Little Disquietude (15 page)

"Oh, Jackson," Sophia said, and a tear formed
at the corner of her eye.

Leah kissed her cheek. Sophia smiled at her
and then asked, "What? Yes." She squeezed Leah's hand, and Leah was
glad to be there, not only to witness but to give what Sophia
needed.

The conversation dragged on and Leah's eyes
began to droop. Determined to stay awake, to make love to Sophia,
when the arousal had already pooled between her legs, when Sophia's
fingers were tracing circles on her thigh, she turned on the
television, set it to mute, and watched a talk show. She tried to
mimic the exaggerated faces she saw there in the host and the
participants. She longed for a mirror. She longed to talk. She was
rarely this long in a room with someone without talking. Her jaw
worked. She added dialogue to the expressions.

Sophia covered the mouth of the phone and
said, "I think they're talking in Spanish."

"It's on mute," Leah said.

Sophia furrowed her brow. She went back to
the phone.

The talk show got boring. Leah channel-surfed
before finding the news. She couldn't mimic fires or floods or
stocks going up, but the graphics were pretty enough. She stared at
them.

"Leah."

Sophia shook her. Leah looked over. Rarely
had Sophia said her name. It sounded strange and exotic and
beautiful coming from her lips.

"I'm off the phone," Sophia said.

"How's your brother?"

"Better. He just needed to talk to someone
who understands that he isn't crazy."

"Takes one to know one?" Leah said.

Sophia smacked her side. Then she hopped off
the bed and went into the bathroom. Leah frowned, turned off the
television, and went to retrieve her bag. She'd brought sexy
pajamas--the one pair of sexy pajamas she brought on every trip,
just in case, and she changed into them quickly and put on Chap
Stick and bounded back into bed. Her hair had dried haphazardly,
and she considered lunging for the bag again, and her comb, but
Sophia emerged, wearing a white T-shirt that said
Evita
on
it, and boxer shorts that looked like they had belonged to a man at
one time. Plaid. Leah looked at her legs, as Sophia came over and
knelt on the bed and wrapped her arms around Leah.

"Who were you in
Evita
?" Leah
asked.

"Oh, no one. I just saw it with my parents
and loved it. You know. Theater."

"Of course."

"Madonna," Sophia said.

"Don't cry--"

Sophia cut her off with a kiss, sealing their
mouths together until she seemed sure Leah wouldn't sing. Leah
smiled as Sophia pulled back, and said, "We could..." She slid her
hands down Sophia's back and urged her closer.

"We could," Sophia agreed. She pressed her
mouth to Leah's. Leah opened her mouth. Sophia's tongue darted
inside, small and frustratingly elusive, until Leah put one hand on
Sophia's head and urged her to deeper kisses. Sophia knelt next to
her, and put one knee between her legs, balancing, and thrust her
tongue between Leah's lips.

Leah went from cold to on fire in a matter of
seconds. She tangled her fingers in Sophia's hair, trading
breathing for kisses, for the touch of Sophia's lips and tongue
that made her face feel flushed and her mouth feel swollen.
Sophia's breasts pressed against her chest, and Leah's nipples
tightened to the proximity of Sophia's body. Leah slid her hand
over Sophia's ass, squeezing, and was rewarded with Sophia's moan
against her lips. Sophia was in perpetual motion, pushing against
Leah's legs, kissing and retreating and kissing again. Her hands
moved over Leah's body freely, but shyly, touching a breast, a hip,
her neck.

Leah wanted to turn her hips into Sophia's,
thrust upward and end it all quickly, before she died of desire.
She twisted and fell back onto the bed, pulling Sophia over her,
their legs still tangled together. Sophia's weight on her pressed
all the right places. She reveled, holding Sophia close, seeking
more. She raised her leg between Sophia's. Sophia yelped.

"Too much?" Leah asked.

Sophia sat up, pressing down on Leah, and
settled her hands on Leah's stomach. She smiled.

Leah tapped the tops of Sophia's thighs. Then
she tugged on the hem of Sophia's T-shirt, pushing it up as far as
she could reach, revealing Sophia's toned and pale abdomen. Sophia
pulled the shirt out of Leah's grasp and pulled it over her head.
She wasn't wearing a bra. Leah settled back on the bed and took in
the sight, until Sophia arched over her, and kissed her.

