LovingCindy

by Jake Rivers©

 

AuthorÕs note:

 

I havenÕt tried anythinglike this before.  My greatest fearas an author is becoming predictable.

 

Thanks to RoustWriter forhis assistance in editing.

 

I guess it was inevitable,the love that Cindy and I learned to share.  We were twins born but raised asÉ just kids.  Mother, bless her; miss her, diedgiving life to us.  Dad was lostwithout her and raised us in a haphazard way – there at times, often not.

 

Early memories: Dad on thefloor, asleep?  No, the bottle byhis hand belies the truth in that. Cindy, one hand, Lee, me, the other.  Drag him, pull him. Grunting with our childish lack of strength. 

 

ÒPushÉ Cindy, Pull!  Get him on the bed and we can go tofind food.Ó  Not an easy task.

 

Food?  Kill the rabbit.  Dad, bless his soul, raisedrabbits.  He sold the fur –we ate the rabbits.  Like chickenswhich we had alsoÉ lard in the pan and fry very crisp.  Chicken or rabbit – sometimeschicken and rabbit. 

 

One day the rabbits weregone.  We were twelve then and Dadwas away for several months.  Iknew how to trap rabbits and found out they were just as damn dumb aschickens.  We ate rabbits and stufffrom the garden grown wild; planted by Mom, cared for by God.

 

Dad came back, gaunt,bearded, scars on his legs from shackles he said.  Did Dad take care of us?  We took care of Dad. We did love him and in his way, his very own way, we think he lovedus.  We knew, somehow, he loved Momand died, slowly, without her.  Heloved us but we were not Mom.

 

We had a milk cow and fromage six I milked.  The milk probablysaved our lives.   When Bessiedied we were thirteen.   Iwalked ten miles to the Aaronson farm and in the dark of the night stole one oftheir hundreds of milk cows.  Wenamed her Bessie – we thought all milk cows were named Bessie.

 

ÒCindy!  DonÕt ever; donÕt ever let Bessie outin the daytime.Ó  I thought allcows looked the same but I didnÕt know. Cindy didnÕt either.

 

We were clean.  Some memory when we were young and Dadhad fewer bottles: fill the washtub with hot water from the wood stove, temper– yes I knew that word and many others – the hot water with coldwater from the pump.  Take the bathtogether, Cindy and I.  Eight, we were just kids. Twelve, we were boy and girlÉ but still just kids.

 

Sixteen, the year Dad leftforever – though it was two years before Cindy and I agreed that he wasreally gone forever – Cindy was embarrassed and turned away while shewashed.  I was embarrassed becauseshe was, and after that I did twice the work and filled two tubs.  You see; I had always loved Cindy.

 

When I was five Dad taught meto read – I read everything. I knew the difference between sloe gin and gin when I was six.  I read the labels.  I taught Cindy to read; Dad said girlsdidnÕt need to know but I loved Cindy and wanted to share with her.  We looked for hours at the labels forRye Whisky and Bourbon Whisky – searching for the mysterious, elusivedifference.  Sometimes Dad thoughta bottle was empty but it was not É Cindy and I shared.  We liked the sloe gin the best.

 

Then came the day.  Of course, we didnÕt know it was theday.  Dad left, ÒÉ to find somework.Ó  Sometimes he was gone aweek.  We would mark each day onthe John Deere calendar.  Sometimesa month.  We kept all the oldcalendars.  They told about ourDad.  How long he was gone.  When he came back.  This time, from Independence Day toLabor DayÉ the longest ever from reading the calendars (our poor manÕs FarmerÕsalmanac) we decided after talking, discoursing, arguing that Dad was goneÉforever.  But we watched for himfor a long time after that.

 

We found in the barn, in theloft, a box of books, motherÕs books. Eclectic.  John Donne.  Plato.   Shakespeare – a collected works.  A bible, old and worn with the nowmeaningless names in the front, but full of strange, mysterious stories.  Chaucer – spelling a mess butwith patience, wonderful stories. Poetry: Wordsworth and Dickenson. Books of wonder, books that staggered the imagination.  MotherÕs books.  Precious and needing to be read.

 

I was literal; Cindy waspoetic.  We talked, we argued.  I found a book of DadÕs ongardens.  Cindy found a can on thetop shelf full of coins and paper money. I walked the fifteen miles to town and smiled at Mr. Brown and said,yes, my dad was fine.  I came backwith seeds and sardines.  I cameback with cloth and candy. 

