embraces until he thought he would pop off fully clothed right there on the couch. Then her hands were on his pants zipper and, sighing and giggling, she took him out and put him in her mouth and then he did pop off in a way that made him groan out loud in a deep, rumbling man’s groan and she put her hand on his and guided him to the place she needed and he rubbed and rubbed like she told him to until she too groaned only in a light, high-pitched lady’s groan and then they were done.
Jackson fell back on the cushions stunned and amazed. He couldn’t believe his delight, his exhaustion, or his good fortune. He could only conclude that Rebecca Headly’s randiness was a divine reward for his act of moral courage in rejecting the idea of buying flesh. Over the next few days before she returned to college, Rebecca and he met in the woods or she picked him up in her daddy’s car and the two of them investigated all the possibilities of each other with barely a conversation they were that bothered. Then Rebecca went back to school. Although he wrote her letters, she never responded. In fact, he never saw her again. He’d hoped that during the summer Mama might use her as a babysitter, but when he casually asked whatever happened to Rebecca Headly and why was she not invited to sit for Bubba Ray, Mama replied: That gal was a filthy little thing. She spilled something on my best slipcovers and denied it. All I know is there was a wet stain there as big as Texas, and nothin’s ever got it out.
In college, Jackson learned how to court a woman properly, meaning he could flirt and flatter his way into favors of all kinds. Yankee coeds practically threw themselves at his feet, because, as one of his conquests told him, he was an exotic. He knew that meant he was Southern, recited Kipling, Poe, and Dylan Thomas in his smooth, dark drawl, knew good music when he heard it, and was willing to listen to them talk, run their errands, and help them with their assignments. They called him handsome, a gentleman, and he gladly accepted that exalted mantle as his due. Stella was the only one who’d given him more than a month’s worth of trouble before satisfaction. For her reluctance, he thought her wise, decent, worthy of the greatest respect. In fact, he respected her more than any other woman he’d ever lusted after with the possible exception of Katherine Marie.
F IVE
Spring, 1995
J ACKSON PULLED UP TO THE country club behind the great snake of cars waiting their turns at the valet station and frowned. This is the price of being late to your own party, Stella. Weren’t you supposed to be in a receiving line or some such? Stella rolled her eyes. Yes, I think I was, but I thought it was a stupid idea. I’m very glad we’re late for that particular foolishness. She flipped down the vanity mirror to check her hair and face. Satisfied, she flipped it back up then gripped his wrist with such force he winced.
Look, look, it’s her! Oh my Lord, it’s her.
It was a misty night. Jackson squinted to peer through its veil. Who? he asked. His wife punched him in the shoulder. Katherine Marie, you big dunce! Katherine Marie. Oohh, look at her. I can not believe what she’s wearing. Do you see what she’s wearing? Jackson could barely make out more than the outline of the woman in question: tall, thin, hair pulled back and twisted in the French style, which accentuatedeven in the fog the long, sleek slope of her cheekbones and the point of her chin. As to what she wore, her dress seemed entirely appropriate for a gala evening. She had on something sheathlike, with high-heeled shoes. A formal jacket of some kind. What are you talking about, darlin’? he asked, sincerely confused about what was riling his wife. His shoulder suffered another assault. I swear, Jackson Sassaport, you have blinders on when it comes to that woman. She’s wearing fur. Fur! That is a fox fur draped around her shoulders, I’m sure of it.
What Jackson wanted
Jackson fell back on the cushions stunned and amazed. He couldn’t believe his delight, his exhaustion, or his good fortune. He could only conclude that Rebecca Headly’s randiness was a divine reward for his act of moral courage in rejecting the idea of buying flesh. Over the next few days before she returned to college, Rebecca and he met in the woods or she picked him up in her daddy’s car and the two of them investigated all the possibilities of each other with barely a conversation they were that bothered. Then Rebecca went back to school. Although he wrote her letters, she never responded. In fact, he never saw her again. He’d hoped that during the summer Mama might use her as a babysitter, but when he casually asked whatever happened to Rebecca Headly and why was she not invited to sit for Bubba Ray, Mama replied: That gal was a filthy little thing. She spilled something on my best slipcovers and denied it. All I know is there was a wet stain there as big as Texas, and nothin’s ever got it out.
In college, Jackson learned how to court a woman properly, meaning he could flirt and flatter his way into favors of all kinds. Yankee coeds practically threw themselves at his feet, because, as one of his conquests told him, he was an exotic. He knew that meant he was Southern, recited Kipling, Poe, and Dylan Thomas in his smooth, dark drawl, knew good music when he heard it, and was willing to listen to them talk, run their errands, and help them with their assignments. They called him handsome, a gentleman, and he gladly accepted that exalted mantle as his due. Stella was the only one who’d given him more than a month’s worth of trouble before satisfaction. For her reluctance, he thought her wise, decent, worthy of the greatest respect. In fact, he respected her more than any other woman he’d ever lusted after with the possible exception of Katherine Marie.
F IVE
Spring, 1995
J ACKSON PULLED UP TO THE country club behind the great snake of cars waiting their turns at the valet station and frowned. This is the price of being late to your own party, Stella. Weren’t you supposed to be in a receiving line or some such? Stella rolled her eyes. Yes, I think I was, but I thought it was a stupid idea. I’m very glad we’re late for that particular foolishness. She flipped down the vanity mirror to check her hair and face. Satisfied, she flipped it back up then gripped his wrist with such force he winced.
Look, look, it’s her! Oh my Lord, it’s her.
It was a misty night. Jackson squinted to peer through its veil. Who? he asked. His wife punched him in the shoulder. Katherine Marie, you big dunce! Katherine Marie. Oohh, look at her. I can not believe what she’s wearing. Do you see what she’s wearing? Jackson could barely make out more than the outline of the woman in question: tall, thin, hair pulled back and twisted in the French style, which accentuatedeven in the fog the long, sleek slope of her cheekbones and the point of her chin. As to what she wore, her dress seemed entirely appropriate for a gala evening. She had on something sheathlike, with high-heeled shoes. A formal jacket of some kind. What are you talking about, darlin’? he asked, sincerely confused about what was riling his wife. His shoulder suffered another assault. I swear, Jackson Sassaport, you have blinders on when it comes to that woman. She’s wearing fur. Fur! That is a fox fur draped around her shoulders, I’m sure of it.
What Jackson wanted
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