Bathers and Black Squirrel

I unzipped the tent flap and crawled out, slipped on my sandals, and headed toward the edge of the trees, about forty feet away. Lacey followed. I wondered why until I reached for my cock to take aim.

'Wait! Let me do it!' she said excitedly. She brushed my hand aside and held my cock between her thumb and two fingers. I winced a little when she pushed it down. Just like I winced when I did it myself. 'Okay, whenever you're ready.'

I sighed in relief, relaxed and began to empty my bladder. Lacey moved my cock around, waving the stream like a fire hose. Giggling. My cock gradually softened as my bladder emptied. When the stream stopped, she started to let go. When I told her to shake it a few times first, she giggled again.

'I'm jealous,' she said. 'Guys can just whip it out and go anywhere. No problem. Me? I've got to find a little privacy somehow, get half naked and squat. Feeling humiliated and vulnerable whenever I pee in the woods. And I have to be careful not to pee on my clothes,' she griped.

I just shrugged. I couldn't do anything about Lacey's anatomical challenges.

'Well, thanks for letting me do that,' she added with a smile. 'At least I got to see what it's like to be the other half.'

I'm not sure either of us realized we were parading around naked, at first. Not that it mattered. We were the only ones there. No one could see us from the lightly traveled dirt road. We washed up, brushed our teeth and got dressed before making breakfast. While packing, we noticed a big stain on the inside of my sleeping bag. It couldn't go home like that. I wasn't the only one that used the bag.

After we ate breakfast, we broke camp and drove into Burlington to a coin laundromat. After the bag was washed and dried, we went to my house and hung out for the rest of the afternoon with my mother and my siblings, who adored Lacey. Mom asked if we had a good time when we came in. I'm pretty sure she thought the whole gang had spent the weekend at the campsite. I never saw any evidence she thought or knew otherwise. But my mother was smart. She could well have known and just not wanted to let on she did.

Lacey and I spent that summer much like we always had. We worked together every day until the first hay cut when I joined the hay crew for a week. But some things had changed. We were usually able to finish our assigned work by mid-afternoon. We had the rest of the afternoons to ourselves. We had no trouble finding ways to occupy ourselves. We couldn't keep our hands off each other that summer.

Lacey teased me openly and unmercifully that summer when no one was around. And sometimes when there was but she thought she could get away with it. All day, every day. Probably because she knew she would soon be the beneficiary of my ardor. I didn't hesitate to take some liberties of my own. The first time I ran my hand up the inside of her thigh while she was bent over, she almost jumped over the truck.

We almost got caught twice during June. Uncle Charlie came to get me one afternoon because another body was needed to help move a piece of broken-down equipment. We were only dressed a few minutes after an energetic coupling in the cab of Lacey's pickup. Another time, we hadn't been having sex but had just returned from skinny-dipping when Jerry, one of the farm hands, came to get us because the new bee boxes her father bought had arrived.

We did get caught once, toward the end of July. I had used my lips, tongue and fingers to lick, suck, tongue, and finger Lacey to several overpowering orgasms that morning. Never really letting her come down completely before licking her to another orgasm. It left her shaking, breathless and exhausted. Nearly useless and trembling for most of the day. I grinned like a fool every time I looked at her. She cursed me repeatedly though she practically begged me for a repeat performance a few days later. Lacey also accused me of being a bit too pleased with myself. She was wrong. I was extremely pleased with myself that day.

Late that afternoon, I was sitting on the passenger side running board, Lacey on her knees between my legs. Her shirt and bra off, sucking my cock. Doing her best to make me pay for how I'd left her that morning. She was succeeding. I about to cum, gasping. Too incoherent to speak. Lacey's oldest cousin, Tom, drove by on his golf cart a few rows away from us in the orchard. He stared at us as he drove by. He didn't slow down or stop. Tom barely registered in my brain until after Lacey had sucked me to an orgasm that left me nearly crippled and her coughing from a mouthful she wasn't prepared for.

