Eve's Youngest Son

Jeffery

The room started to pick up the blue hue of dawn. Charlotte was still asleep. Her skin was still tanned from our trip to Florida. Hurricane Season she had said, worried. It was unlike her. I knew something had been bothering her by the way she'd packed for the trip. She'd nervously pulled shirts and shorts from the dresser drawers, hurriedly stuffed them into her suitcase. More like a hospital visit than a vacation.

It was a road trip.

Once everything was in her suitcase, I had walked over to her and put my arms around her. "It's what people like us do."

"People like you maybe." She had half teased. It was true. We both knew it. Despite what I'd like to have believed was humility, I was lucky. I knew I was.

Waking next to her was like everything else I did with her, it was remarkable. Even seeing her tanned arm, over the sheet her hand resting just next to the pillow. I wanted to touch her smooth skin. I always wanted to. I noticed the faded rope bracelet around her wrist; it was weathered and worn and it reminded me of sailing with her the summer before. Charlotte. Pretty Charlotte. I was in love with her. She most certainly was the only girl I'd ever loved. It's a predicament, I thought. It escapes explanation.

I eased myself out of bed without disrupting the blankets or making a sound. Once I was up, I picked my faded jeans up off the floor and slipped them on. It was cold in the cottage, hardly winterized. I turned back to Charlotte then I walked to the closet and pulled a heavy wool blanket from the shelf. It was one of those coarse and thick plaid ones you find in every summer house on Cape Cod. I walked back over to the bed and unfolded it. It was bulky, cumbersome. I spread it over the bed and she stirred a little. She turned to me and when she did I saw the whiteness of her skin where her bathing suit straps had been. She was half awake, "what are you doing?" she shook her head a little to jostle some loose strands of hair out of her face. When it didn't work she tucked her hair back behind her ear. Her green eyes were fixed on me, but I could see she was still sleepy.

"I thought maybe you were cold." I whispered. I walked over and sat next to her.

"Come back in here with me." Her face was so pretty. She had a slight overbite and it made her both cute and sexy.

I bent over and kissed her. "I can't. I have to work. You're tired. Go back to sleep. I'll bring you coffee in an hour."

"You're just going to write for an hour?"

I nodded. I bent over and kissed her. "I'm in love with you," I said. I hadn't planned it. Certainly it was overdue. We'd been together since June and it was already November. I should have told her months before.

She blushed. "Really?"

I nodded.

"I'm in love with you too." She said. "I've been in love with you for a long time."

"I'll come back in an hour ok?"

She nodded and nestled herself under the covers in the warm bed.

It was really freezing in the cottage. When I walked into the front room, the floor felt like ice under my bare feet. There wasn't much of a heating system because the place was meant to be closed up during the winter. It had been built in the 1930s and the clapboard exterior didn't offer much protection from heavy winds or cold; it was meant to be a place of leisure not a refuge. For that reason, it was a different place all together in the summer and that was how I'd convinced my father to loan me the money to buy it. A small summer cottage would be a good investment. It didn't cost that much, really, but it was more than most 25 year olds could afford. It was nothing extravagant but something privileged nonetheless. I loved being there. Even when it was freezing. Even with the beach arctic cold and difficult to traverse. I preferred when the town was near empty and all the summer guests had boarded up their cottages and gone home. That was when real life picked up; that was when I felt like a writer. Having a beer with a couple of locals beside me at the bar in a mostly shut down restaurant. The well worn oak floors visible with the chairs and tables pushed to one side of the room. I loved the nights when I walked alone down the sandy road back to my place, navigating the path through the dunes in darkness. The roar then din of the ocean's sound. I had never intended to stay all winter. The plan had been for me to spend the summer on the Cape, working on a novel and then close the cottage up until the next summer. I had planned to move back to Boston in August, but I never did.

I walked to the back of the house, through the tiny kitchenette and into the mudroom, really a rickety laundry room with a narrow wooden bench. I sat down and put my shoes and socks on. There was a door off to one side that led directly out to the beach. I could hear the wind whistle through the door jam. There was another door leading to what would be best described as a closed-in porch. The realtor had repeatedly referred to it as a three season room. Obviously, winter was the one season it was unusable.

