Sex and Death in the American Novel (32 page)

“You've got to be kidding.”

“I need to reread this,” he said. “This is a great excuse to do it. I'm on vacation.” He carried that brick of a book with him in his backpack everywhere we went.

A few days after he arrived I drove him out to Montana, the cabin on Holland Lake. I showed him my father's office.

“Can I try it?” he asked, sitting in front of my father's orange Olivetti.

I rolled my eyes and closed the door. I unpacked the bags from the grocery store and started a dinner of hamburgers and salad before he came out with a shy look on his face.

That week, if he wasn't in bed with me, he was paddling around the lake in the old red canoe, reading on the porch, reading in front of the fire with a pencil in his mouth and his brows furrowed—flipping several pages back, folding corners of pages—or lying in the sun reading with the book shading his eyes and a faded beach towel rolled under his head.

Each day that I watched him, his face reflected a deeper level of contentment. In the mornings he would sit by the window sipping coffee, munching a bagel and reading with the sunlight streaming through the windows, highlighting the lengthening stubble along his jaw and cheeks.

He adopted a morning routine of collecting twigs and branches from the nearby brush and arranging them by size near the fireplace. After I showed him how, he split logs with a scarred wooden-handled axe. It turned
out that those long arms and enormous hands were good for more than pleasuring me and pounding on a keyboard. He stacked the wood on the porch. At night he put himself in charge of making the fire.

He reminded me of a three-year-old I babysat in high school and wanted to do everything himself. He insisted on learning how to tie his own wooly buggers even when I told him the most effective way to catch a fish was with a worm.

Sex, as always, brought me closer to him, but I felt even more surely that something wasn't the same with him. He was more intense, if that were possible; he wanted me to tell him minute details about my life, and he began to show a scary level of interest in how I worked. He even listened to
Marilyn
and
Lords of Acid
on my iPod. Once he said, “Definitely not Stravinsky.” He continued to listen to it as if he could find some new truth in there.

Since I'd known him, he couldn't do anything else until he got at least five pages written. Five pages, an arbitrary number, but it was his, and until now it had been something he didn't deviate from. Now he got up in the mornings, went outside, wandering around drinking his coffee, or laid in bed with me. I had begun to worry that my constant ribbing about him not having a life was the cause of him giving up something that he loved. I didn't want that on my conscience.

One evening, I made us tippy canoes: hot dogs with chili, chopped onions, and cheese, which we ate on the porch to watch the day's tired sunshine fall to slumber beyond the tree-lined horizon. We smoked and I sat sipping hot chocolate while he worked through one of several bottles of Guinness.

“How come you don't write in the mornings anymore?”

“This is much more satisfying.”

I don't know why, but I knew my next question would alter his mood. “How long have you not been writing?”

He set the bottle down. “Why are you grilling me about this?”

The wind ruffled dark tufts of hair at the top of his head. For a long minute I sat listening to the winds blow through pine branches, the creaking of the chair he sat in, and the regular drumbeats of blood in my ears. I wanted him to say something else, but he continued to look down. I studied the worn gray wood of the porch until I couldn't stand it anymore. “I just don't want to be the reason you stop writing.”

He laughed a long laugh that made me feel silly and relieved at the same time. When he stopped he said, “I'm tired, Vivi, that's all. I have written every day, and I mean
every day
, since I was seventeen.” He made a show of counting on his fingers. “That's like nineteen years. I want a break. I need a break, and you're about the best excuse to take one I can think of.” He
reached out with one hand and stroked the side of my head, mussing my hair and fingering my earlobe.

“What if all my jabs at you taking yourself so seriously changed something important about you? What the fuck do I know anyway?”

“You're wonderful, Vivi, but you're not that powerful.”

“You're the guy who wrote all these important words that my mother and the others creamed themselves over, and now you give it all up to fuck around with me?”

“You can't be serious…” He reached for my hand before I could pull away.

I stood up. “And then what if you can't get it back, whatever it is that made you so brilliant?”

He pulled me to him and pulled my face to his. “Then I will live happily ever after.”

I burst into tears. Just like those simps in the movies. Just like my mother used to do. Just like the totally clueless, out-of-her-league porn writer that I was.

