched me lightly on the upper
arm. Gently, she pulled the bottle from my grasp and sipped, passing
it back to me. As I sipped, for the first time I realised that my
lips were touching the same place hers had but moments before.
When I was done, she placed the bottle back on the ground and gently
drew my hand to intertwine with her fingers.
"Don't get any ideas, Flannery," she whispered.
We sat like that for a long time.
"What was jail like?"
I thought back.
"Small. Confining. Claustrophobic. Stuck with a bunch of people you
don't like, nor want to be associated with. Not somewhere I'm in a
hurry to return to."
Rebecca mulled that over for a while as she watched the river flow
uncaring past us. The sun beat down on our flesh. I was worried
about a sunburn, but Rebecca didn't seem to notice. The dot of
perspiration had disappeared from her brow.
Suddenly she turned to me, her face uptilting slightly, lips parted.
I swallowed, wanting so much to kiss her, to feel her lips soft
against mine.
Instead, she breathed, "With one exception, I think I know exactly
what you mean."
She sighed, her hand releasing mine and she pushed herself from the
bank with a slight splash of water. Slowly, she walked back to her
shoes, slipping them back onto her wet feet without assistance.
Then she stretched up and pulled her shirt from mine and slipped it
over her shoulders, not bothering, yet, to close the buttons.
Without saying another word, she walked away down the laneway, her
blouse billowing behind her.
I watched her go, wondering what the hell had happened. It wasn't
anything I directly did.
After a time, long enough for Rebecca to have returned home three
times over, the sun beginning to sink into the west, I pushed myself
up, capped the whiskey and returned it to its roost and slipped my
own shirt over my shoulders. I could smell summer and a light scent
of Rebecca on it, transferred somehow from her blouse to my clothing
as it hung limp in the summer heat. I wondered idly if my scent had
found its way to hers. The cries of the swimmers were long returned
home to supper.
As I walked home, I thought that I would be sitting at the back of
the church again tomorrow morning.
                           <---===***===--->
A moist slip of white paper sat nestled in my hand. It had likely
been ripped from the cover page of a bible, the smudged remains of a
copyright notice visible in the lower right corner. I stood in the
shade of the old oak beside the church, apart from the congregation
and their gossip.
Ms. Fitzroy had spared me a glance, waved slightly with what looked
like a genuine smile. Rebecca, as most of the rest of the folks,
ignored my presence.
The service had been stifling; the silky fans remained ineffective
against the heat and the buzzing of the house flies. The Reverend
had made a stirring sermon based around the Ten Commandments,
concentrating on the fifth with some liberal discourse surrounding
the eighth. The choir had sung even more angelically than the
previous week. While I had watched Rebecca sitting in her Sunday
dress at the front of the church, she had not glanced once to the
rear of the church, nor did she seem aware of my presence. Even now
she stood with her back to me talking inaudibly to the group of
faithful surrounding her and Reverend Rhodes.
As far as I could tell, Rebecca had not opened her mouth to sing
with the choir, even when the rest of the parishioners, except for
me, raised their voices in heady celebration.
I wasn't offended, nor particularly concerned by Rebecca's seeming
lack of attention. She didn't owe me anything -- not even friendship
or any sort of acknowledgement. However, if it weren't for the
slightly crumpled paper in my closed fist, my heart would have sunk
below my shoes by her apparent aloofness.
Carefully, I unfurled the paper. The handwriting was flowing and
feminine. While I couldn't be certain of its origins, the fragment
of paper had been placed only slightly visibly in front of the
hymnal and the wooden pocket in which it lay. Before the sermon, I'd
pulled the incongruous paper from its resting place and carefully
unfolded it as I did now.
"I want to kiss you," it read.
Reading it made my heart hammer in my chest.
"I want to kiss you," I whispered.
When I looked up, Rebecca had turned slightly from her group, her
cheek and lips visible behind her brunette locks. It was a moment
before I realised that she was gesturing with her left hand at me,
without looking. Or maybe I was imagining her movement; she might
have been working out a pinched nerve or fighting pins and needles.
Then she mouthed: "go" without glancing in my direction.
I retreated and exited my shade, re-folding the piece of paper and
shoving it deep into my pocket.
I wanted to kiss her so badly I ached.
                           <---===***===--->
"Where you going, Flan?" a voice called.
I was walking along Main Street, passing the grocery and the bank.
I turned. Bobby, Zeke and Vincent lounged against the bricks across
the street. My thoughts on Rebecca, I hadn't noticed the boys.
Somewhat reluctantly, I crossed the street.
"What's up?" I asked.
"Haven't seen much of you lately. Where you been?"
I shrugged. "Around."
Zeke peered at me from beneath a single eyebrow that stretched
across his forehead.
"We've been casing Weatherby's," Zeke said. He pointed across the
street where Mr. Weatherby was polishing apples on the roadside
tray, probably hoping to attract the church crowd that would
undoubtedly follow me shortly returning to home, farm and chores.
"Uh huh."
"You in?" Zeke said.
"I got somewhere to be. Maybe next time."
Zeke raised his eyebrow, his mind unable to comprehend why good old
Flannery McBride had something more important on his agenda than
nicking apples. His eye caught something more.
"Why you dressed like that?"
While I wasn't wearing my Sunday best, I'd worn more respectable
clothes than ripped jeans, muddied runners and a bandana, the
uniform of the unofficial street gang.