Unable to see Sophia's breasts, she settled
for cupping them in her hands, feeling their weight. Sophia rocked
against her, biting at her lips, her kisses becoming sloppier, and
Leah could tell--could smell and taste and feel--that Sophia wanted
her, wanted this. She rolled Sophia to the side so she had more
room to maneuver, though she ached with the loss of Sophia's weight
and her body urged her to grind into Sophia, to relieve the tension
and the need, and Sophia, sprawled on the bed, smiling faintly,
half-undressed and rapturous with flushed skin and swollen lips,
urged her, too.

She bent her head to kiss Sophia gently.
Sophia lifted her hand, cupped Leah's face, and kissed her back.
Leah sucked on Sophia's lower lip. Sophia chuckled, taking hold of
Leah's satin top and murmuring, "Your turn."

"Help me," Leah said, and Sophia grinned and
sat up, sliding her hands under Leah's top, caressing her stomach.
Leah arched, and said, "More."

"More?"

"Mm."

Sophia scooted down and pushed up the fabric,
and kissed bare skin.

"Sophie," Leah whispered. Sophia grazed her
side with her teeth. Leah convulsed. She exhaled with force and
hollowed her stomach. Sophia drummed her fingers against her ribs
and laughed, then pressed her open mouth to Leah's stomach. Leah
would have screamed had she the breath.

Leah's bag began to chime, "It's Raining
Men."

Leah did scream, and added, "Fuck you!" but
the phone persisted in its jangle.

"Don't answer it," Sophia said.

Leah sighed. "It's like we're in a movie. But
it's Adam's ring, and it's three in the morning and he knows where
I am. It could be important."

Sophia's expression immediately changed to
one of concern. She relented and released Leah, who fetched the
phone and answered it with her gruffest, "What?"

"I want to go over your song in Act II
again," Adam said, and launched into an explanation of mood and
theme.

Leah listened with half an ear, and went back
to the bed, where Sophia had pulled on her T-shirt and pulled back
the covers. Leah slid into bed, and offered her lips to Sophia.
Sophia kissed her, and Leah murmured against her lips as Adam
chattered on.

"Adam," she said when the kiss broke and he
stopped for breath, "That's what I've been doing."

"But I want you to stand different. And your
face, you have this tic, that needs to stop when you sing this
line--"

Leah groaned.

Sophia rubbed her back and said, "It is the
last night."

"I don't care about the musical," Leah said,
and though Adam squeaked, it felt hollow even as she said it, and
Sophia gave her an indulgent smile. "I'm listening, Adam." She
stretched out on her side, and Sophia settled next to her, draping
an arm around her waist, settling a hand over her heart. Leah
wriggled back, tucking into the curve of Sophia's body. Sophia
snuggled closer.

Leah talked to Adam in low tones, her best
stage whisper, and in their pauses Sophia's even breathing touched
her ears. Sophia was asleep. Well, lucky her, Leah thought. Sleep
would elude her for the next three days, through opening night,
through the party and the elation and the tension of waiting for
the reviews.

She pitied Adam and his passion, radiating
through the phone, and resigned herself to endless late-night
calls. She would bow and success or failure would all be on her,
her voice bringing forth the lyrics, her face bringing forth the
emotion, she didn't have much cause for complaint.

"This is the best night of my life," she
said. And Sophia's embrace, in sleep, tightened around her.

She left Sophia sound asleep and walked home
through the sunny late morning. As she climbed the steps, shouting
came from inside the house. Ward's voice. "I can't take this
anymore, I need to think."

"Since when do I pay you to think?" Adam
said.

Leah opened the door.

Ward saw her and threw up his hands, and
asked, "Well, how was your night?"

Leah cocked her head.

Adam grabbed his bag and passed Leah and went
out the door. He called, "Whenever the divas show up, we'll have
our final dress rehearsal. Don't forget the fucking press will be
there." He slammed the door.

"Don't forget the backers," Ward said, with
his lazy smile. "They'll be there, too."

"Can't forget them. I'm going to shower."

"Gotta wash off your hot night?" Ward
asked.