Tom never said anything to anyone as far as we knew. But he was grinning widely at me the next morning while Lacey and I loaded the baskets and boxes we needed in the garden that morning. After we were in the truck, Lacey wondered aloud why Tom was grinning like the idiot we knew him to be. I wasn't about to tell her but couldn't prevent a small smile. She caught it, quickly concluding I knew something she didn't. She pestered me about it until I finally told her. She turned beet red and punched my arm, wanting to know why I hadn't told her he'd seen us. She pouted for a little while but got over it when I explained he'd already seen us. It wasn't like he'd un-see if she stopped what she was doing. Besides, Tom hadn't stopped to watch. And I'd been incapable of processing anything except the exhilarating sensations she was causing.

Lacey joked later that afternoon that Tom probably jerked off somewhere right after he saw us. His wife was a terrible shrew, always bitchy and in a foul mood. Lacey never liked her. Neither did I for that matter. Lacey once overheard a conversation between her mother and Tom's wife, Alice. Alice was complaining Tom was always after her for sex, but she hated it and did all she could to avoid it.

We were much more cautious after that, though it didn't slow us down. A day rarely passed that Lacey and I didn't manage to engage in some form of sex two or three times during the workday. We also spent many evenings and weekends together locked in each other's embraces. Even on nights when Lacey went somewhere with her girlfriends, we'd often rendezvous before she went home. We did our best to act as if nothing had changed between us, but our parents probably suspected something was up. Lacey and I were rarely apart that summer.

I always wondered if Lacey and I might have ended up together if our respective interests hadn't pulled us apart. Maybe I should have gone to Bard, too. The summer after I graduated from high school was the last summer we spent together. I worked for her father the following summer, but Lacey went to Florence to study. The next summer, I interned at a newspaper in Montpelier while she studied in Rome. That was how it went for the rest of our academic careers. We saw each other at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thanksgiving breaks were always too harried for us to find time alone. We got together every Christmas break for some heated interludes until she went to Paris. Parting those Christmases was heart-rending. I almost didn't go back to school the Christmas I learned she was going to Paris. But she talked me out into returning. She believed we'd inevitably be together again.

Lacey was in Paris for two years. That was when our paths parted permanently. We rarely saw each other after she came home from Paris and gradually lost touch. One of the last times I saw her was at Uncle Charlie's funeral. She was married and pregnant with her first child. I quickly took a dislike to her first husband. He had a drink in his hand every time I saw him over the course of a week. I also didn't like the way he berated her in front of others. I heard he left Lacey a few weeks later, before the baby was born.

I graduated from Johns Hopkins in three and a half years then spent a year at Wesleyan, in their writing program. I finished my formal education with a PhD at Cornell. I bounced around for a few years as an adjunct professor and taught high school English. After publishing several well-received papers, I landed a tenure-track position at NYU.

When the first speaker stepped to the podium, I stopped reminiscing and turned my attention to the service for Lacey. There was no religious service. I sat quietly, listening with interest as several speakers praised Lacey's contributions to the art community in and around Burlington. I had no idea Lacey was quite so active, respected, and popular in the community. Finally, her youngest son gave a loving and funny eulogy.

Among the several hundred people that passed through that day, I recognized the mayor of Burlington from seeing him on the news. The president, provost, and art school dean from the University of Vermont all spoke. One of our U.S. senators made a brief appearance to pay his respects and press the flesh but didn't speak. I knew no one in attendance. My siblings lived in Washington state and California. My cousins all lived in the Boston area and never knew Lacey. My children didn't know Lacey and were scattered about the country. Lacey's only sister died as a toddler, before Lacey was born. Lacey's cousins were gone. Our parents, aunts, and uncles long dead. I left quietly when the service was over.

My phone rang on a Saturday morning a few weeks later. I was in my office working. I had been on a roll since waking before dawn. Finally making progress on a chapter I'd been struggling with. Judith stuck her head in and told me the call was for me. I didn't want to be interrupted but made the mistake of asking who it was.

'A Peter Merritt. Lacey's son?' I heard the curiosity in Judith's voice.

I hadn't met Peter. Hadn't even known about him. I thought the oldest son at the service was from her first marriage. Peter missed his mother's services for some reason. I later doubted he cared, maybe even couldn't be bothered. Lacey's second husband was named Peter. But her first husband's last name was Merritt. The juxtaposition piqued my curiosity.

