Dany
“Let me see this list,” says Jack. We’re sitting on the brand new couch in the downstairs living room. It’s dove gray fabric with lots of black throw pillows. Jack says he picked the colors for Sissy and her monotone love affair.
I pull the list from my pocket. It’s creased and worn. I’ve pulled it out over the past week and studied it, then refolded it and put it in my pocket again. For the past seven days, Jack’s been busy working and I’ve been busy chemo-ing, physical therapy-ing, and looking for a career I’ll love.
But tonight, I’m putting all that aside. Jack and I are going to do another two items on my list. I have my backpack packed and ready. It’s on the floor next to my feet.
“Ride on a bus,” he reads.
“Check,” I say. I make a check mark in the air.
“Go to a dive bar and get in a bar fight.” He raises his eyebrows. “Wait a minute, you planned that?”
“Double check.” I smile at him.
“What else?” He skims the list.
I know it by heart.
“Have a beach wedding?” asks Jack. “You’re still focusing on that guy? What’s his name?” Jack levels a hard look at me. Out of all the items on the list, he has to latch onto the last?
“Shawn,” I say. “That guy’s name is Shawn.”
He waves that away. “I’m not helping with that one.”
I shrug. I don’t have to explain myself to Mr. Jack Jones.
“And what’s the triple X? Wait. Is that what I think it is?”
I ignore his question. I fold the list up. “Are you ready to go?”
He watches as I put the paper back in my pocket.
“Alright. I’m ready,” he says.
At his truck he holds the door open for me. I settle in for the drive. After a few minutes he pulls onto the highway.
“I never knew there was a castle around here,” he says.
“It was built by a nineteenth century industrialist as a pleasure hall.”
“Pleasure hall?”
I can tell that Jack’s interest is piqued.
“Yeah, that’s what obscenely wealthy men did back then. They built country houses and filled them with all the things that were off limits in the Victorian Era.”
“Like?”
“Oh, pretty much everything. They had a lot of rules. No mentioning words like ‘trousers.’”
“Trousers?”
“No eating onions in a lady’s presence.”
“Really?”
“No enjoying, you know, the act. Conjugal relations were something to be endured not enjoyed.”
He looks over at me. My face heats. The phrase “conjugal relations” tastes dirtier than just saying “sex.” Suddenly, I’m aware of how close we’re sitting. How I could just reach a few inches over and touch his hand.
He clears his throat. “I can see why they built these halls. I’d want to get away too.”
“Exactly.” I also see the appeal.
“I mean, I love onions,” he says.
I laugh and he turns to me. “Really?” I ask.
“Yeah. And I can’t go a day without saying trousers.”
“Trousers,” I enunciate.
We settle into a happy silence. I look out the window. We’ve left the city behind. First there were farms. Corn and soy beans. Now we come to a more forested area. Tree branches hang overhead and the sun streaks though their limbs, flashing light then dark.
“There’s our exit,” I say.
Jack turns onto a small country road.
It’s funny, but I think my life before was a lot like the Victorian era. My family placed a lot of restrictions on me and my behavior. But after I left home, I didn’t have any excuse. I restricted myself.
Jack takes a few more turns until we’re heading down a washed out dirt road. There are grooves in the dirt and deep ruts. For a half mile, Jack steers over the rocks and potholes.
“Pull over there” I point to an area where the shoulder is mossy and the beech trees are beginning to unfurl their bright green buds.
Jack pulls over and turns off the truck.
I hop out and stretch my arms in front of me. My boots sink a bit into a thick cushion of moss. There are a few birds calling in the forest. There’s a sweet descending whistle and a caw. I try to pick out the different sounds and hear a chickadee. Jack shuts his door and his feet crunch on the gravel as he walks to my side.
We stand for a moment, then, “So. Where’s this illustrious pleasure den?”
I close my eyes and let the shifting light play over my eyelids. The sun streams through the tree branches and shoots speckled light over my eyes.
I flinch.
It reminds me of the fluorescent lights when I was waking up in the hospital.
I snap my eyes open and turn my face away from the pale spring warmth.
“It’s a half mile in,” I say. My voice is short and tight. Jack doesn’t say anything.
I pick my way across the small ditch and scramble into the woods. I wore boots, which is good. My feet sink into old leaves and my wool dress pants snag on little thorny vines. Spiky brown burrs catch on the fabric.
The forest is quiet except for the chickadee and a cawing raven. I step on a dry stick and the snap echoes through the trees. The woods are open, not dense at all. There’s a downed tree with moss spilling over it like a green waterfall. Ferns line shaded areas. A squirrel chatters and leaps ahead of us from one oak branch to the next. As we walk, we kick up the scent of turned over leaves, wet soil, and new grass. I stop walking, close my eyes and breathe it in.
Jack pauses next to me.
He’s so close that I have the urge to lean into him. My eyes are still closed but I can feel the back of his hand running over my fingers. His touch is soft, as gentle as the spring wind caressing my skin. The back of my hand feels more awake then the rest of me. All my awareness is centered on the feel of him, touching me there. The electricity spreads over my hand, up my arm, and through my whole body. I uncurl my fingers and let them tangle with his. His long fingers drift over mine and send a throbbing pulse through me. I hear the sharp intake of his breath. I lean toward him and open my eyes.
He’s looking down at me. His dark pupils have nearly enveloped the gray of his eyes.
“Dany,” he swallows.
“Yes?”
“Look.”
He points. A few hundred yards away, mostly hidden by a copse of beech trees, is the castle. Or the ruin. The castle ruin.
“Wow.” I grab his hand and pull him after me. His legs are longer though, and he’s faster. Soon he’s pulling me.
We make it there, out of breath and full of wonder.
“Would you look at that,” he says.
There’s a rectangular foundation, maybe a foot high, of cut granite. In the far back corner there’s a circular stone tower. It’s probably thirty feet high. A third of the stones have been knocked away. You can see the stairs spiraling along the edges of the tower. I start to walk forward. Entranced.
“It’s like a fairy tale,” I say.
“You’re not climbing that,” says Jack.
I keep walking. It may not have held a princess, but I bet someone looked up from the tower and wished on the stars.
“It’s romantic,” I say.
“It’s a death trap. Not safe—” His words are cut off. The ground disappears beneath him.
“Jack!” There’s a loud boom. Then the soft ground I’m standing on caves and I scream as I fall.