A Long Night's Climb Into Sunlight

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“I tried them one time, but they itch like the very devil. Now I just wear sweatshirts and stay close to the fire. Here we go. I believe I owe you forty-five cents?”

The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas vacation were hectic days of classes, work, and shopping for presents. On Saturdays, I collected and got to know Mrs. Smithers better. She liked to talk. I suppose it was because she didn’t know anyone else in town. My classes were a favorite topic. Since she was a writer, I always had to tell her about my last rhetoric assignment and the topic of my next.

Calculus and physics were becoming more difficult. I’d expected this since Langley High didn’t offer much more than algebra and chemistry. I just hadn’t anticipated how much harder they were to become. Rhetoric came easy for some reason. English had been one of my favorite classes, but we hadn’t written very much other than book reports. I was now writing papers on many different subjects, and was finding that I liked the class more as time went on.

The Saturday before Christmas finally arrived. School had adjourned until the New Year. I would be able to work most of the days between the holidays and make some much-needed tuition money for the spring semester. I had a writing assignment that was troubling me but I thought I had a way out of my predicament. I told Mrs. Smithers about the assignment.

“That’s an interesting piece to have to write. Why don’t you finish it up, and let me look at it after Christmas. I’d enjoy reading something you’ve written. Would Thursday night be all right?”

There would be no problem getting it done before then, and I said as much. I started my research the next afternoon. On Christmas Eve, the pages were filled with words, the spelling was all checked, and I’d read it through for grammar three times. I didn’t want a real author to find some stupid mistake. I put the typewritten pages in a folder and went downstairs to join the family. Sis and I complained when Mom hung up the stockings, but secretly, we both knew it was a tradition that we’d really miss when it stopped. Dad’s eggnog was as potent as ever. Mom didn’t condone drinking by her children, but she allowed one transgression a year, starting with one’s sixteenth birthday. Sis turned in after one glass. I made it through two before the bourbon kicked in and I started to feel sleepy.

Christmas morning dawned on new snow, carols on the radio, and gifts under the tree. It was a great day, but as night drew near, I started feeling nervous. Tomorrow, Mrs. Smithers was going to read my essay. The cockiness of yesterday was rapidly being replaced with fear of ridicule. Sleep came with difficulty; waking was more difficult. I was a little late running my route, and I’d hear about that on Saturday from at least half my customers. They were never up when I delivered unless I happened to be late. My afternoon nap used up some time and eased the strain a bit. After dinner, I drove to Mrs. Smithers’ house.

It seemed odd to park my car in the drive instead of leaving my bike on the walk. It also seemed odd to be dressed in casual clothes instead of the heavy parka and ski pants I’d worn that morning. I knocked on the door.

“Hi Jerry. Please come in.”

The room smelled of bayberry with a hint of wood smoke, and Mrs. Smithers smelled of lilacs. Her small Christmas tree blinked at me with a hundred tiny lights.

“Here, let me take your coat. Have a seat on the couch and we’ll get started. I hope the fire isn’t too warm.”

She sat at the other end of the plush velvet couch and opened the folder. The soft crackle of the fire was the only sound in the big house other than the pounding of my heart. Mrs. Smithers looked up at me occasionally and smiled before going back to my essay. After a couple of minutes of this torture, I started to fidget. She looked up and said, “Don’t be nervous. I’ve never seriously injured another writer before.”

Somewhere, I judged it about half way through, she giggled. A little later, she giggled again, and then again. By the time she closed the folder, she was grinning from ear to ear and trying in vain to suppress the laughter that shook her chest.

“Jerry, may I ask when this happened to you?”

This was going to be difficult. My assignment had been to write about my first kiss. The teacher’s instructions had been met with whistles and giggles from everyone in the class except me. I’d never kissed anyone except Mom and a couple of aunts. That wasn’t the kind of kiss the teacher wanted us to write about. I decided to be honest.

“Well, uh...actually...it never happened.”

“But your title says, “My First Kiss”. It’s a little trite, but doesn’t that mean it should be about what happened to you?”

“Yes, well...I’ve never kissed a girl.”

“Then where did all this...this...stuff come from?”

“Out of the stories in my dad’s magazines. I figured the men who write the stories must have really done it. I read some, and then wrote them in my own words.”