I sighed.
"Like what, Zeke?"
"Like you're attending someone's funeral."
I considered for a minute telling them the truth. But they wouldn't
understand. Not a chance. I'm not sure I understood.
I shrugged.
"Didn't feel like being a total slob today. It's Sunday."
Zeke tilted his head to the side, clearly confused. Then his face
cleared. Apparently, he'd quit trying to understand me.
"You coming by the clubhouse later?"
I shrugged. "Probably not." At least I hoped not.
"We'll have apples ..." he grinned. The other two chuckled.
"When you guys gonna graduate from nicking apples?"
Zeke stopped laughing and leaned in close.
"We'll be making fake IDs later. We need your eyes, man."
I shook my head.
"You're too late. Preacher's girl managed it last week. Got a bottle
of Jack."
Zeke's eyes narrowed.
"Really?"
"Right from under Glenning's nose. She showed me."
Zeke thought for a moment. I'd thought that he would have been
excited. Maybe even envious. But his expression seemed more clouded.
"What were you doing with her, man? She's a stuck up snob."
I hesitated, concerned that perhaps I'd tread the wrong path in
telling Zeke about the whiskey. Bobby and Vincent likewise looked
more distrustful than envious.
"Snob?"
"Stuck up bitch, man. I asked her out last year and she laughed at
me, man."
"Laughed at you? I laugh at you."
"You ain't a preacher's bitch."
"No ..." I said slowly.
Zeke fell into thought, such that it was, again. I glanced towards
the Torvalds place, well up the road and out of sight.
"Hmmm. Forget the fake ID's."
I grinned easily. "Done."
"I need to think about this."
"You think about it, Zeke," I said glibly. I turned away.
As I began to walk away, Zeke called out again.
"Hey, Flan!"
Turning around, I walked backwards up the middle of the road.
"I think we need to get her, man."
"Who?"
"The preacher bitch."
"Leave her alone," I called.
At the time, I thought that would be the end of it. Zeke rarely had
much of an attention span. Frankly, I was surprised that he
remembered even asking Rebecca out. Idly, I wondered what might have
even possessed him to approach a girl like Rebecca. And I was
slightly perturbed that I was unaware of the incident. Zeke had
never mentioned it before.
Zeke waved easily, and returned to watching Mr. Weatherby, who'd
moved onto arranging plump oranges in a pyramid. The grocer watched
me suspiciously as I walked by. I waved and smiled, but only
elicited a glower in response.
My mood somewhat cloudy, I walked on slowly towards the Torvalds
fields and the river beyond.
                           <---===***===--->
For a while, I sat, shirtless, watching the clouds drift by while
the heat from the summer sun soaked into my limbs. In front of me,
the river flowed without end, and above, the branches of the elm
shaded me. Sleepy, I closed my eyes.
Her voice awakened me, from a half-remembered, but disturbing,
dream.
"Why do you hang out with them?"
Slowly, I opened my eyes and rotated my head towards her, breaking
what had become almost a ritual.
"You didn't tell me that Zeke asked you out."
She looked surprised and somewhat taken aback. Her brow furrowed and
she shrugged.
"I think he did. About a year ago. We were at school. He brought his
gang along."
"He said you laughed at him."
She bit at her lip, then settled back on her hands.
"I wasn't expecting it. I turned around and they were there. I
laugh sometimes when I'm nervous, Flannery." She paused. "I laughed
a little before he asked me out."
"You didn't."
"Didn't what?"
"Go out with Zeke?"
She tilted her head to the side and looked at me quizzically. Then
she scooted around to sit crosslegged in front of me as she normally
did.
"Flannery, why all these questions?"
My fingers stroked my chin and I glanced up at the clouds. When I
looked back down, she was watching me carefully.
"Zeke ... mentioned it."
She nodded slowly, though I could see her thoughts churning behind
her eyes. She desperately wanted to ask me why I was discussing her
with Zeke and his cohorts. But she chose not to ask.
"Zeke ... he frightens me a little. I told him no. Politely. He's
never asked me again." She paused for a moment. "As far as I knew,
he'd never so much as looked at me again. I didn't laugh at him,
Flannery. Not the way you probably think I did."
I believed her.
"Do I frighten you?"
She paused.
"A little."
I nodded. Her honesty didn't surprise me.
I pushed myself up and retrieved the bottle of Jack, then settled
again, back against the tree. Above me, my shirt hung limp. Spinning
the top off the bottle, I placed it on the ground between us.
Rebecca looked at the bottle, then at my face. I thought I could see
tears welling in her eyes, but none spilled. Again, I thought I saw
her thoughts drifting behind her shiny eyes.
Carefully, she retrieved the top from the grass and closed the
bottle.
Slowly, she held out her hand.
"Hi, Flannery," she whispered.
Gently, I took her fingers in mine.
"Hello, Rebecca," I answered.
And as simply as that, our ritual was restored.
With her hand, she drew me forward. Willingly, I leaned towards her.
Her mouth opened, her face tilted up. The world faded into the
background.
"I don't think I want any Jack, today," she breathed. "Only
Flannery."
And then she kissed me, her lips soft and feminine and more sensuous
than I could ever have imagined.
                           <---===***===--->
She lay easily in the grass beside me, her face bathed in summer
sunlight. Her cheeks were flushed, and her breathing ragged,
similar, I'm sure, to mine. Flecks of dry grass decorated her hair.
