Trumansburg, New York
May, 1999
Wendy and I escape to the Finger Lakes for the May Day weekend. There is larceny on our minds and honey on our palates as we turn into the narrow driveway of The West Wind Bed & Breakfast near Trumansburg.
Wendy flits nervously as if expecting Nancy or her husband to suddenly appear. She pulls a cigarette out of her purse in anticipation a few more tokes before entering the non-smoking sanctuary of our accommodations. I park under a circle of dark trees at the back of the property. We sit there for a moment, staring straight ahead.
Wendy breaks the silence. “I don’t know why, but this feels weird for some reason.” Little puffs of smoke punctuate her words.
“So—are we staying or not?”
“Nice move, Don—leave it up to me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She nods with a small smile. “Sorry. Well then, off we go.”
We make our way up a brick path, lined with daisies and herbs. Wendy ditches a three-inch butt into the flower bed. She reads the welcome mat guarding the back door out loud, “Welcome Fiends. Well isn’t that a nice sentiment.”
“Someone must have peeled off the ‘r’,” I observe.
Wendy rings the bell and we hear the opening five notes of Nights in White Satin. We look at each other, lost in time as proprietor Gwynn Anachronism greets us, awash in smiles, Teflon good cheer and misty holiday pantheism.
“Welcome to The West Wind” she beams. “You must be Don and Wendy. We’ve been expecting you.” I wonder how long she’s rehearsed those lines.
“Breakfast is served at eight-thirty,” Gwynn tells us. We also learn we will be joined by the only other couple staying here, Karen and James. “A lovely couple visiting from Florida,” she says, and now that the breakfast part of our visit is sorted out, we’re anxious to get on to the other bit.
On our way to the room Wendy asks, “Is that really her name?”
“Gwynn?”
“No, Anachronism.”
We reach our room; Wendy opens the door and throws her bag inside. She walks in and immediately goes to the bed and does a quick test drive of the mattress. “This should work,” she says. I follow and flop down beside her, keeping a respectful distance. Our first weekend together, me with twenty years of marriage under my belt, she with ten, and yet we still don’t know what to do next or who’s supposed to be doing it.
Maybe it’s because we’re both still married.
She stares up at the ceiling and asks, “So is it?”
“Is it what?”
“Her name,” she says moving her hand close to my thigh. I can feel it through the mattress—a cat stalking her prey.
“What about it?” My hand creeps closer to hers.
Our fingertips meet and the effect is immediate. Wendy says, “Her last name—Anachronism. She some kind of hippie?” She scotches closer, throws her leg over mine. I pull her close, her face is inches from mine, her breath coming fast and hot. For an instant I completely forget what the topic was and see only the desire in her eyes. She runs her tongue along her top lip.
I pull her on top of me. “Yeah, that’s it.”
Next morning we stumble into the breakfast nook on the patio some ten minutes late, victims of too little sleep, and politely introduce ourselves to Jim and Karen, apparently victimized by too much. He drums nervously on the table and an open box of Rice Crispies. A permanent dark crescent adorning each roughly chiseled fingernail suggests a lifetime of tinkering with fate through automobiles. She quietly stirs a bowl of fresh fruit and stabs indecisively at overdone quiche. Wendy strikes up a conversation with Jim that revolves roughly around the three B’s: bowling, bars and bathroom-humor. Her abrupt outbursts of laughter, punctuated by an occasional snort, seems to amuse Jim and slices the conversation into neatly digestible pieces like a verbal Veg-O-Matic. I trade covert glances with Karen. She looks vaguely familiar, although I can’t recall the time or place.
Karen’s silence is haunting. My eyes travel the length of the table, follow the delicately arched hands and crimson nails that reflect the morning sun, to her slender arms and long, graceful neck, and finally her piercing, brown eyes. With one intense look she assaults my soul, sending a psychic arrow through my body and across the room, dragging my insides with it. The breakfast clatter and chit-chat fade into inane white noise. Together we stand up, eyes still locked on one another, and hands clasped, make our own escape into the glowing morning.
The patio leads to a hidden path that we follow for some time before reaching a wide beach on the shore of some ocean. Huge waves crash upon the sand, sending rivulets of warm water dancing at our feet. Karen strips, and I follow her lead. Standing nude in the mist like an ageless water nymph, she points to a rocky island in the distance and then leaps into the sea. I hesitate; the water looks inviting, yet I’m distracted by a large Limbo party further down the beach. The partiers see me and wave excitedly, beckoning me to join their group. Karen swims toward the island without looking back and it occurs to me that if I don’t follow, she’ll be lost forever. A massive wave breaks unexpectedly sending me reeling back. The salt stings my eyes and without a second thought I glance back at the beach party, wave, then dive into the warm, churning sea.