Mrs. Smithers had the deepest, loudest laugh of any small woman I’d ever known. I don’t know how she managed to laugh for so long and still breathe. By the time she stopped, I felt about an inch tall.

“Jerry, I’m sorry for laughing but you’ve a lot to learn about different types of writing. The stories in men’s magazines are fantasies. They’re what men want to believe could happen if they could just find the right woman. What you’ve written is a man’s fantasy seen through the eyes of, well... not a boy, but almost. Any good English teacher would give this paper a failing grade.”

Now I was not only an inch tall, I was embarrassed by my inexperience and gullibility, and was going to fail Rhetoric. I got up and reached for the folder.

“Now, sit back down. The writing’s pretty good; you just don’t know what you’re talking about. Come on now. Sit down. I want you to read something.”

She got up from the couch and walked to the bookcase. After running her fingertip over the covers of a few paperback books, she selected one and thumbed through the pages as she walked back to the couch.

“Here, read this page and the next.”

As I read, pictures flashed in my mind. The deck of a sailing ship, the whine of wind in the rigging, the heaving breasts of a woman wrapped in the captain’s arms, all were as vivid as if I were watching a movie. She melted into a limp body shaken by shivers of passion when he kissed her. The captain lifted her to his chest and carried her down the stairway to the cabins below. At the end of the second page, I looked up at Mrs. Smithers.

“Well, what do you think about that? It’s all about a kiss, just like your paper.”

“I never thought kisses did that to women. Mom doesn’t do that when Dad kisses her. She seems to like it, but - “

“And that’s my point. Romance novels are fantasies for women. They’re fantasies that women like to read so they can imagine themselves in the captain’s arms, or in the gardener’s cabin, or anywhere but scrubbing the bathtub. They’re not real.”

I turned the book over to see the author’s name.

“Well, whoever Abigail Winston is, she sure can make it seem real.”

“Why, thank you.”

“You wrote this?”

“Abigail is my middle name, and Winston was my grandfather. It has a nice ring, don’t you think?”

“Why don’t you use your real name? I’d think you’d want people to know you wrote this book.”

“Romance novels aren’t considered real writing by some publishers, and they won’t even look at a serious work if the author is known for romances. Lots of us use pseudonyms. When I write my great novel, then I’ll use my real name.”

“OK, if I shouldn’t write this assignment like Dad’s magazines, and I shouldn’t write it like your romance novel, how should I write it?”

“You write it like you feel it. Your teacher wants to see if you can make...is it a man or a woman?”

“A woman, Mrs. Randall.”

“Mrs. Randall wants you to make her feel as you felt when you had your first kiss. That’s what writing is all about, making a reader feel what you want them to feel, see what you want them to see, and hear what you want them to hear.”

“I’m going to fail then, because I don’t know any girls who’d kiss me.”

“Oh, I think you might. You know me, don’t you?”

Of all the weird things that had happened in my life, this had to be the most unexpected. I could do nothing but stare. She had to be putting me on. Any second now, she’d laugh, and I could get out of here.

“If you’d rather not, I’ll understand. I’m old enough to be your mother. It’s just that your writing is pretty good. You only need a little research.”

Damn, she was serious.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Jerry. You just have to hold me in your arms and kiss me. It might be easier if we stood up.”

It was like trying to figure out how to pick up a cactus, except instead of worrying about sticking myself, I was worried I’d touch something I wasn’t supposed to be touching. After a few moments of reaching and then pulling back, I dropped my arms to my sides.

“Mrs. Smithers, I don’t even know where to grab.”

“You never grab a lady, Jerry. You hold her gently in your arms. We like that...a lot.”

She took my hands in hers and pulled me to her.

“Just put this arm...around my waist...and this one...across my shoulders...and now I’ll put my arms around your neck. See, it’s not so hard, is it.”

I was looking down into her eyes, beautiful brown eyes that sparkled, deep eyes that pulled me into their depths until I started falling. She smiled and little wrinkles formed at the corners. Her eyebrows bent in concern.

“Jerry, are you all right?”

“Yes, Mrs. Smithers, I’m OK. I’ve just never been this close to a woman before.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t bite. Are you going to kiss me now?”

I bent my face quickly to hers and bumped her nose with mine. She pulled back, rubbed her nose, and giggled.

“You need to take things just a little slower.” She gently cocked my head. “Turn your face a little, and I’ll do the same. Now just put your lips against mine, very gently.”

