Indian Summer

She smiled. "And your father? You were close to him."

He looked down at his hands, tried to hide from the tears he knew would come next.

"What happened?"

"Vietnam."

"Tom, what happened?"

"He didn't come back."

'Oh,' she said, quietly. "So the motorcycle? It has something to do with him?"

"We took a trip, a long trip. Just before he shipped out, in '67. Up the coast, then up to Banff, then back down here, on the way back home. I'm going to all the places we wanted to go to that summer, before time ran out. We took all our tomorrows for granted, I guess? We just knew we'd get to finish that trip someday."

She was holding his hand now, kissing his fingers.

"We ran out of all our tomorrows," he said through his tears. "That's life, I guess. You take it for granted -- until you can't."

"And Mary, your wife?"

He laughed, a mean, derisive little laugh.

"What was that for?" she asked, clearly lost.

"I loved her once, you see, before I really knew her. And I could have. Loved her, I mean. But she held on so tight I could never really breathe."

"You mean she loved you too much..."

"I couldn't grow. There was no room inside her love for anything other than total devotion. Blind devotion. She wrapped her soul around the idea of Us and never let go. She couldn't tolerate the idea that as people grow old, they change. She clung to the remnants of what we had been in our twenties, and she never let go."

"She was in love, Tom."

"Maybe so, but in the end, I didn't know how to love her. Not that kind of love, anyway."

"Kind of love? What do you mean?"

"I guess I don't see love as a 'one size fits all' kind of thing, Mary. I never did. I loved my dad more than anyone or anything else in the world. I still do, as a matter of fact. And I loved my mom. She was a saint, and there's not a day goes by that I don't think about her. And Mary. Her love for me was as pure as..."

"Your love for her?"

He looked away, lost within the implicit denial that hovered in the air, unsaid. Unsayable now, as it always had been. "I was trying to say that her love was different than mine. I have never loved anyone so intensely that the rest of the world was pushed aside, pushed out of my mind."

"And Mary? Was she wrong to love you so?"

"Wrong? How could that be wrong? How could my love for her be wrong? Who makes those kinds of judgements, anyway? And why the Hell would they matter?"

"Does love matter, Tom?"

"Does it matter? No, I guess it doesn't, not really. You're born, you live, you die. You don't get to take your American Express Card with you, and your memories don't mean a goddamn thing after you turn to dust. Whether you lived well or poorly, whether you were happy or not, doesn't matter in the end. You draw your last breath, cry your last tears, and go gently into that good night."

"You seem so certain. Are you really?"

"Hell, yes. Heaven is a fairy tale for little children, an idea used to sell people afraid of the dark on the idea of being good little church goers. Get on your knees and pray little boy, or you'll surely go straight to Hell..."

"So, there's no Heaven? No Hell?"

He chuckled. "I guess I haven't been making myself clear. Sorry."

"So, go with me here, but if there was a Heaven, Tom, what would it look like, for you? Where would heaven be?"

He looked away, looked through the windows of his memories, the warehouse of his experience, and he settled on a moment without hesitation.

"I'd be with dad. On that trip. That time would last forever."

"Not Mary? That seems so sad. Your life, your love, all bound up and sacrificed to a memory. I wonder? Why?"

"Why?" he said. "I'm not sure I understand. I sacrificed my life? Is that what you're trying to say?"

"Yes, of course. You promised to love her, but you never truly did. You wanted to love your son too, I suppose. But did you? Truly?"

"I never said I didn't love her."

"Oh?"

"I said I loved her differently than I loved my folks."

"Oh yes. The varieties of love. Was that your main point? Or were you making a quantitative analysis of love? The quantum mechanics of a sigh, the molecular cohesion of a kiss?"

"You're a world class smart ass, too, aren't you?"

"Misery loves company, Tom."

"I sacrificed all our tomorrows, I guess, on the altar of my practice. Even when she was sick. And when it was all over, I damn near sacrificed my son, too."

"Where is he now?"

"At Stanford. His senior year. I guess you don't keep up with bullshit like football, but he's been their starting quarterback for two years, he's a Heisman candidate, the Big Man on Campus. He'll play pro ball, anyway."

"So, you're protecting him?"