Sometime while we'd been kissing, she unbuttoned her blouse and it
lay open, the pale skin of her chest and flat tummy rippled with
shadows of leaves from the elm.
I wanted to kiss her again, already missed her lips.
Gathering my courage, I gently reached for her, but she carefully
pushed away my fingers.
"Later, Flannery," she whispered.
I contented myself with watching her.
"Why do you hang around with them?" she asked quietly.
"They're comfortable, I guess."
She nodded. "Comfort can lead to stagnation."
I wasn't sure what that meant, but I sensed that she wasn't only
referring to my choice of companions.
I watched her for a few minutes, and then she pushed herself to her
feet. Carefully, she buttoned her shirt and smoothed her skirt.
Without another word, she simply walked away. I watched her until
she disappeared over the hill, not once did she glance back at me.
I ached for her.
                           <---===***===--->
And so it continued that all too short summer. We never made plans
to meet by the river, though I was there nearly every day. That
summer was the driest summer in recorded history.
Every Sunday, I attended church, sweated and listened to the
Reverend. The congregation, with the exception of Ms. Fitzroy and
Rebecca, seemed to ignore my presence at the back of their house.
Sometimes, Rebecca sang. Sometimes, she didn't. The Sundays that she
sang were better than those where only the choir entertained the
devoted.
Two or three times a week, varying days, but always on Sunday,
sometimes three consecutive days, sometimes more widely spaced,
Rebecca would arrive, usually breathless, at the elm and we'd talk
by the river. Sometimes, she'd cool her feet in the river,
sometimes, she'd carefully hang her blouse beside my shirt. Most
days, when she arrived, we'd kiss, her tongue flitting across my
lips and teeth, intimate and close.
And we discussed nearly everything, touching on religion, politics,
relationships, friendship, war, peace, and even artists and music.
We sipped whiskey when the mood entertained us. As the bottle
diminished, Rebecca would always bring a replacement on her next
visit.
We never discussed love or what would happen as the summer dwindled
into autumn.
And we never pushed beyond the simple pleasure of touching lips.
We never extended beyond kissing, until after the vandalism and
arson, when the leaves began to change colour.
========================================================================
                              Grace Summer
                                 Part 2
========================================================================
                             (c) June 2008
                             Crimson Dragon
                          All Rights Reserved
========================================================================
A book, perhaps the collected works of Shakespeare, propped open the
window. It was after midnight, the moon rising high into the
perpetually cloudless night sky, its luminance overpowering most of
the stars. A nearly imperceptible breeze ebbed and flowed through
the open panes, caressing my skin as I lay on top of the sheets.
There had been no air movement for days, only everpresent heat and
humidity; even a miniscule movement of air entertained my gratitude.
Unable to sleep, I pushed myself from the sheets and stood at the
window. Fields stretched outwards from the house, like an ocean
without end, the moonlight bathing the wilted crops as if reflected
from gentle swells. Somewhere deep in the house, I could hear the
regular breathing of my parents, blissfully unaware of the
turbulence racing through my mind.
Out beyond the fields, a chorus of canine howls echoed across the
emptiness.
While the night appeared calm and peaceful, something was moving out
beyond my ability to see. The night couldn't remain calm.
Silently, I gathered rough clothing to me and slipped out of the
bedroom. Soft snoring continued from upstairs as my feet
automatically avoided the squeaky floorboards more out of habit than
a conscious desire.
Stepping out into the night and carefully locking the door, I
breathed in the humid air. The breeze bathed me.
Unease filled my soul.
                           <---===***===--->
The steeple stood in silhouette, a shadow of deeper darkness rising
upwards, blocking the faint starlight. I stood on the empty road
gazing at the church. To the right of the church, the residence
house lay in darkness, its occupants asleep with the rest of the
town. Standing in front of the church, it felt like I was the only
soul awake in the entire world, time halted by some divine
intervention. My earlier unease seemed nearly foolish, and I
wondered briefly why I had wandered here while the town slept.
Despite my attendance every Sunday, I did not believe any more than
I had back in June when the lazy fans inside had demonstrated their
ineffectiveness.
Ascending the stairs, I tried the main doors, expecting the building
to be closed for the night. To my surprise, the doors swung outward
silently, beckoning me into the dimmed interior. While few in the
town locked their doors, I'd assumed that the churches and other
public buildings would barricade their doors as night fell.
Yet the doors had opened to my touch. The house of the lord,
perhaps, need not fear evil.
I glanced around before stepping into the building. Despite the
silence and peace here, it was difficult to shake off my earlier
premonition of dread.
                           <---===***===--->
Moonlight dimly illuminated the stained glass representation of
Jesus upon the cross as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Red candles
glowed softly, a remembrance of times and parishioners past.
My footsteps echoed as I entered the cloister and then slipped into
my usual hardwood pew at the back of the church. There was not
enough light to open either of the testaments or the hymnal,
although dimly, far above me, the shadows of the fan blades were
visible standing sentinel silently. It was cooler in the church than
outside, despite the absence of any air movement.
Had I believed in a higher power, it would have been an excellent
time to pray. Instead, I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift.
                           <---===***===--->
Low voices awoke me from a shallow doze. With a groan, I sat. Pews
are uncomfortable to sit upon for hours of sermon; they are far
worse to sleep upon. Massaging my muscles, my ears strained for the
source of the sound that had awakened me.