I said hello but he didn't return my greeting. 'Who are you?' he asked tersely.

'I'm an old friend of your mother's,' I told him. 'We grew up together. In fact, we were raised as cousins.'

'Do you know where Lacey's studio is?' he asked. 'At the house?'

'I've been to the house. I've never been in the studio but I know where it is,' I responded.

'Do you have time to come by?' he asked. He didn't sound like he wanted me to.

'I suppose I can come by. When?' I asked.

'Immediately would be preferable,' he told me.

'I'll be there in an hour,' I told him. His response was a click and a dial tone.

Judith looked at me with a question on her face. Judith knew about my friendship Lacey but hadn't met her. She also knew we'd been raised as cousins but weren't blood relatives. I didn't think she needed to know about our summer of unbridled passion. She knew Lacey passed away unexpectedly. Judith had to be in court the day of the services.

'He wants me to meet him at Lacey's studio. He didn't say why. He was pretty rude,' I told her. 'I'll be back as soon as I can.'

I had to get dressed first. I was still wearing pajamas while I worked. I'm not sure why, but I took my ancient, nearly dilapidated Ford pickup instead of the Volkswagen. Lacey's farm truck had been a Ford of similar vintage, late forties. When I got there, I pulled up to the converted barn I knew was Lacey's studio. A man in his late thirties or early forties came out and met me in the driveway. He was average height, anorexically thin, and had a blotchy, florid complexion like his father. He seemed fastidious about his appearance in a way that was preening and slightly effeminate. Full of nervous energy that made him high strung and jumpy. He didn't greet me but rather led me inside wordlessly. Something had crawled up his butt far enough that he went out of his way to make me feel unwelcome.

Once inside, he led me to a wooden crate about three feet in all dimensions. The top was sitting on the box, slightly askew. It had never been secured. A shipping label on the lid bore my name, including middle initial, and address. There was a large manila envelope sitting on the lid.

I'm Peter Merritt,' he told me. 'Lacey's oldest son. I'm the executor for Mother's estate.' The way he said it was somehow simultaneously pretentious and disrespectful.

'It's nice to meet you.' I made an effort at cordiality and extended my hand, but he ignored it.

'My full name is Peter Adam Williams Merritt,' he said, testily. 'Not Peter Adam William. Peter Adam Williams.'

That gave me a chill. My name was Peter Adam Williams. 'Okay,' I said. I wasn't sure what I could say. But I knew his gears had jammed on that tidbit and hadn't broken free. He was way ahead of me in puzzling over it.

He picked up the envelope and handed it to me. It was unsealed and unaddressed. 'This was inside the box. I've read it already,' he said acidly. 'You should, too.'

Inside was another unsealed envelope, addressed to Pete. It was a birthday card. My birthday was a couple weeks away. Lacey's would have been at the end of the month. We hadn't been exchanging birthday cards. I read the card and suppressed a smile at its good-natured needling. I was uncomfortable with this unpleasant man and didn't want to show my affection for Lacey.

'There's more,' he said.

I looked in the envelope again and saw there was an unfolded, hand-written note. I took it out. It was on a heavy, professional drawing paper.

Pete,

I was very proud of you when I learned you earned your doctorate. But a bit sad, too. I frequently imagined how life might have been different if we had another summer or two together. Or if our respective talents hadn't taken us so far away from each other. I think much would have been the same. But other things surely could have been different.

I want you to have these pieces of me now. I knew you should have them someday before I finished them. I almost gave them to you the day you blundered into my gallery. But I couldn't bear to part with any of them, then. I think now it's time.

These works soothed an aching heart during difficult times. Warmed and thrilled me as I created them. They made fond old memories new again. None but me has seen them. I pray they will be even a little dear to you.

Happy Birthday,

Always with love, Lacey

P.S. I think it's past time you introduced me to your wife. We keep saying we'll get together. Let's not put it off any longer. I'll call you to arrange dinner one night when you know she'll be up. Or I can go to New York with you.

I looked up at Peter. He didn't say anything. He gestured grandly toward the box. I took it as another intentional slight. I lifted the lid off and set it down. There were four artworks of similar size in it. The middle two were the same size. The one closest to me, the smallest. The one furthest away the largest. They hadn't yet been properly packed for shipment. All were framed, but loose in the slots that separated them.

