you.”
“It’s okay. I’m sure I’ve done something to deserve it.”
“No, you haven’t. Not tonight.”
“Well…” I looked at her. “No need to pin any medals on me yet.”
“Two months…” Joanne said, then broke off. She walked to the edge of the clearing, then turned back to me. “My father drank himself into his grave. He was fifty-four when he died. My mother…I can’t remember her sober. I finally gave up hoping that one day she might call me and not be drunk. After twenty years of being disappointed every time I heard her voice, I just had to give up.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Life goes on,” she shrugged, walking back to me. “How do you feel?”
“I feel… Oh, God, Joanne,” I suddenly blurted out, “I can’t sleep because I finally feel things. When I would get hurt or scared before I would drink it away. Now…” I stopped and held out my hand, watching it shake. “What does it feel like to die so young? How do you do it? Do you get used to it?”
“No, I’ve never gotten used to it. I don’t think I ever will,” Joanne replied. She reached out and took my trembling hand between both of hers, holding it steady. “Tragedies happen every day. It’s inevitable that we stumble over them.”
“Was it murder or tragedy?”
“What’s the difference? Every murdered person is a tragedy in someone’s life.”
“Was she?” I persisted.
“Yes.”
“Raped?”
“Probably.”
I shuddered at the common horror of it. “Can you find out?” I wanted to know this women’s fate, the final details. Knowing, no matter how brutal, would be better than imagining.
“Yes, I can,” Joanne answered.
“Tell me.”
“I will.”
“Maybe I should try to get some sleep,” I said shakily. I was suddenly aware that Joanne looked tired. She hadn’t been to bed yet either. I didn’t think she would leave me alone in the woods with my Scotch and trembling hands.
“Do you want me to hold you?”
“No, I’m okay,” I lied. Joanne, behind her glasses, dressed in the sober clothes of a policewoman, seemed too distant. I wasn’t sure just who the woman was who kissed me last night, but she had vanished with the morning light.
“Look at me. Look at me and say that,” she caught me.
I couldn’t. I glanced across the clearing. Joanne put her hand under my chin and turned my face back to her.
“I’m not okay. How the hell can you be?” she said.
I started crying. Joanne put her arms around me.
“Do you want me to make love to you?” she asked with simple directness.
Of course, I wanted her to make love to me, more now than last night. My desire had gone frighteningly beyond want to need.
“No,” I said, afraid to be so vulnerable. Then, “How did you know?” and finally, “Yes…yes, I do.”
She took off her glasses. Her eyes were unhidden, the flecks of blue in the dense gray brought out by the morning light. Then she kissed me, slowly, no haste or hurry, no sense of obligation on her part, not blatantly sexual.
But desire could not long remain absent. I put my arms around her, pulling her tightly to me, wanting the taut edge of passion to blunt my thoughts. Joanne responded to my need, her kisses no longer gentle, but heavy, fierce. She pushed me back so that I lay across the stump, feeling its rough ridges as her weight pressed down on me.
She opened my shirt, exposing my breasts to the morning light and the touch of her hands. Leaving my mouth wet and open, she moved her lips to my nipples, tonguing them as her hands undid my pants.
I felt the pressure of her hand cover me, first over the cotton of my underwear, then flesh on flesh, her fingers twining in my hair. Her other hand pulled my pants down, pinning me between the cool roughness of the stump and the warm smoothness of her hand spreading my lips. Her mouth was on my stomach, moving down. Then her tongue went between my lips, her hands pushing on my thighs, spreading my legs open.
I gasped
“It’s okay. I’m sure I’ve done something to deserve it.”
“No, you haven’t. Not tonight.”
“Well…” I looked at her. “No need to pin any medals on me yet.”
“Two months…” Joanne said, then broke off. She walked to the edge of the clearing, then turned back to me. “My father drank himself into his grave. He was fifty-four when he died. My mother…I can’t remember her sober. I finally gave up hoping that one day she might call me and not be drunk. After twenty years of being disappointed every time I heard her voice, I just had to give up.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Life goes on,” she shrugged, walking back to me. “How do you feel?”
“I feel… Oh, God, Joanne,” I suddenly blurted out, “I can’t sleep because I finally feel things. When I would get hurt or scared before I would drink it away. Now…” I stopped and held out my hand, watching it shake. “What does it feel like to die so young? How do you do it? Do you get used to it?”
“No, I’ve never gotten used to it. I don’t think I ever will,” Joanne replied. She reached out and took my trembling hand between both of hers, holding it steady. “Tragedies happen every day. It’s inevitable that we stumble over them.”
“Was it murder or tragedy?”
“What’s the difference? Every murdered person is a tragedy in someone’s life.”
“Was she?” I persisted.
“Yes.”
“Raped?”
“Probably.”
I shuddered at the common horror of it. “Can you find out?” I wanted to know this women’s fate, the final details. Knowing, no matter how brutal, would be better than imagining.
“Yes, I can,” Joanne answered.
“Tell me.”
“I will.”
“Maybe I should try to get some sleep,” I said shakily. I was suddenly aware that Joanne looked tired. She hadn’t been to bed yet either. I didn’t think she would leave me alone in the woods with my Scotch and trembling hands.
“Do you want me to hold you?”
“No, I’m okay,” I lied. Joanne, behind her glasses, dressed in the sober clothes of a policewoman, seemed too distant. I wasn’t sure just who the woman was who kissed me last night, but she had vanished with the morning light.
“Look at me. Look at me and say that,” she caught me.
I couldn’t. I glanced across the clearing. Joanne put her hand under my chin and turned my face back to her.
“I’m not okay. How the hell can you be?” she said.
I started crying. Joanne put her arms around me.
“Do you want me to make love to you?” she asked with simple directness.
Of course, I wanted her to make love to me, more now than last night. My desire had gone frighteningly beyond want to need.
“No,” I said, afraid to be so vulnerable. Then, “How did you know?” and finally, “Yes…yes, I do.”
She took off her glasses. Her eyes were unhidden, the flecks of blue in the dense gray brought out by the morning light. Then she kissed me, slowly, no haste or hurry, no sense of obligation on her part, not blatantly sexual.
But desire could not long remain absent. I put my arms around her, pulling her tightly to me, wanting the taut edge of passion to blunt my thoughts. Joanne responded to my need, her kisses no longer gentle, but heavy, fierce. She pushed me back so that I lay across the stump, feeling its rough ridges as her weight pressed down on me.
She opened my shirt, exposing my breasts to the morning light and the touch of her hands. Leaving my mouth wet and open, she moved her lips to my nipples, tonguing them as her hands undid my pants.
I felt the pressure of her hand cover me, first over the cotton of my underwear, then flesh on flesh, her fingers twining in my hair. Her other hand pulled my pants down, pinning me between the cool roughness of the stump and the warm smoothness of her hand spreading my lips. Her mouth was on my stomach, moving down. Then her tongue went between my lips, her hands pushing on my thighs, spreading my legs open.
I gasped
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