"Yeah, sure, that's it," he said sarcastically.

"You're not?"

"No, I'm not, but it sure sounds good, doesn't it?"

"Does he love you?"

"I don't know. If he does, he's never said so."

"Never?"

"Yup. Not once, that I can recall, anyway."

"You keep looking for an email from him. Why? Have you tried to tell him?"

"I just wanted to let him know I was traveling...on the road. In case he called."

"Does he call?"

"Not in two years."

"You haven't heard from him in two years?"

"Going on three. The end of his freshman year."

"Didn't he come home? For vacations, or weekends?"

"No, he's had girlfriends. He stays with them, or he stays with friends, anywhere but home. I guess someone, the school I assume, gives him plenty of money, so he doesn't need me, not any more, anyway."

"Did money define your relationships?"

"Oh yeah. Doesn't it define all relationships?"

"Tom, does money define our relationship?"

"Are you saying it doesn't?"

"No. But of course you can't see that yet."

"No? You're sure?"

"Yes, I am. If you want to walk off into the hills tomorrow and just lay down and die, that's what we'll do. If you want to ride, to retrace this memory that never was, then I'll ride with you. If you'll let me."

"Why?"

"Because there are no coincidences, Tom. Something brought us together. I know you can't accept that, but I'm here for just one purpose. To be with you, to help you make a choice."

He looked at her and smiled, raised his hands above his head. "Okay," he said. "I give up."

"Give up?"

"You keep invoking some higher power, spoon feeding me this idea of destiny, and yet here I am, the world's biggest atheist. You might as well be trying to convince that wall over there. God? I mean, really..."

"And yet you're still on the same path, aren't you, Tom?"

"Ah, so Rocky and Bullwinkle are pushing me down the path of divine enlightenment? Is that about the size of it?"

"Who?"

"Cartoons. From the sixties."

"Sorry. We didn't have television in Stanford, Montana."

There was a pause in the air, then: "Mr Mann, your table is ready," the gal from the lobby said, interrupting them.

"Saved by the bell," he said.

'That remains to be seen,' she thought, though she smiled at them both as they stood to move into the dining room.

They ate ceviche and paella under candlelight, a gentle fire snapping in the fieldstone fireplace across the room. He stuck with his usual dark rum Collins all through the meal -- though he ordered a bottle of red for her.

And their talk was more restrained now, his mood more subdued, but he kept looking at her from time to time, mesmerized by her simple beauty, her measured movements. She reminded him of a very tall, emaciated Jean Simmons, only with a drill instructor's crewcut. He'd met Simmons when she was older, more than once in Santa Monica, and had always adored her classic beauty, her gentle way of making an important point, and he sensed the same sort of reserve in this Mary. What was it about her? A gentle strength, deliberate and knowing, not impulsive? She seemed to measure her words with care, not use them as weapons, and this was rare when emotions ran deep, as they had in the bar, indeed, as they had since their meeting outside the diner.

But while he appreciated what she stood for, the whole notion that the events of the day had been scripted by some all-knowing deity made his skin crawl. There was an ingratiating smugness in people who held such simplistic views about the workings of the universe, and it was easy to slip into thinking this woman wasn't any different -- yet he was sure she was: feeling his gut, in effect feeling his cancer, had convinced him of that. There WAS something very strange about her, and he was convinced he needed to listen to her, hear what she had to say, so he struggled to really hear what she said about "his path", their talk about his fallow love for his wife, and about the poisoned relationship with his son that resulted.

But he hadn't told her yet about his "infidelity", for that was still how he looked at it, even now.

About the time his son graduated from high school, a few years after his wife, his son's mother had passed, he had fallen for a girl. A nurse, a not-so-young nurse, a seductive woman many of his colleagues had tried to warn him about. She was a headhunter, he'd been told, on the prowl for a rich one, but her charms were unmistakable, her beauty overwhelming, and circumstances one day led him into her arms. She had comforted him when he was down, and within a few days he was seeing her as the way forward. Then he too, after a few months together, had seen through her many disguises, but it was too late by then. His son despised her from their very first meeting, and had hated him for allowing weakness to overcome judgement, but with college starting in a matter of weeks father and son had never had a chance to repair the damage. All that remained was this new wall, a wall where there had once been understanding, even acceptance. The memory of the break was still painful, like a raw wound he feared touch -- hence he danced around it, ignored it, anything but deal with it.