As I was preparing to push myself to my feet and walk home, the
voices sounded again, low, insistent, angry and jovial all at the
same time. A few moments passed until I realised that the voices
sounded familiar, they were very close, perhaps outside the front
doors of the church, and that there was a mixture of voices.
Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, I considered hiding,
concerned that I might be breaking some law by sleeping in the
church. Perhaps the Reverend had realised in the early hours before
dawn that he'd neglected to lock the front doors and that hooligans
might vandalise the altar or the rock hard pews. Hooligan or not, I
did not wish to be locked inside the church until Sunday.
Wearily, I rose and walked quietly to the front entrance where the
oaken doors mocked me. Beyond them, the voices continued, muted. By
straining, I could tell that the voices were male, perhaps three or
four, none immediately recognisable as the Reverend.
A clatter, as if something had been dropped, some hushed laughter,
and then a soft cry of triumph.
I reached for the door handle, hesitating. A sinking sensation
lodged itself into my stomach. The voices were recognisable, even
through the heavy doors, especially the cruel laughter.
It wasn't the identity of the hooligans in front of the church that
made me hesitate, but rather the single word that drifted through
the still air.
"Bitch."
I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath.
Then I swung open the doors.
                           <---===***===--->
Zeke, Bobby and Vincent stood hunched over the church sign board,
Zeke with a canister in his right hand. As the door opened with a
sigh and a squeak, they collectively turned, a strange combination
of guilt, fright and anger passing across each boy's features. They
reminded me of children caught with their hands in the cookie jar,
or of deer frozen in the headlight of an onrushing transport.
They stared at me and me at them for what seemed like an hour.
Then Zeke laughed, a little nervously.
"Fuck, Flan. You nearly scared the shit outta us."
Carefully, I stepped towards the group, letting the door swing shut
behind me. The doors closed with a finality, like the gates of St.
Peter upon the damned.
I saw puzzlement, then a shade of open deviousness cross Zeke's
features.
"What are you even doing here, man? It's like three in the morning
..."
I cleared my throat.
"I could ask you the same thing."
Zeke pulled himself up to his full height. He was significantly
taller than me. Then he shrugged.
"We were looking for you, man."
"I was here."
"You become a pansy altar-boy?"
Zeke and the boys laughed uproarishly at his witticism.
I shrugged. "I wanted to be alone. You assholes killed that plan."
Zeke's eyes narrowed. I gestured towards the sign that they remained
gathered around.
"What you morons doing at a church at three in the morning then?"
My sense of dread intensified.
Zeke laughed.
"We were prayin', man ..."
His comment was followed by a chorus of "Yeah, we prayin'"
"... prayin' for justice."
Zeke was slurring his words a little and Bobby and Vincent didn't
look entirely steady on their feet either.
"Justice?" I'd reached the base of the short flight of steps.
Between their bodies, I could see that the church sign didn't look
quite right.
Zeke laughed again.
"I told you we'd get her."
"Who?" Though I had a sinking feeling that I knew.
"The bitch, man. The bitch."
Bobby and Vincent giggled. "Yeah, the bitch. Fucking bitch."
Carefully I walked up to them and they parted, exposing their
handiwork. It was difficult to see properly with the shadows cast by
the partial moon, but there was something written across the sign.
In better times, the sign proclaimed inspirational Christian quotes,
usually from Leviticus or Psalms or Genesis.
It would be easier to read in the daylight, but I was reasonably
sure that Zeke had written something less inspirational across its
shiny surface in dark and permanent spray paint, the canister of
which remained loosely dangling in his right hand.
I squinted at the new writing as Zeke, Bobby and Vincent cackled at
their nighttime vandalism.
The only word that was immediately visible: "Bitch".
I was reasonably sure that the word "burn" also featured in Zeke's
diatribe.
I shook my head, unamused at the petty actions of the group. A few
months earlier, I might have happily participated, but tonight, as
the moon shone down through the heavy air, it occurred to me that
vandalising a church sign would be a reasonably decent method to
avoid St. Peter's good graces if one believed in such judgement. A
sure one way ticket to Hell.
Zeke clapped me on the back hard enough to make me gasp.
"And the night is still young," he laughed.
Still laughing, he dropped the empty can of paint at the foot of the
sign with a clatter. The group of us began to walk across the lawn
towards the church residence, me more out of a sense of morbid
curiosity than a desire to participate. As we walked, my sense of
dread reawakened like a lion hungry for the kill.
                           <---===***===--->
Rebecca and her father, the Reverend, both lived at the residence.
The residence sat a short walk from the church; a simple commute for
a sedate profession. It was an ornate wooden home, built around the
same time as the church. The Reverend, with help from some church
members, kept the old Victorian structure and the gardens
surrounding it in pristine condition.
Tonight, the moonlight reflected eerily from the steep roof and
white paint of the porch that led to the front door. I had never
been inside it before, but as far as I knew, only the Reverend and
his daughter lived there. I had no idea what had happened to
Rebecca's mother, and Rebecca had never mentioned her in all our
lengthy talks that summer.
Zeke carefully approached the steps and extracted a container hidden
beside it. Then he sauntered back to the group. A strong scent of
gasoline drifted from the can as Zeke approached.
I eyed the jerry can and then raised my eyes to Zeke's face.