“Vivi, for God's sake, I'm having the time of my life.”

The way he said this was reassuring, though I couldn't shake the feeling that I was missing something big. “You're changing.”

“What's wrong with that? Don't I get to decide who I want to be? Do I have to be a prodigy forever? What if I want to be like you?”

I laughed at the thought.

He called Alejandro the night after we got back and asked him to come out with us. We met him at Tango on Capitol Hill.

“So what's the deal? It's Saturday night and you don't have a date. Did you finally wear out your welcome among the young faculty?” Jasper asked.

“More like you gave me no notice.” Alejandro opened his eyes wide for emphasis.

Jasper talked for a while about his adventures in the woods. “I caught a fish! A one-pound Rainbow Trout!” He turned to me. “What was it, like, five in the morning?”

I nodded, glowing just to watch him turn into a kid again. He regaled Alejandro with the details of how he stalked the fish in the dark hours of the morning. His hands moved to describe the way the early morning fog hung over the river, how the woods had an eerie quality knowing he was out there on his own.

He told it like I hadn't heard three times already, how he watched the trout spring from the water to gasp at tiny winged creatures hovering above the fast moving water, how their bodies made a definitive splash each time
they landed on the water. The waiting went on forever and he was grateful for it. With his arms over the table he demonstrated how he cast over and over again. He set the scene, speaking low, as if he were still stalking the fish. He explained how he'd gotten the small black mass of threads and steel—that he had tied himself—to land at a bend in the stream, beside the chaos of fast moving water. When Jasper described how he hooked the slippery, iridescent creature, I turned to gauge Alejandro's level of interest and found him already watching me.

When Jasper tired of explaining the merits of hand tying one's own flies, chopping your own wood for heat, gliding across the lake under one's own power and eating something for dinner that you had caught yourself, he asked Alejandro if he was ready to move back East yet.

“Nope. I doubt I ever will. I can hit Steamcon, see almost any team play the Mariners if I wait long enough, attend a great variety of concerts or shows, get on a plane to anywhere I need to go whenever I need to go, and right here meet people from all over the world. Plus I work somewhere that values what I have to offer.” His eyes moved from Jasper to me and back.

Jasper held up a toast and said, “To finding your place.”

While we talked we picked over plates displaying dates wrapped in bacon with tangy red onion, exquisitely spicy sausage and meatball dishes, crispy green beans, and perfectly cooked asparagus mixed with artichokes, peppers and zucchini.

When dessert came Alejandro poured the remainder of the bottle of wine into my glass, a hefty amount, far too close to the rim.

“You guys have to help me finish this,” I said.

He shrugged, taking a gulp and passed the glass over to Jasper, who took a stab of orange-infused “three milk” cake before the swig of the wine. The communal chalice.

“I want to see Neighbours again,” Alejandro said. “Not much went on the last time I was there, inside at least.”

“Saturdays are different than Tuesdays.”

We left the restaurant at about 11:30 p.m. and drove up the hill, parking on the street across from the alley. When we were walking down the alley, I let my eyes linger on Alejandro's face under a street lamp. I remembered the way he beamed at me when I told him about
Boy in a Box
the last time we were here, and I wanted to tell him how grateful I was that he believed in me so enthusiastically. The next moment I turned and Jasper was watching me. It was not jealousy I saw in his eyes, but understanding.

The club was packed as I had hoped. It was harder to dance when it was so crowded, but the energy was high; a light was on in everyone's eyes. Jasper and Alejandro checked the coats while I hopped onto the stage when I saw there was nowhere on the floor I would be able to move. A song played I
hadn't heard for years and when I moved to it, it felt like I was on top of the world.

A while later I found the two of them deep in conversation by the stairs not far from where Jasper stood that first night. Later they came over and watched me, sipping their drinks while I danced, focusing on them both, feeling brave, unstoppable, eyeing Alejandro with a serious, heavy look, then moving my eyes back to Jasper's, who laughed, tipped his head down and shook it as if to say I was incorrigible.

I spun around twice on the balls of my feet; the music demanded at that second something dramatic and fast, and when I looked back they were further away. In the mirror I saw them talking with their shoulders bent towards each other.