I kept the firewood in that room. The three season room. I'd realized by late Fall that it would be smart to have a lot of firewood on hand to keep the house warm if I got snowed in. I stood for a moment and looked out the long row of windows. They were gritty and sticky from the salty water and sand. I was close enough that when I exhaled the condensation fogged the panes closest to me. I wiped the glass and stared out at the beach for a moment. The wind seemed to shake the whole room. The ocean roared as it always did, in a rhythmic and predictable pattern. I watched the waves approach the shoreline then retreat. The water looked gray, as did the sand in the early dawn light. Just before each wave broke, an almost translucent green rose from the mass of gray. When the waves crashed, a white mist sprayed up and stayed suspended for a few seconds. I had the urge to put a jacket on and take a walk, just to be a part of the morning. Even in the few minutes since I'd gotten out of bed, something dramatic was taking place. The sun was pulling itself up from the ocean, forming a ribbon of fire just on the horizon. The clouds sat in different layers with orange glow breaking through in some places. Pale clouds reflected the light and in other places were dark and shadowed, arranging the sky in variations of gray, white and ivory. Brush strokes. The scene through my window was a painting. I thought of my father. His talent was a rarity. All my life, his paintings had shocked me; they drew me out of my consciousness and every single time –I thought I wouldn't but I always did—I'd come to see the world differently.

I picked up an armful of wood and walked back into the main part of the house. Being in the cold sunroom made the rest of the house feel warmer. It gave me some hope that the little electric panels along the floors were doing something. I tossed two logs into the pot belly stove and threw in some kindling. I crumbled a few pieces of newspaper and tossed those in too. I picked up the box of matches from the wooden shelf on the wall to the side of the stove. When I threw the match in, the crumbled newspaper caught fire, the flames rose quickly and a bright orange glow emanated from within. I shut the door of and checked the flue.

By the time I'd finished making my coffee the house was legitimately warm. As the room heated up, condensation had formed on the window panes. I carried my coffee to the second bedroom—a room I'd set up as my writing space. I had a antique desk I'd bought from a local lawyer after he'd retired. Over the summer I'd built bookshelves along three of the walls. The third wall had two large windows facing the ocean. I placed my desk in facing the view. It was the perfect place to write. I sat down and took a sip of coffee and let out a breath. It seemed right. Everything. Charlotte, the warm cottage. Looking out over the Atlantic ocean, the desolate beach. There was nothing more to want.

The phone on my desk rang . I looked at it for a moment and on the second ring I answered.

I lifted the receiver. "hello?"
"Jeffery, how are you darling?"

"Mom. I'm good. Although I think I'm the only twenty four year old man who still talks to his mother three times a week."

I smiled into the phone. I liked her. I liked talking to her.

"Sweetheart, if I'm bothering you—"

"It was a bad attempt at a joke. How are you?"

She inhaled deeply, taking a drag of a cigarette. She sounded a little breathless as she spoke through her exhale, "You're the only one of my children I can have a pleasant conversation with."

"Don't say that. I feel guilty when you say things like that."

"You shouldn't. I didn't say I didn't love them."

I ran my fingers over the keys of the typewriter, gently so as not to hit a key, just feeling their smooth surface.

"So, what is it like in Cape Cod in November?"

"It's very cold. Freezing."

"Why are you staying in a summer cottage this time of year?"

"It's a good place to write."

"I can understand that. How's that girl you're seeing?"

"Charlotte?" Somehow the mention of Charlotte caused me to feel as if I were still an adolescent. Likely it was that I'd just told Charlotte that I was in love with her. Or maybe it was my mother's interest in my relationship. "She's doing really well too."

"If you're coming for Christmas you could invite her. I'd like to meet her. I really would. From what you've told me I think I'd really like her."

"I know you would."

"It's so wonderful to fall in love."

"I didn't say—"

"I know, I know you didn't . I don't know why I jumped to that conclusion. You've been seeing her a while that's all. I guess I want you to be in love. I was already married by the time I was your age." There was a long pause. "Not to your father, you know that."

"I know. It's all right."

"I didn't meet your father until a little later, but—" she stopped herself. "I feel like I've backed myself into a corner and I don't even remember what I was talking about." She laughed.

"I do love her." That was the second time I hadn't expected to announce that. It must have surprised my mother too because there was a pause.

I looked out the window, kept my eyes on the shore. There were several seagulls skittering around the wet sand where the ocean was retreating in low tide. They scurried and then flew off each time a wave approached and when it withdrew again, they'd return.

"Sweetheart, that's wonderful."

"You'll meet her. She'll love you." I changed the subject, "How's dad?"

She didn't say anything for a moment. There were so many ways dad could be doing something wrong.

"Is everything all right?" I asked.

"Oh of course." That was all she offered.

"Sounds like something's going on." I pressed.

"No. darling. Really. He's doing well. He's very excited about this series he's working on. I told you that he's only teaching part-time now?"

"No, you didn't tell me that."

"I don't know how I forgot—so he has been setting up a studio of his own, outside of the art institute."

"Is he quitting his job?"

"No of course not. He still teaches, as I said and has his studio there. You know he really wants to retire early. It's not as though he's so young any more. He's always wanted me to travel with him. I'm planning on it, but I don't like to travel."