"You aren't serious," I said quietly.
He nodded. It was then that I noticed that Zeke was more drunk than
I'd realised back at the sign vandalism. His eyes shone with the
insane light of a fanatic.
"That's some serious shit," I remarked as coolly as I could.
Again he nodded.
"She laughed at me, man. Fucking bitch."
I glanced around at the others, but they all wore the same grim grin
that Zeke did.
I reached for the canister of gasoline, but Zeke merely laughed and
pulled it away from my grip.
"She needs to pay for it."
"She didn't laugh at you, Zeke," I said quietly. It was a dangerous
gambit, but this whole crazy night was a crazy gambit.
Zeke cocked his head to one side.
"She laughed at me. When I asked the prissy bitch out." His tone of
voice implied much more, a deep lack of understanding of why any
girl wouldn't want to date old Zeke.
"So you're going to kill her?"
He laughed.
"Maybe. But more likely just a little burn or two. She'll survive,
but what guy will want to date a burnt up witch?"
I clenched my fists.
"She didn't laugh at you, Zeke. She laughs when she's nervous."
Zeke eyed me, a dangerous understanding penetrating into his mind.
"And how would you know that, Flan?"
"I know."
"You fucking her? When she wouldn't fuck me?"
I drew in a breath.
"I just know. Let's get the fuck out of here. You guys can sober up
and tomorrow ..."
The fist came from out of nowhere, striking me in the jaw. I spun
and hit the ground with a grunt of pain. Blood filled my mouth and
trickled slowly down my chin to drip into the soft grass. Above me,
laughter rained down on me. I was expecting another blow, perhaps a
kick, but it never came. Slowly, I raised my head, the world
spinning. Blackness, deeper than night, threatened, but I forced it
from my vision.
Zeke, Bobby and Vincent were standing by the steps. Dancing and
laughing, Zeke splashed liquid from the can across the boards of the
porch.
Dizzy, I pushed myself up, swaying and blinking. I swallowed a
mouthful of blood. I checked my teeth with the tip of my tongue.
Everything seemed to be in place.
Stumbling, I approached the group. So intent on their plans and
laughing hysterically, they were unaware of my approach.
Zeke raised his right fist. A silver lighter lay between his
fingers, thumb poised. With a careless flick of his thumb, the flame
ignited.
For a moment, he stood there like an Olympic torch bearer, his face
illuminated in moonlight. I've never seen anyone look crazier,
before or since.
"Burn in hell, bitch," he muttered.
As his fingers began to loosen to drop the lighter, I grabbed his
shoulder and spun him, my right fist crashing into his jaw. Blood
sprayed as he screamed.
His fingers opened in surprise and pain.
The lighter dropped, as if in slow motion.
Bouncing.
And then the night was alight.
                           <---===***===--->
As Zeke and the others ran, I turned my face towards the open
windows on the second floor, stepping back from the rapidly moving
flames.
Cupping my hands: "Rebecca!"
Instead of Rebecca, a sleepy Reverend stuck his head from the
nearest window. He squinted, not immediately seeing the danger.
"Flan McBride," he bellowed. "I'll have you arrested for this."
Instinct told me to flee, as Zeke and the others had, but instead, I
called out again.
"Rebecca!"
The Reverend began to splutter.
"Rebecca!"
At last, a window halfway down the house opened and Rebecca's head
emerged, her hair braided, and her eyes at half mast, sleepy.
"Flannery, it's four in the morning. You shouldn't ..."
"Fire," I said simply.
Rebecca glanced down, her eyes immediately widening.
"Oh my God," she whispered. Even over the crackling of the flames, I
could hear her. A similar sentiment echoed from the Reverend.
"I'll see that you never get out of jail for this, Flan McBride,"
the Reverend said vehemently as he disappeared from the window.
I hesitated, wanting to brave the flames. Help them. Somehow.
Instead, I walked away. It wasn't cowardice. There was simply
nothing that I could do beyond what I had already done. The flames
had already risen in on the front porch to the point where
unprotected approach was impossible. Rebecca and the Reverend could
escape out of numerous windows or perhaps a rear entrance.
                           <---===***===--->
She stood shivering, barefoot, wrapped in a blanket, the Reverend's
arm draped protectively across her shoulders, watching her home
burn. I watched them from the shadows for a while, until I began to
hear sirens in the distance.
All because of wounded pride.
I sighed, turned, and began to walk.
                           <---===***===--->
Our place by the river seemed ethereal in the moonlight. The muted
radiance illuminated the elm, the slow moving river water, and the
dry grass. The distant sirens had silenced as I'd arrived.
I settled with my back against the elm's bark. It was doubtful if
Rebecca would ever join me here again, and that saddened me.
But for now, it was peaceful and quiet and I closed my eyes,
exhausted and sore.
                           <---===***===--->
I winced and opened my eyes as soft fingers touched my jaw.
It was still night, the moon the only illumination. For a moment, I
thought it was a dream.
Rebecca crouched in front of me, her soft features bathed in the
moonlight.
"Why?" she asked. Tears welled in her lids.
I had no idea what she was asking me, then the enormity of what had
happened flooded back into me. I reached for her face.
"Are you all right?"
She nodded slowly.
"I trusted you," she murmured. "Why, Flannery, why?"
I shrugged, not quite sure what to say.