I hopped down, strolled over and looked in the opaque plastic cup Jasper held and saw only ice cubes. I removed the cup from his hand and set it down and took him by the back of the neck, loving the way the short hairs at his hairline felt against my bare palm. His skin was still dry; I wanted to feel it get slippery under my direction.

Lights in the floor changed from pink to blue to white. He looked down at me; I wrapped both hands around his shoulders and pulled him with me. He dipped his head and I lay mine back, while he slid his cheek along my neck, to my chest, and back up again. I caught his breath across my bare chest right before he rose back up. Alejandro crossed his arms and leaned against a pillar and gave me a smile. His eyes had that soft look again, and I didn't feel bad leaving him. A high-energy song came on, familiar to everyone since the singer had been on
American Idol.
The entire crowd bounced up and down shouting along with the chorus. Jasper stopped to watch a gaggle next to us thrash and flip their hair around.

Jasper scanned the crowd with his eyes, his feet hardly moving. I moved my hair over one shoulder and ran my hands over the front of his body, and felt him stiffen as he always did; anything overtly sexual in public still caught him off guard. Like a slap, it redirected his attention and he was once again focused on me. He moved closer, the scent of his hair and the stubble on the skin of his face against one side of my throat added to my sensual high. When I looked up, Alejandro danced before me. I took one of his hands, keeping him separate from me, laying my head back on Jasper's shoulder, letting him brush his lips against my ear, then focused my attention on Alejandro who moved so differently from Jasper, his hips and legs moving in time, smoothly. The sloping muscles in his chest and arms stood out in the tight red shirt he wore under the respectable button down from earlier in the night. I liked to imagine he had already planned a night out dancing while we sat at dinner. In his short-fingered hand he held a
fresh drink, something pale green with ice cubes. He lifted it to my lips and I took a long salty swallow. Jasper drank the rest of it.

We danced for a while and I got a shiver every time Jasper turned me around and spoke low in my ear under the current of the music.

When I faced him again, Alejandro ran his hand under his shirt to cool himself until part of his torso was exposed, and I caught sight of a wide expanse of dark skin, and thick ridges and narrow valleys of his abdominal muscles. He smiled, following my eyes. When I looked up, there was a change in his face, vulnerable for the first time ever. His eyes were soft like always, but the set of his jaw and mouth was different. I looked him directly in the eyes and ran my tongue along my bottom lip. I backed toward Jasper and raised my eyes to the disco lights above, flashing here and there, bright, letting my eyes fall on the now semi-clad bodies on all sides of us. Vibrating, humming, beautiful life forms in full celebration of their existence. I closed my eyes and let the rhythm and energy flow through me.

When I opened my eyes after a few minutes, my head was turned to the side and Alejandro's smaller, darker-skinned hand rested over Jasper's. My eyes locked on Alejandro's. A strong, warm finger wrapped over mine and I knew this was him. I bit my lip, and his expression didn't change, still intense, only he tipped his head down an inch, moving closer to me.

The way they looked at each other suggested more than friendship; the way Alejandro looked at me suggested he thought about me more than that as well. Nothing was stopping me from taking them both home with me. My stomach gave an anticipatory flip until it hardened into fear. What if Jasper changed his mind? I hoped he would see this through and tried to remember how much he had had to drink.

I turned, slowly so that both of their hands stayed on my hips. I wrapped my arms around Jasper's neck while backing up to press against Alejandro's legs and chest. I gazed into Jasper's face, checking the expression, the loose facial muscles, and the way he let me fall into him. I rose up on my tiptoes and let my lips brush over his; he pulled back, searched my face, then leaned in and exerted that soft but singular pressure he did on my lower lip, giving me the sensual zing he knew I loved. I kissed his neck, let one hand move backward to grasp the tight hip moving behind me. Despite the incredible energy, Alejandro was still dancing, moving to his own rhythm with the music. I knew I had to guide him, keep him close, or this would fall apart. I turned again, one hand still on Jasper's neck, arching my back and feeling Alejandro's gaze as tension grew in the air between the three of us, dying to see what would happen next. I pushed away thoughts of anything but his dark eyes and clay-carved lips.