I laughed. I wasn't sure what was so humorous. My mother was a very strong woman and she had her own life and career; it wasn't that. It was because she always did whatever my father asked of her. It seemed to me that when it came to her relationship with my father, she was helpless. I'd never be able to describe it accurately, but she had a blind spot. Instead of trying to see it, she just rose to become what he wanted and every time she did, he'd take her light from her.

"Why are you laughing?" she asked.

"If you don't like to travel—"

"That's not what I meant. Besides, he won't retire for a while."

"Sounds like he's semi-retiring already."

"I don't know what he's doing." She took another drag and I waited while she blew it out. "Have you talked to Clara or Charlie?"

I shook my head, lifted a pencil from a cup on my desk. I tapped it quietly on the desk. "No. I don't think Charlie's interested in staying in touch with me."

"Why would you say that? He's busy. He and Peg just had the baby. They're busy. You should go to Connecticut and see them. It's not so far.'

"I just said he doesn't want—it doesn't matter. I haven't spoken with Clara." I didn't know why I'd lied to her. Clara hadn't asked me to avoid the subject with our mother; I just knew that Clara had a lot of problems. I also knew that she had so much anger towards mom. Their relationship was so strained. And, then there was the matter of Clara's lover. A woman. A political science professor at Berkeley. I honestly didn't care so much about the homosexuality. It was just Clara. She was always high or about to get high or drunk. When she was at home, there was no way to predict what she would do. She seemed to have so much anger and no self control.

I lied. "I don't talk to Clara very much."

"No. I don't very much either. I worry—anyway, the reason I'm calling is to make sure you're coming for Christmas. I was wondering if you could ask her."

"You're wondering if I would ask Clara?"

"Would you?"

I let out a breath"If you want me to."

I knew in the silence on the other end of the phone my mom was crying. Clara had completely rejected her a long time ago. My mother was heartbroken.

"You don't have to ask her." She finally said. She sounded tired.

"I'll ask her mom."

"I'd like for us all to be together. I don't remember the last time. I don't know if we ever did  all spend Christmas together again once daddy and I got back together. I know we haven't."

"No. I don't think so. I don't remember us all being together."

"You're always here darling. I love you for it. Charlie usually goes to Peg's family's but this year they're bringing the children here to Chicago."

"I'm surprised Charlie would do that--be with dad, I mean."

"He knows how much it means to me."

"It's just surprising."

"Do you think you'll bring Charlotte?"

"I'll ask her."

"All right darling. I'm sorry I ask so much of you."

"You don't ask anything of me. I love you."

After my conversation with my mother ended, I picked up my manuscript. I only had two chapters, although I'd outlined the whole thing; the closet door was a collage of scenes, chapters, ideas; all written on small squares of paper. I slid the stationary box with my two chapters closer to me. I removed the pages. They were light, only forty pages or so. The scenes had been moving in my thoughts all night. That was what had awakened me so early. It was the girl in the story. Nancy. She and George --the protagonist-- were swimming in a murky lake, it was nighttime. A half moon above. A clear night and the stars, pocked the sky so much so that in places it seemed there was no sky. Like a so many freckles disguising pale skin. Something like that. The way the girl moved was captivating to George. How her body looked silky, the part that was under the rusty water, as she moved, her skin picked up the reflection of the moonlight and almost glowed white. On the few instances when somehow their skin touched, the oily the tea-colored water made her flesh smooth against his. It was laborious, holding back his desire for her. His desperation in wanting someone that much with no idea how to go about really having them. It was a memory, just a moment in time. Really, in George's life it wasn't all that significant of a night, but it perplexed him and preoccupied him for years after. Swimming with Nancy. When the thought of her rose to the surface, it was upsetting to him. So much so that George began to believe that something else must have happened that night. An event that he must have pushed down into his subconscious. Something that had picked up where their time in the lake together had left off. And it was true; he didn't recall any event after the memory of her pale breasts; his eyes unable to look away even after he flesh was once again swallowed by the reddish-brown lake water. In reality he probably hadn't seen much of them at all, but it was the knowledge that he was witnessing something he wanted—

"You're still working aren't you?" I turned and Charlotte was in the doorway. She had a warm cup of coffee and was wearing one of my button down shirts, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Only two of the buttons were fastened, near the center. She was leaning against the door frame. Her long light brown, almost blonde hair spilling down her shoulders. She wore a silver ring on her right ring finger. I was hammered silver, thick with a turquoise stone near the center.

I took all of her in. Her tanned body and her green eyes with thick lashes. But mostly my mind was fixated on her perfect body. It was difficult to conceive that she didn't recognize the power of her body. It wasn't that I liked her for her body or her beauty. I loved her. I loved her because I was so enthralled with her and when I wasn't in her presence, there was only emptiness. Being with her caused me to recognize that I'd lived in that emptiness before. It made me dread a time when I would return to it. It wasn't just sexual desire. But, her standing there a stream of yellow light now pouring into the room and the small portion of her stomach visible beneath the unbuttoned shirt, it was all consuming. The white line where he bikini had hidden her from the sun was just visible around the bottom of her underpants.