"It's all gone," she said, her voice breaking. "Everything burnt to
ashes. Daddy says that we can rebuild, but he's going to make sure
that you go to jail this time for good. Why?"
I suddenly realised what her implication was.
"Rebecca, you think I did this?"
She closed her eyes, as if in pain. Slowly, she nodded. That hurt me
more than anything else.
"Why did you come here then?"
"I needed to face you. Understand why." Her tears fell easily and
unhindered down her cheeks, shimmering in the moonlight. "I want to
hit you," she said slowly.
I sighed and closed my eyes.
"Okay. It won't be the first time tonight."
I lowered my hands to the ground and extended my already bruised
jaw, inviting.
After a time, I opened my eyes. Her hand wavered, somewhere between
striking me and falling to her own side.
"I can't," she whispered.
I remained silent.
Her hand finally dropped to her side. I watched her eyes. Confusion,
betrayal, and simple sadness flit behind her gaze. Slowly, she
sighed.
"It wasn't you," she whispered. "You were there, but it wasn't you."
I swallowed, allowing her time.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "You saved our lives."
And she fell into my arms and wept.
                           <---===***===--->
Later, she stood, her bare feet planted in the grass either side of
my legs. The moonlight shimmered in her raven hair. Slowly, she
released the braid, her hair fluttering loose about her shoulders.
The blanket, still reeking of wood smoke, she bent and smoothed
across the grass.
She wore a simple white nightgown. It occurred to me that this
nightgown might be the only clothing that she now owned. The cloth
swirled about her body, clinging and releasing as she moved. In the
moonlight, it seemed translucent and angelic.
Rebecca tilted her face upwards. In the muted light, smudges of
charcoal and soot marred the porcelain of her cheeks.
In one quick motion, she lifted the nightgown from her body, over
her head, and dropped it in a heap beside the blanket.
I gasped, but I don't think she heard me.
Carefully, she stepped onto the blanket, knelt, naked, and beckoned
me.
I watched this beautiful creature kneeling patiently, tears
continuing to pour silently down her cheeks.
Then I went to her.
                           <---===***===--->
She kissed me and I could taste soot mixed with the salt of her
tears. Her fingers fumbled insistently with my clothes, nearly
tearing the cloth from my body. Her breathing intensified with each
garment cast into the darkness until I was as naked as she.
Her fingers found my penis, stroking. After a moment's hesitation,
my fingers sought her breasts. She moaned, pressing her chest into
my hands.
Without losing the connection of our lips, she threw me down,
sprawled on the blanket. Swinging her left leg over me, she
straddled me and without warning, I was buried in her moisture.
Slowly, she began to rock herself upon me, throwing her head back,
gasping at the moon. My hands rose to her breasts, lightly stroking
her nipples.
In the distance, the wolves cried. Rebecca's voice joined them as
she climaxed. As she clenched, I exploded into her as she collapsed,
still weeping on top of me.
                           <---===***===--->
I woke from a light doze as she moved from me. The moon still lit
the clearing and the river, but the beginnings of dawn lit the sky
to the east. The scent of soot and smoke was strong where I still
lay upon her blanket.
I watched her without moving as she settled, still nude, near the
river bank. She drew up her knees, facing upstream.
At first, I thought she was crying there, softly. The urge to gather
her back into my arms and protect her nearly overwhelmed me, but she
wanted and needed her space, and probably wasn't aware that I was
awake.
And then I heard it softly passing her lips.
Amazing Grace.
She sang gently, but a choir of angels could not compare to the
haunting melody passing from her soul. I closed my eyes.
It was the most beautiful experience I have ever witnessed.
                           <---===***===--->
She returned to me as the sun peeked above the horizon. Her fingers
traced my bruised jaw, wincing as I winced. The tears had dried,
though she remained quiet and sad.
This time, we made love slowly. The sound of the river, the stirring
of morning birds in the trees, the scent of dew and soot and
Rebecca's arousal combined to enhance each touch, each caress, each
kiss.
Afterward, we lay quietly, my arms wrapped around her, watching the
sun rise.
Her song haunted me.
                           <---===***===--->
"Rebecca ..." I began.
She stirred, her body stiffening.
"... I ..."
She flipped over, propping herself on her elbows, her eyes capturing
mine and halting me. Her sadness deepened.
"Flannery," she whispered. "Don't say it."
"But ..."
"If you say it," she continued, "I can't come back here. Not ever.
And that will happen soon enough."
"I need ..."
She nodded. "I owe you my life, Flannery. My father's too, even if
he doesn't know it."
"Your song ..."
She smiled a little, which gave me hope. "Our song," she whispered.
She watched my face for a while, her smile losing some of its
radiance.
The sun had climbed higher into the sky, clearing the horizon. It
was early yet, but the day had crowned.
"I have to go," she said sadly. "My father will be worried sick."
With a sigh, I nodded. It was time for me to return to the scene of
the crime. It was easy to forget the outside world, here, with
Rebecca.
She reached over me, her skin soft against mine, gathering up her
nightgown. In the light I could see dark marks of charcoal upon its
fabric. Carefully, she brushed some of the grass and leaves from its
surface before rising to her feet.
She stood naked beside me, allowing me to drink in the sight of her.
Then she slipped the gown over her head where it settled about her.
I rolled from the blanket and gathered my scattered clothes as she
lifted the blanket where we'd lain.
I dressed quickly and then carefully wrapped the blanket about her
bare shoulders.