I’d always suspected that kissing was overrated, because the guys talked so much about it. They tended to exaggerate everything having to do with girls. My first thought was they hadn’t said half enough. My second thought...well, I really didn’t have a second thought. I was too busy experiencing the incredible softness of her lips, the brush of her nose against mine, and the feeling of her breasts against my chest as she pulled herself into me. Five seconds before, I didn’t understand why everybody made so much out of mashing their faces together. Now, I wanted to keep kissing Claire forever. She let me savor the sensations for a few more moments and then pulled her face away.

“So, was that like you read in your Dad’s magazines?”

“No. Mrs. Smithers, that was...I don’t know how to say it.”

She pulled herself against me in a little hug.

“You’d better figure out how to say it if you want a good grade. And please call me Claire. Mrs. Smithers makes me feel ancient. Now, go home and write about how it felt, bring it back when you come to collect, and we’ll see how you did. Oh, I’d better wipe off that lipstick or your Mom will have a fit.”

Claire liked what I wrote. She suggested I change a couple of things, but said it should do well just as it was. She was right. I got the paper back on Friday with an “A”. The scribbled comment was:

“Mr. Wingate, this is an excellent piece. It is not often that I get swept up by anything my students write, but this work is a wonderful exception.”

That paper marked a change in my life. Reading anything now meant looking for the things Claire pointed out when she looked at my assignments. Our friendship grew closer that day. At first Mom was hesitant about me seeing Claire. After they met, she understood our relationship, and accepted, if not condoned, my evening trips to 140 High Street. Rhetoric assignments were given on Friday and due a week later. Our “editor’s night” was Wednesday at seven. Claire would have coffee and cookies. I’d show her the latest assignment, and we’d discuss it. She had a way of rewording the things I learned in class into language that I could understand.

May was almost gone, as was the second semester and Rhetoric 102. I was certain my teacher had a touch of sadism coupled with chronic insomnia. My final assignment had to have been dreamed up by such a person with too much time on their hands. The three thousand words were to describe an evening sunset in a rainstorm.

I banged away on my old typewriter every night. Passages that seemed brilliant in the writing became wadded up balls of frustration upon being read. On Sunday night, I tossed the beginning. On Monday night, I put it back and changed the ending. By Tuesday night, I was sick of proof reading, but was satisfied Claire wouldn’t find too many things to change.

My meetings with Claire were bright spots in my life, and I was happy as I walked up her steps. I was happy when I knocked on the screen door. The woman who answered the knock took all that away.

Claire looked old and tired. She didn’t even speak; she just motioned me in. The light robe swirled in a spiral around her naked legs when she turned and walked back into the room.

The living room was surreal in the flickering light of two candles on the mantle. Claire was slumped over on the couch. I heard the soft “tink” of glass tapping glass, the same tink I heard every time Dad poured himself a shot of scotch.

“Claire, what’s wrong?”

When she didn’t answer, I crossed the room and sat beside her. The vodka bottle on the coffee table was about a fourth gone. A crumpled piece of paper lay beside it. Claire picked it up and handed it to me.

Telegrams were rare in Langley, but I’d seen one like this before. I didn’t have to read the whole thing. The words “killed in action” jumped off the paper and screamed in my face. It was the same telegram the Marine Captain had brought Jack’s mother.

I suppose it was some innate sense of hospitality that caused Claire to lean forward and tip the vodka bottle at another glass. The look in her eyes when she handed the glass to me was of unspeakable pain. Her face turned back to the dead coals in the fireplace. We sat silently in the half-light until the mantle clock chimed the half-hour.

“Jerry, do you know what the A Shau Valley is?’

“It’s a place somewhere in Vietnam, I think. The paper said there’s a battle going on there.”

“No, it’s not a place. It’s the latest crack in this screwed-up thing I call my life.” Claire’s chest heaved and she sobbed. “Dammit, it’s just not fair. What did I ever do that was so horrible as to cause all this?”

“Claire, I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

I wasn’t prepared for the snap that bit so deep and hurt so much.