I pulled the first one out and recognized the scene immediately. A watercolor of Lacey and I splashing in the pond in the woods behind the orchard and the apiary. Only Lacey or I would know who or where the figures were. There was no detail to the faces and bodies. But they were unquestionably nude young adults. The second was a pastel. The view was much closer this time, and more intimate. We were in the orchard partially obscured inside the curtain formed by an apple tree crown. I was leaning against the trunk with Lacey in front of me. I recognized the way her naked back, waist, bottom, and legs all flowed to form her graceful figure. We were embracing and kissing. Again, it wasn't graphic. The faces and private parts hidden. The intimacy was beautifully portrayed.

My hands shook as I took the third picture out of the box. It was a charcoal drawing depicting our first tryst on the flat rock. Once again, the naked bodies weren't represented graphically. My face hidden; her's vaguely depicted. But it wasn't difficult to figure out what the couple was doing.

My nerves were nearly frayed when it came time to look at the last picture. I delayed the inevitable as best I could. Before taking it out, I replaced the first three. Peter just watched, silent and stone-faced. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the last picture. It was a portrait of Lacey and I sitting in the stream after our first tryst, facing each other. The view is set like the artist was sitting in the water nearby, the surface of the water formed the bottom of the scene. Lacey is gazing at me longingly. She's caressing my face in obvious affection while I wash her breasts which sit just above the waterline. A black squirrel is in mid-hop as it crosses the tree fallen across the river, downstream from where we bathed.

I could recall every nuance of her breasts from that day as I looked at the painting. This oil on canvas was the most intimate and detailed of the four. The faces were readily identifiable. I recalled the black squirrel when I was at the services. I didn't make the connection to the gallery name until I saw the squirrel in the painting.

Peter spoke for the first time in several minutes. His tone full of disgust. 'The first three are part of a series. That one isn't. It's entitledBathers and Black Squirrel.'

I sighed when I returned it to the box. I was emotionally exhausted when I looked over at Peter. He looked like he had a question for me. It wasn't long before it came out.

'Mother didn't do nudes and erotica. Can you explain these artworks?' Peter asked. His attitude made him sound like a petulant child.

'I can,' I told him. 'I'm not going to. And apparently your mother did do nudes and erotica.'

'There are more than twenty additional works in the series. In various media,' he told me. 'Mostly pastels, and watercolors. Those are media I never saw Mother use. There are a couple of charcoals and three more oils. They're all titledP & L Summer of 72, numbered one through twenty-six. The dates at her signature span more than twenty years.' He hesitated for a moment. 'Are you my father?' he asked impertinently.

I hadn't anticipated the question. Maybe I should have. But I hadn't. I knew the answer was no. I'd have known if Lacey had been pregnant and I was responsible. Mom would have had my head. Uncle Charlie would have taken my scrotum and fed it to his nephew's pigs. I couldn't suppress a smile, which I saw caused Peter's blotchy face to flush in anger. I laughed, which pissed him off even more. 'How old are you Peter?' I asked.

'Thirty-seven.'

'I caught up with Lacey five years ago. Before that I hadn't seen her in more than thirty years. That summer was more than forty years ago. I'm not your father,' I told him tersely. 'Do the math. Or aren't you familiar with the human gestation period?' I would have thought it impossible, but Peter's face got redder. I wondered if his blood pressure had him on the verge of a stroke.

'My father told me he left Mother because she cheated on him and got pregnant from the affair. These artworks and my name suggest you're that man.' He'd been unpleasant and rude from his first words to me on the phone. Peter's overt unpleasantness was irritating enough. Now he was making unfounded accusations.

'I don't know what he told you. Your mother didn't have an affair. He deserted her before you were born. He was an asshole that didn't want to take responsibility for a child.' I saw my nasty retort struck home. I regretted it, immediately. But not enough to apologize to the callous little twit. I was amazed that he had none of Lacey's good humor, kindness, or humanity.

Peter mood got darker but didn't dispute me. 'Then why is my name Peter Adam Williams Merritt?' he asked, petulantly.