"Walk me home?" she asked quietly.
I nodded.
She slipped her hand into mine, kissing me once on the lips. Her
lips warmed me.
It was the only time I ever walked her home that summer.
                           <---===***===--->
I believe that Rebecca knew better than I what would happen as we
approached the town. A column of smoke rose from the direction of
the church, but not a soul did we meet as we trudged down the dusty
lanes. Her bare feet silent, my shoes kicking up dust with every
step. Idly I wondered what time it was.
She halted carefully out of sight of her house.
"Flannery?"
I cocked my head to the side inquiringly.
"I'm leaving before September," she said.
"Stay. Please."
She shook her pretty head. I've seen the expression before on many
women. There was no hope of convincing her. And in retrospect, I
glad I didn't try.
"We still have some time," she said quietly.
She lowered her head, examining her bare, dusty toes. Then she
raised her eyes again.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."
I nodded, unsure how to respond.
After a time, she sighed softly. Standing up on her toes, she
reached for my lips again.
"I do, too," she whispered. Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't
permit them to fall. I knew what she meant, but we couldn't speak
it. Never in that dry and dusty summer.
With that, she grasped my hand and led me into a madhouse.
                           <---===***===--->
For a moment, I stood with Rebecca at the edge of the firefighters
and police. The firefighters coiled up their hoses and gathered
their axes. Near the stairs, a small group of police, including the
fire chief, stood examining what looked like a burnt jerry can that
I'd last seen in Zeke's hands.
Interspersed throughout the small crowd were many silent members of
the congregation, including Miss Fitzroy, looking stunned and
shocked. Some held hands, some bowed heads silently praying.
The Victorian structure that was, now lay wasted: a molten blob of
charcoal and soot. Tendrils of smoke rose lazily from the ruins into
the heated morning air. The central staircase still partially stood,
though it reminded me of a flight to heaven as the second floor of
the home had completely collapsed. The white paint, the spires, all
destroyed. Beside me, Rebecca shivered, but didn't cry at the sight
of the devastation that used to be her home.
"Rebecca!"
I turned at the sound of the Reverend's voice, his tone carrying
relief, concern and anger.
Rebecca's hand slipped from mine and emptiness invaded into my soul.
The Reverend and two big cops hurried towards us. Then people were
shouting, and though it was difficult to hear what they were saying,
my name seemed to pass enough lips that it was clear that the
Reverend's version of events had convinced most of the parishioners
of my immediate guilt.
And to my credit, I felt guilty as the enormity of what had happened
and what I'd been unwittingly a part of, crashed over me.
In a daze, I felt Rebecca pulled from me, the old blanket swirling
away. The screams and ire of the church folk surrounded me as I
dimly heard one of the burly cops read me Miranda. Handcuffs
encircled my wrists and surprisingly gently, the other cop led me
away from the madhouse towards a waiting squad car.
In the distance, I could hear a voice that sounded suspiciously like
Rebecca's calling:
"No."
                           <---===***===--->
The Jumping Jack was a country dive that nearly straddled the town
line. It appeared that I wasn't the only hooligan in town that
fateful night. A full-fledged bar fight had erupted, resulting in
four drunken and disorderly clients rounded up and placed in the
town's holding facility. When I arrived, the four were sleeping it
off, and I was more than happy to permit them their dreams. My
temporary roommates stunk of beer and cigarettes and vomit, and two
of them had visible cuts and scrapes.
I wandered to the far edge of the pen, sat down, and waited.
After three hours, two burly gentlemen escorted me back to the front
of the station to book me and interview me.
I gave them what they wanted.
It was me. Alone. A prank gone bad. No mention of the church sign.
No mention of Zeke or the boys. No mention of wounded pride or
prejudice. Only me. Alone.
It was what they wanted to hear. It was the only story they were
ready to believe.
I was charged, temporarily, with arson and attempted murder.
                           <---===***===--->
As I was rising to my feet to be walked back to the pen, the
Reverend and Rebecca burst through the station doors, their voices
raised. Rebecca was practically pulling her father into the station.
Behind them, a shamefaced cop mumbled something about trying to stop
them.
Rebecca halted at the front desk, her eyes flashing, almost daring
anyone to tell her to leave. When her eyes passed over me, she
hesitated for a moment, then spoke softly, her voice nevertheless
cutting through the station. She addressed me as if the remainder of
the audience didn't exist.
"Are you all right?"
I nodded.
"Why haven't they let you go?"
At this, the cop who had interviewed me stepped between Rebecca and
me.
"Miss," he said, "I just booked him for arson and attempted murder."
Her eyes widened. The Reverend smiled triumphantly. I couldn't blame
him.
Rebecca looked at me, her eyes betraying confusion for a moment.
Then her intellect regained her attention and she worked out what
had happened.
"Tell them," she whispered. "They won't stand up for you."
I shook my head. She was right, but it wouldn't matter. The
interview cop returned to my side and we started to walk away.
Before we passed into the long corridor to the cells, I turned. My
cop allowed it.
Rebecca had tears streaming down her face as she spoke hurriedly to
her father. Her hand raised to his shoulder and even I could read
her lips. "Please."
Then the Reverend spoke.
"Can I speak to the boy?"
His voice had lost its fiery edge, though his face remained
unreadable.