“No you’re not. You pity me, but you’re not sorry, not any more than Harry was sorry for divorcing me. Nobody’s ever sorry. It’s not their life that gets ripped to shreds. Their husbands haven’t ever accused them of being a nymphomaniac in court, and then started sleeping with a woman ten years younger. Their friends haven’t ever stopped speaking to them because they happen to write books the same people keep locked in their nightstands. Their daughters didn’t refuse to talk to them after the divorce. Their sons... sniff, their sons... sob, the little boys they raised...they’re still...”

Claire threw her glass into the fireplace with all her strength. She screamed and the heavy glass ashtray followed it and exploded with a sharp ping into flying shards of glass. She was reaching for a small ceramic figurine when I caught her hand. She immediately began to fight my grasp. I finally wrapped my arms around her and held her tight to my chest.

“Claire, don’t do this.”

She sagged against me, put her face on my shoulder and began to cry. Mom seldom cried. Sis cried all the time when she lived at home. Neither of them had ever cried like this. I sat with her until the almost animal wails died away to shuddering sobs, then sniffs, then only quiet, deep breathing.

“Jerry, I’m so sorry. I told myself I wasn’t going to do this tonight. I wasn’t even going to answer the door. When you knocked, I realized I had to have someone to talk to. You’re the only real friend I have in this town. I didn’t mean to blame you for everything like I did.”

“I know you didn’t. I understand how much you must hurt inside.”

“I can’t figure out how I’m supposed to feel. Tony’s gone. I know that and it’s tearing me apart. I need to hurt someone or something back, but I can’t without hurting myself even more.”

“If I were Tony, I wouldn’t want you to do that. I’d want you to miss me, but I’d want you to go on being the person I’d loved and needed. I’m sure he’d want that too.”

I could see the tears welling up again. Claire’s lower lip quivered as she spoke.

“Nobody loves me... and nobody needs me, not now, not since...since Tony’s gone.”

I don’t remember thinking about it; the words just spilled out.

“I love you.”

Later in my life, I began to understand the power of emotion over mortal flesh, but I first learned of that power that night on Claire’s couch. She smiled through lips twisted in anguish, and then kissed me. She kept kissing me while she pushed me back on the couch. I realized she was lying on my chest and gently pushed her up.

“Claire, I -”

“Jerry, don’t. I’m not drunk. I know you love me, in a special way. I love you in that same way. I just need to be needed again, if only for tonight. Please...need me.”

Before I could answer, her lips found mine again. I felt them part. Her small tongue slipped over my upper lip and teased it open. A slight suction pulled at my mouth as her lips softly mouthed mine. On one so inexperienced as I, the effect was beyond comprehension.

Her arms released me and she raised to her knees. A tug and a slow shrug left the robe lying in a soft mound on the floor. The soft candlelight turned her naked body a warm, glowing pink. I felt fingers opening the buttons on my shirt and pulling the tail from my pants. The same fingers opened my belt buckle and carefully unzipped the fly.

Claire stepped off the couch and slipped off my penny loafers. Her slender fingers pulled my jeans off my legs, and slowly traced back up my thigh. I felt her fingertips slip under the waistband of my shorts and pull them off. She lifted my legs to the couch, and lay down on top of me.

I’d had erections since I was thirteen, and Dad had explained things a little. He didn’t explain the exquisite sensations I was feeling. Everything about Claire was incredibly soft and sensuous. Her small breasts flattened on my chest when she inhaled my lips. I felt soft hair against my cock. Claire seemed to be molding her body to mine. I wasn’t sure what I should do. I started gently rubbing her back and she sighed into my mouth.

As with many experiences that are so moving at the time, the memories have become blended into a feeling that is difficult to relate. I remember being at ease and stroking her hips. I have flashes of feeling her nipples brushing my chest. The feeling of soft curls brushing my shaft are as vivid today as they were then, as is the warmth and wet softness of her kisses and tongue.

Claire was breathing heavily but she kept her lips against mine. The hand that had been caressing my neck and face slipped over my chest, and then between us. Fingertips found me and gently stroked over my length. A soft hand circled me. I felt Claire rise slightly and move forward. An unimaginable softness met the head of my cock. The hand slipped it through the softness and I felt warmth and a slippery wetness. Slowly, ever so slowly, with small in and out motions, Claire sank over me. It was like a wave of heat slowly drifting down my shaft. Heat, wet heat, and a wonderfully soft, rippled snugness shot waves of sensations to my brain. Instinctively, I pulled her close and thrust my hips up. Claire caught her breath in a tiny gasp.

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