Mary had finished two glasses of wine by the time desert rolled around, so he ordered some Bailey's to finish off the evening, then they walked across the lawn to their cabin and slipped quietly inside.

"I think it's time for a shower," he said, looking at the road grime on his riding suit's sleeves.

She sniffed her armpits, wrinkled her nose. "I think I smell like a goat."

"Good thing I like goats."

"Yes, and I bet you're a horny old goat, aren't you?"

"That too," he said through a grin.

"You feeling UP to it, tonight?"

"Well, like the song says, I get by with a little help from my friends."

"Look at the size of this shower!" she said after she wandered into the bathroom. "Holy-moly!"

"Yikes, you could play handball in that thing," he said when he came in and looked at the huge, tile-lined expanse.

"Interesting choice of words, Tom."

He grinned as he started peeling off his riding suit.

She watched him closely, then started undoing the laces on her boots.

Soon they were racing to get their clothes off, then dancing under the warm water from the shower's six heads. They soaped each other off, then rinsed under the dreamy influence of massaging hands and gentle kisses, and he felt her working her hands over his gut, probing him, but soon her hands moved lower, and she was massaging the area just above his pubic hair when he felt it.

Warmth, an almost electric warmth, spreading from her hands into his groin.

He stood -- transfixed -- under the warm water, as the fire moved from her hands through his belly and up his back.

"Does that feel good?" she whispered.

"What are you doing to me?"

"Sh-h-h...don't ask any questions..."

He put his arms around her lightly, kept space between their bodies so she could do her thing, but whatever it was she was doing was relaxing him in a way he had never known. Then, quite suddenly everything felt different; the muscles in his arms and legs felt stronger, the pain in his gut fell away like a morning fog wilting under the sun, and even his eyesight seemed suddenly sharper.

Her hands moved to his back, and he pulled her close, ran his nose through her hair.

"Are you an angel?" he said at last...

...and then she pulled away from him for a moment, looked him in the eye, though she continued to smile...

"What makes you say that?"

"I've never felt this way before. Not ever."

She pulled him close, ran her fingers through his hair and he felt like even his mind was growing clear, more at peace than it had been in ages. He closed his eyes, accepted this as some sort of gift, and drifted within the probing heat emanating from her fingers...

...then he felt her fingers roaming south, back to his belly, then lower, and she was kneading the head of his cock, encircling the meat with her hands, and the same pervading sense of warmth spread with each stroke -- until he felt himself getting hard.

And even that was different. He felt like pure, molten iron down there. Iron, like the way things had been...maybe thirty years ago, and soon he felt like he was going to explode. She kept kneading him, wrapping her hands around his meat and pulling the head, and he opened his eyes and looked at her, wanting to know who or what this person really was...

Her eyes were wide open, and she regarded him carefully as he stared into her eyes, then she placed her hands around his shoulders and lithely hopped up and mounted him, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling herself deeper. Her head dropped back, water cascaded down her breasts, and she began to gyrate slowly on his cock, driving herself deeper and deeper into this new need of theirs.

Her head snapped forward until her chin rested on her chest, and even with her head so severely downcast she still looked at him, her eyes on fire, then her head tilted quizzically to the side as her orgasm began building. Her motion became violent, fingernails dug into his back, then she placed her hands on his spine and the overwhelming warmth that coursed through him sent him into wave after wave of complete orgasm.

He closed his eyes as the universe turned incandescent; he thrust into each wild gyre, losing himself in the symphony of light her hands sent through the core of his release. He was on his toes, straining to meet the ferocity of her gripping legs, and while he felt the intensity of her orgasm through the heat pouring from her hands, he grew almost afraid he might spontaneously combust as pulsing waves of fire raged through his body.

Then her mouth was on his, her tongue probing his, and the fire spread to his face, down his throat into the core of his disease...and he felt for a moment that all the wayward cells in his body had been transformed into pure, radiantly healthy tissue...but then he knew that wasn't so, that such a transformation could never be. Through these anxious thoughts he felt her begin to relax, felt all the fluids of their release running down his legs, and then onward, into the spiraling darkness below. And yet she moved slowly still, pulsing gently to the rhythm of his beating heart, looking into his eyes, diving through his soul, searching for the truth of his existence.