Leah turned around on the first step and met
his eyes. "I hate you, you know."

"All the better to make you cry."

"Bastard."

"It's all Method. What's your style, trial
and error?"

"A good director," she snapped back.

He smiled.

She bunched her fists and stormed up the
stairs. He was right; Sophia's scent was everywhere. Kisses had
dried on her skin. She'd woken up to Sophia's sweat. In the shower
she scrubbed with Ivory soap, so that the makeup and costume people
wouldn't complain as they primped her, so that Ward wouldn't make
comments when his lips touched hers.

But everything inside her lingered. Sophia's
tongue in her mouth. The warmth in her stomach. The tingling in her
fingertips. Everything Virginia was supposed to feel, that Poe must
have felt, writing down the words. If she carried Sophia to the
stage with her, maybe it would all work out.

She looked at herself in the mirror after
wiping the fog away. She traced the wrinkle at the corner of her
eye. The makeup artist would cover it up. Her dresser would wax her
eyebrows. There were bags under her eyes. Her lips still felt
swollen. She prodded them, and then chewed on the tip of her
finger.

Ward was gone by the time she got downstairs,
so she went back out into the sunshine alone. The modest houses
across the street startled her, the trees seemed indulgent. Never
would she get used to not seeing buildings--those comforts of
civilization. They were doing
Poe
in the wilderness.

And it was sold out.

* * *

The final dress rehearsal had gone
beautifully. Ward was right there with her, present and hateful and
passionate. She'd called upon her voice and didn't miss a single
note. When she sang, the audience had been perfectly still. When
she sighed, she felt them sighing with her.

"We should have an audience more often," Leah
had said to Adam.

"Spoken like a true leading lady."

She'd rolled her eyes. Adam hugged her and
said, "The audience is going to come in from now on. Every day."
She smiled. He kissed each of her cheeks and said, "Twice on
Saturday."

* * *

Leah sipped lemonade. She sat on the front
porch, pretending. Trying to let herself melt into the humid, sunny
evening.
Macbeth
was going on in a few minutes. Leah hadn't
realized that it started in daylight and ended in darkness. The
lemonade rushed coolly down her throat, settled in her stomach,
grounded her.

Poe
had taken everything out of her,
had given it away, and left her feeling hollow, and exhausted, and
so tense she couldn't rest. Adam, despite his pages of notes after
the rehearsal, felt as if he'd seen something come alive on stage.
Something now living. He was so happy. He would give the
judgment--good or bad--to other people. For him, creation was
enough.

No one else was out on the other porches,
though the swings were there, and the lawn furniture, and
children's toys and bicycles and the occasional refrigerator. All
that stuff, waiting to be inhabited. She took a sip of her drink. A
car passed. She raised her glass. The driver waved.

"Neat," she said.

The phone rang. The ring tone was one she
hadn't heard in a long time, obnoxious and jarring, and she'd never
admit to anyone it was her favorite song, or that Grace had covered
it at a benefit, low and smoky, completely belying the original
tune, making everyone laugh. Grace had belonged to everyone that
night, but she'd kissed Leah in the dressing room, with fresh
flowers covering every surface.

"Hello?"

"Leah?" Grace's voice. Leah didn't fall off
the chair, or break into a million pieces. She took a sip of
lemonade. Except for the low, dull anger in the pit of her stomach,
only there if she bothered to search for it, Leah's nerves felt
perfectly okay. She exhaled.

"Yeah. Hi," Leah said.

"Is this a bad time?"

"No, no. I'm just--enjoying the night."

"What?" Grace asked. She had that actress
voice, that Bette Davis darling voice that made Leah picture long
cigarette holders and stage makeup and Times Square. She had three
albums out.

"I'm on the front porch. Drinking lemonade.
Thinking about life."

"My God."

"Yeah, well." Leah jangled the ice in her
glass.

"Look, Leah," Grace said, and that's how Leah
knew she was calling about business. She sighed. Grace continued,
"I did a reading for this thing, last year, this swashbuckler
thing--"

"Hasn't that already been done?"

"Not successfully," Grace said. "Anyhow,
they're doing a three week workshop, looking at launching in the
spring, and I put your name in for it."

"Doing what?"

"A witch?"