After a moment of hesitation, I was brought to the front desk to
face the Reverend. The cops left me there, but I could feel their
watchful eyes resting upon my back.
"My daughter thinks highly of you, Flan McBride."
"And I her," I responded quietly.
"She tells me that all is not what it seems."
I shrugged, trying to ignore the pleading look plastered on
Rebecca's face. She remained quiet.
The Reverend's eyes passed over me, peering into my soul.
"God teaches us to seek understanding. Or so Rebecca tells me. God
also teaches us to find mercy, even when we least wish to extend
it."
I didn't answer him. His face betrayed shock and a very human desire
for justice. Under the circumstances, it was difficult to blame him.
He squared his shoulders and again peered at me. I didn't lower my
eyes. After drawing a deep breath he spoke quietly. I doubted if
anyone else could hear his question, even though all were straining
to eavesdrop.
"Was it you?" he asked simply.
It would have been so easy to admit my wrongdoing, to stick to the
story and the image that so many of the folks in this small town
expected. It would have been a relief.
I glanced at Rebecca, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. In
the back of my mind, I wondered who else might wake to a merrily
burning porch, or graffiti upon their signs, or perhaps apples
nicked from a carefully arranged display. But it was mostly
Rebecca's tears and the knowledge that if I lied, she would leave
and I likely wouldn't be able to even say goodbye.
"No sir," I whispered.
The tension drained from his face, but he now looked lost, like a
boat adrift upon an unending ocean. As if sensing what had been
exchanged, Rebecca returned to the Reverend's side and carefully
grasped his hand. Tears continued to slip down her cheeks, but she
didn't seem as animated or desperate. At least for her, everything
was as it should be.
The cop lightly grasped my arm. As I turned to follow him, the
Reverend raised his voice.
"Wait!"
                           <---===***===--->
The mid-afternoon air wafted across my face, humid and hot as it
was. It had taken the local constabulary a few hours to determine
exactly what to do with me. Eventually, they settled on release,
especially with the word of the Reverend. It would take weeks before
the remainder of the town felt as generous.
She was sitting in the dry grass at the edge of the stairs, watching
the sparse traffic as it travelled past the police station. She
wore a borrowed pair of jeans and a coarse white blouse, her runners
replaced with a pair of ill-fitting sandals. Smudges of soot
darkened her cheeks.
When she turned, somehow aware of my gaze upon her, she pushed
herself up and ascended the stairs, throwing her arms around me.
People gawked, but I didn't care. Her lips reminded me of cherries
and honey.
It was a long time before she released me.
                           <---===***===--->
The leaves had begun their journey to a colourful heaven. In the
last few weeks of summer, the temperatures had cooled, and even a
little rain had fallen, mostly in the evenings.
She had dressed again, except for her shoes. Standing up on her
toes, her hands on my shoulders, she kissed me for the last time.
Her breath smelled like Jack Daniels and honeysuckle.
"I have to go, Flannery," she whispered. "My train."
"I know," I replied carefully. And I did know. She wouldn't be
swayed and even a summer such as we'd had together couldn't change
her destiny.
Lightly, she picked up the bottle of Jack and pressed it into my
hand with a smile.
"Finish it for me," she whispered.
Then she turned away and carrying her shoes, walked up the lane.
As she was about to disappear from sight, she turned and waved and
blew me a kiss.
And then she was gone.
========================================================================
                              Grace Summer
                                Epilogue
========================================================================
                             (c) June 2008
                             Crimson Dragon
                          All Rights Reserved
========================================================================
As I read the article in the bright sunlight, the name did not
immediately register. Ezekiel Penn, killed in a prison riot.
Ezekiel Penn.
I sighed, unsurprised. Thought I'd heard that Bobby and Vincent had
turned their lives around after Zeke had been incarcerated those
many years ago. But Zeke?
I wouldn't miss him.
Pushing myself up from the park bench, I strode down Simcoe Street
somewhat aimlessly. I always had felt somewhat lost in the city, one
amongst millions. Sometimes I missed the closeness of small town
life, even if I wasn't sorry to leave it.
A Presbyterian church stood at the corner of Simcoe and King and as
I passed it, the sound of a choir drifted to the sidewalk above the
noise and bustle of the surrounding city.
I hadn't stepped foot in a church in years.
Slipping through the oversized oaken doors, I sat at the back.
The service was ending, nearly as I sat.
The choir sang Amazing Grace as the congregation filed out.
The music flooded back memories of a melancholy girl, singing as an
angel on the shore of a distant river. It remains the most beautiful
experience in my life. I lay back my head, lost to memories.
"Can I help you? Are you all right?"
The girl had a British accent, dressed in the robes of the
Presbyterian clergy. I raised my head and opened my eyes, smiling.
The choir was long finished. Other than the girl, and a priest at
the front altar closing up the bible in front of him, I was alone in
the church.
"Thank you for the memories," I said simply, rising to my feet.
The girl looked puzzled, but her face reminded me of Rebecca.
"Go with God," she smiled.
I remained unconvinced of the benevolence of her higher being, but
something had led me to this place with the choir and the memories.
Today of all days.
Something ethereal, beyond the here and now, whispered to me that
Rebecca had never found what she sought.
As I stepped back outside amongst the elms, my thoughts captivated
by that hot and humid summer, I resolved that it was time to return,
perhaps visit the church, the river, the elm, if it still stood, and
find her, wherever she had gone.