Then he was aware this woman had been clasped to him for what might have been hours, yet he felt no strain at all. It was as if she was as heavy as the light that poured from her soul into his, and he tentatively tried to lift her from his waist -- but all her weight returned in that instant. She lifted herself from his waist, dropped to her knees and took him in her mouth, held his cheeks in her hands and he felt the heat again, the iron fury building in his groin returned as her mouth encased his shaft. Minutes-hours-days later he felt his orgasm blasting free, flooding into her mouth, and he glanced down to see what looked like gallons of the stuff flowing past her lips, running down her chest.

His knees buckled, he felt himself falling into darkness but as quickly he sensed her hands catching him, and she cradled his fall, guiding him to her side. She lowered him to the tile floor of the shower and let the water run over his body, then she lay beside him and caressed his face.

"That was amazing," he said some time later, looking into her eyes.

She nodded her head, bit her lower lip before a grin consumed her face. "It's so fun. I had no idea it could be so fun."

"I'm sorry about, well, the whole mouth thing."

"What? You mean, your orgasm?"

He nodded his head.

"You're kidding, right? That was the best thing ever!"

"Yeah? Well, you just shot up to the top of the charts, darlin'. From now on, when I think of sexy, I'll think of you."

Her smile deepened as she continued running her fingers through his hair. "Thanks, Tom. That's very sweet."

She was still staring intently at him, a sense of wonder in her eyes, and he felt such peace in his soul. "What would you like to do tomorrow?" he said finally, trying to break the spell.

"Be with you," she said.

"Would you like to go into Jackson?"

"If you do." He tried to stand up but she held him close. "Not yet, Tom. Please, not yet."

"What? Why..."

"Just hold me, Tom. Don't let go, ever. Okay?"

He leaned into her, held her close, and he felt her lips searching for his, felt her breath on the side of his face, then he kissed her. He felt unreal, like his very soul mingled with hers when their lips met, and he felt her hands holding his face, the warmth flooding once again, and suddenly he remembered that other Mary. That Mary, his wife, and how he'd felt the very same on a night not so unlike this one...

'I don't understand,' he found himself thinking.

'Understanding comes with acceptance,' he heard her say, but their lips were joined, their tongues caught in the light of this strange, new dance.

'So, you're in my thoughts now?'

He felt her pull away, saw her nod, then watched as that same grin crossed her face.

"I'm sorry, but I really don't understand what's happening."

"Then accept it."

"I don't know how. What's happening isn't real."

"What do you mean, this isn't real? How isn't this real?"

"People don't do this, Mary! They don't think thoughts to one another, they don't fill another person with searing energy, negate the effects of spreading cancer, and they sure as Hell don't become weightless! So, none of this is real, none of this is really happening!"

"You were always such a scientist," she said quietly, through her smile.

He nodded his head, then her words hit him like a hammer-blow.

"What do you mean, always? How the Hell could you possibly know that?"

She turned away, her form shimmered in the water-laden air for a moment, then he heard the unmistakable crash of lightning...

...and he was standing in front of the diner, just after he'd fueled-up during the storm, two days ago...

...he was watching a strange looking woman, pale, gaunt, as she stared off, into oblivion...

...he walked over to her, and she turned to face him...

"Why are we here again?" he said when he recognized her.

She took his hand and they walked out into the parking lot; she looked after the receding storm, then pointed.

He followed her finger, looked down the interstate at a cluster of emergency vehicles scattered along the road, their red and blue strobes pulsing through the remnants of the storm.

"What is it? An accident?" he said as he looked at her again.

She nodded her head. "Yes. An accident."

He shook his head, the pain of realization sudden, and complete. "Is it...me?"

She turned to him and gently smiled. "Yes."

"Am so, I'm what...dead?"

"Yes."

A tear sprang from his mind's eye, and he looked down the road and felt the warm water from the shower beating on his bare skin. He looked at Mary...not that other Mary, but the Mary he'd known forever, his wife, the mother of his unborn son.

They were in the shower.