 

One night I was taking mybath in CindyÕs dirty water – yeah, I was lazy sometimes – andCindy walked in.  She was wearing athreadbare cotton nightgown of MomÕs that was almost transparent.  I was standing in the tub, proud of mylean, hard body.  She looked at meand blushed – I knew this from books but it was new for Cindy.

 

She stared at meÉ I was hardand I couldnÕt help it.  Truth: IdidnÕt want to help it; it felt good, so powerful.  She turned and ran for her room.  I was now sleeping in DadÕs bed.  I knew he was gone forever – why did I miss the momIÕd never known more than the dad I had?

 

We didnÕt dare go toschool.  We never had.  I knew we were smart.  I also knew we were ignorant of Òsocialinteractions.Ó  I read about thatin one of MomÕs books.  We wereafraid of discovery.  Somehow weknew that they would separate us. We also knew that would kill us: having each other was all we ever had.

 

On the night of the storm,Cindy came to my bed.  She normallywasnÕt scared of things that were Ònatural.Ó  Tonight – the storm was fierce, frightening even tome.  And Cindy came to my bed.  We hugged and somehow we knew that thetouching we did wasnÕt right .   It felt good but – one ofGodÕs mysteries – we knew it wasnÕt time yet.

 

The calendar said on June 23^rdof that year we were eighteen. From the books we knew what that meant.  I walked over to old man AaronsonÕs place and told him thatmy dad was in prison and I needed a job. Yes, I was eighteen.  Yes, Iwas a hard worker.  And I workedhard.  We were out of motherÕsmoney and Cindy had no clothes she could be seen in.

 

I made money, not a lot, tendollars a week, paid in cash.  Iknew I was being cheated but I knew not to complain.  I saved.  Ibrought food and clothes for Cindy and me.  Cindy didnÕt walk in on my bath anymore.  At night I dreamed of what she lookedlike.  I spilled my seedremembering her slim body, her pert breastsÉ almost every night.  The sin of onanism: the bible told methe name and that I shouldnÕt do itÉ but I did.   I knew I loved herÉ and always would.  We were one.  We were twins.

 

One day our liveschanged.  I knew about the war,about how the Japs had ambushed our boys in Hawaii.  I knew how to shoot. I went to war.  Killing ajap was the same as killing a squirrel. I sent all of my money home to my Òwife.Ó  Small lie.  IdidnÕt care.  Shoot me!

 

I killed Japs onGuadalcanal.  And on Iwo.  And on Guam.  Yeah, Guam. ThatÕs where I lost my foot. I recuperated.  I didsomething called therapy.  I got a,well, what they called a prosthesis.   I came home crying and hurting.  Cindy took me to her bed and lovedme.  It was bittersweet.  Her tender touches and the lingering,sometimes phantom pain were a strange combination.  She grounded me and without her I would have been floating.

 

Cindy wanted to go toschool.  I had money from thearmy.  I bought a ten-year-oldtruck.  I taught her to drive– I had learned in the army. They gave her a test and said she could go to school.   One day in her second year shecame home nervous and worried.

 

ÒLee, donÕt hate me.  Please donÕt hate me – I woulddie.Ó

 

In the army I had learned towait and see.  Some days thatÕs allwe did, was wait.

 

ÒCindy, I could never hateyou.  I love you but you know youare not mine.Ó

 

ÒLee, there is a boy thatwants me to go on a date.  I swearthat he is nice.Ó

 

I felt sad but Iunderstood.  I had learned a lot inthe army and killing people and almost being killed changed me.

 

ÒI understand Baby.  Go ahead.  If you like the guy, go ahead.Ó

 

ÒLee, you know that we canÕtÉÓ

 

ÒI know honey.  It was okay before but now I know itainÕt right.  Just make sure hereally loves you, okay?Ó

 

His name was Bill Jenks.  In a year he and Cindy weremarried.  He had a sister, twoyears younger.  When I met her Iknew I had found my own special person. Her name was Colleen; maybe there was some Irish in her blood. 

 

I still love CindyÉ I guess Ialways will.  ItÕs a different kindof love now, deep and permanent.  Iwould die for her – just as I would die for Colleen.

 

Cindy has two kids, twingirls, and I have a little boy. The four of us and our kids are close.  I know now that there are some that would say what we donewas wrong.  IÕve talked about itwith Cindy and it was just part of our strange growing up.

 

Colleen is a great woman, anice blend of sweet and tough.  ShedoesnÕt have to keep me on the straight and narrowÉ thatÕs where I want to be.

 

Some nights I think a lotabout Mom and Dad.  I donÕt feelbad about anything that happened. IÕm just glad that we found a way to survive and that both of us foundour true loves.

 

God bless you, MomÉ I wishIÕd known you!