"I'm done for now," I said. "Come in." I turned my chair in so I was facing the two upholstered chairs on the other side of the room. I thought she'd sit on one of the chairs across from me. Instead, she walked over to me. Each step caused the shirt to reveal more of her stomach and legs. She stood in front of me kissed me. I put my hands on her waist. I wanted so much to kiss her stomach, to unbutton the shirt and have there in front of me, naked. But, I didn't want to offend her. I didn't want to hurt her. Hurting Charlotte's feelings was what I wanted to avoid. I wanted to protect her.

"Here," I said. "Let's go sit down." She didn't seem bothered by my suggestion. It was likely she would have accepted an advance from me too. But, I couldn't indulge in her. I didn't want to. I wanted to treasure and savor our time together. It was so innocent and I was so in love with her.

We walked over to the chairs. She sat back on one and put her feet on the table. She kept her eyes on me. She was smiling.

I sat down across from her. "Do I tell you enough how pretty I think you are?"

"You do" she smiled, "you shouldn't flatter me so much though."

"I don't want to hurt you," I said. "I worry about it."

"Don't. I'm not so fragile."

"I know."

"Then let's not hurt each other," she said. I left it light. I wouldn't have been able to explain to her what exactly I'd meant by it. I didn't completely know what I'd meant. It felt like a curse, having a father who had been violent towards my mother. That was years and years ago, it wasn't something I remembered. It was more a family legend. If not for my brother and sister's memories I would have called it a cruel lie. They remembered and they carried it into their own lives. And there I was, an outlier. I suppose that wasn't really true. It wasn't inconceivable to me that my father could hurt my mother even if I didn't remember the events themselves. He was selfish. He was hungry for inspiration. My mother got in the way sometimes.

"My mother wants you to come for Christmas," I said.

Charlotte smiled. She seemed shy. I could see her face turning a little flush. "You want me to meet your family?"

I nodded. "Do you want to—can you? But what about your parents?"

"They'll understand." She said. "I'll bet you have a wonderful family."

"I don't." I confessed.

She smiled. "Why aren't they wonderful?"

I hadn't realized I was staring out the window. I was thinking Charlotte and I should take a walk on the beach. It would be cold, we'd bundle up. The northerly light was remarkable. The sun bright, but amber rather than the yellow of summer. The tide was pulling in. The ocean was still it's winter gray, but it looked almost calm. I wanted to be out with the mist infusing the air with a salty taste and smell. Afterwards, I wanted to throw more wood in the stove, get back into bed with Charlotte and make love.

"Everyone thinks their family is crazy. I know mine is."

I nodded. I looked at her for a long moment. Should I tell her? "Mine is so full of anger. Smoldering and..." I shook my head, "really. It's always there. Ghosts."

She put her coffee down and pulled her hair back with one hand. It was a habit of hers. She'd run her fingers through her long straight hair. She'd twist it and then somehow tie it in a knot. She put her hands back down and shrugged her shoulders, "I'm sorry." She said softly. She rose and before she moved the short distance to me, her sweet lilac scent found me. The pace of my heartbeat hastened when she walked over to me. She stood before me. The worn pale fabric of my shirt grazed her tanned stomach. I reached to her and put my hands on her hips. She was warm and soft. I guided her down to my lap. She seemed nervous, I felt her shoulders tighten a little. She looked down and back up at me. She traced an invisible circle in arm of red upholstered fabric of the chair.

"What are you thinking?" I whispered. There was a moment of silence and in that short time there was an orchestra of sensations. The wind rattled the thin panes of glass, the morning sun touched us both warming my face. Not a glare, rather a swath of heat. It was almost noon.

"I'm thinking about what you told me this morning."

"That I'm in love with you?" I moved a piece of hair that had fallen since she'd tied it back. I tucked it behind her ear.

She nodded and our eyes met. "I'm happy."

Just as her presence peaked my attraction to her. Fueled my wanting her. Her innocence and vulnerability infused my heart with a desire to protect her. All of it was new and just noticing the change in myself confirmed my professions of love.

"Move in with me," I said.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know what my parents would think. It probably wouldn't be anything good."

She leaned into me and put her head on my shoulder. I had my arm around her waist. My hand rested on her thigh. Everything about Charlotte was spectacular and that particular moment was engraved. Time would decide what would become of our love for each other, but that moment made a permanent impression.  If things were to end, that frozen instant would settle into a yearning. If we were to stay together, that moment holding her  in my arms would keep me faithful.