Strange and wonderful sea creatures, glowing as living jewels, surround me like attendants at a royal wedding, teasing and nudging me forward. I suddenly realize that I can breathe the water. The sensation brings me back to a time in my dimmest memories—I can remember the water, the salt, a great, comforting, thumping sound—when I see Karen streaking ahead of me. Her feet are just beyond my touch and I race forward to catch her. My hand barely brushes her ankle as she somersaults around me and the touch sends a bolt of electricity arching at my fingertips and through my body. Again and again she swims around me, tempting yet always staying just out of reach. We pass over a coral reef in the shallows near the island, then taking my hand she pulls me out of the water and onto the rocky shore.
The island enfolds us, and the rocks, sharp and rugged in the distance, are soft and inviting. She lays back, pulls me toward her, her neck arching back in hungry anticipation. My mouth finds her small breasts, tastes the small drops of salt water that mix with her own delicate beads of sweat. Her nipples rise to my touch and she in turn finds me, pulling and gently stroking as I grow in her small hand.
“I want to make love with you,” she says with such a quiet energy that the ocean itself seems stilled. Then there is a moment where nothing exists and time stands still as our lips touch, our tongues meet and our bodies rise and fall with the waves beneath us.
We make love as the sun rises and sets over us, watching as it edges toward the horizon, then is slowly nudged out of sight by gathering storm clouds. The strange magic of the day sweeps over me. I pull Karen closer, holding her tight—a life preserver keeping me afloat in our own reality. Karen nuzzles closer. She throws her arms around my neck and kisses my chest. “Our own reality,” I say to myself, not realizing I’ve said it out loud.
Karen stirs. “Sorry, I must have dozed off. What did you say?”
“Just talking to myself.”
“That’s nice.”
“Karen?” She rolls over with a little groan, but doesn’t answer. “Karen. Listen.” She sits up.
“What is it?” she says dreamily. I sit up across from her and take her hands in mine.
“Look around us.” She does but looks at me as if I were speaking in tongues. “We’re on an island in the middle of a tropical sea. There’s a huge storm somewhere out there.”
She just shakes her head and says, “So?”
“This is upstate New York. The nearest body of water is Cayuga Lake.”
“I know where we are.”
“Doesn’t that strike you as…” She waits as I fish for the right words. “I mean, this can’t be real. Can it?”
She looks out into the distance, watching the flashes of lightning grow closer, listening to the thunder. “Don’t think about it. It’s real for us. That’s all that matters.”
A blinding net of lightning flashes just off shore followed by a huge clap of thunder. We both spring up as the rain starts. “We better get out of here,” I say looking around me.
The rain attacks us in sheets. Karen kisses me tenderly and says, “I love you, Don.” I reach to caress her face, but before I can she reaches out and takes my hand and gently touches it to her breast, and without warning dives back into the restless sea. The waves swell in an embrace, pulling her out into the open water, but drives me back away from the shore and farther inland as the fierce storm erupts around me.
I desperately search the rocks, blinded by driving rain and sharp tongues of lightning. The storm drives me away from the shore and into a thick forest where I find eventually my clothes, dripping wet, hanging over a tree limb. I dress quickly and follow a nearby path. The storm diminishes to a light shower, and finally a murky drizzle by the time I reach the patio of the West Wind.
The outside light barely manages to pierce a late afternoon fog. I find the patio screen door and enter the dining area; the table has been set for the next morning. The house is quiet and enveloped in a tense darkness. As I walk into the somber living room I find Wendy, packed bags at her side, sitting on a large, country divan. She stares at me without expression behind a wall of tired, red eyes.
“Take me home,” she says in a dead voice.
Standing there dripping wet over a slowly growing puddle under my feet, I fumble for words. “Wendy, I’m sorry, we just went for a short walk…”
“That was eight hours ago. What were you two doing for eight hours?”
“We kind of, got lost.” I want to say more, tell her about the ocean, the storm, and the island, but it would only sound like an excuse, and a pretty piss-poor one at that.
Outside, Karen and Jim are screaming at each other. Wendy stares at the floor, her eyes darting to the rhythm of words “whore,” “bastard,” and worse. I hear a loud slap, one car door slams, and then the other. A racing motor screams out curses; rubber chews a path of betrayal over the wet pavement. I run to the window and catch a fleeting glimpse of Karen’s face, and watch as receding tail lights steal her away.
Wendy leaps off the couch. She pulls me around and demands an answer. “I asked you a question. What were you doing for so long?”
I start to answer, but she interrupts me before I can get the words out. “You slept with her, didn’t you.”
I look into her eyes for a long time as my mind replays making love with Karen. Finally, I turn around and look away. I can’t answer her. I know I don’t need to. |