Russell Andrews - Icarus

Jack went to press the "Play" button but as he did, he heard a noise from behind him. Grace was standing in the doorway, her hands empty, her shoulders hunched down.

"What happened to your drink?" he asked. But she didn't answer. And when she looked up, there were tears in her eyes. "Do you want to talk?" he said.

"No," she told him. "I don't want a drink and I don't want to talk."

"What do you want?" Jack Keller asked.

"I don't want you to ask me any questions till the morning. And I want to make love to you until then," Grace Childress said. And, as the tears slowly rolled down her cheeks, she said, "Please."

– "-"-"SHE INSISTED ON turning out the light. She didn't want him to see her.

"But you're so beautiful," he told her.

She kissed him then and held his hand tight, as if her strength alone could keep him from shining a light on her body. He broke away from her kiss, said nothing, didn't move for what seemed to him like hours, but he was only a second or two away from her as he thought of Caroline, felt longing for all that was past. Then he grabbed her and pulled her toward him, hugged her so it seemed their bodies might merge, and he kissed her again, a quick kiss, then another, and another, this one long and sweet and deep.

Their lovemaking was both tender and brutal. There were demons to exorcise. He knew what his were, and he was happy to unleash them. He did not know what was behind her passion but, as their bodies grazed, caressed, and rammed against each other, as he kissed her shoulder, licked her muscular back, heard her moan and even scream, felt her take him inside her and her legs squeeze around him, trapping him, draining him, exhilarating him, he did not care.

They lay quiet together in the dark. He could feel her soft, consistent breaths. He was aware now of his nakedness, and felt awkward until her hand brushed against his arm and all self-consciousness disappeared. He tried to talk once, to ask her why she was crying, but she held a finger up to his lips and hushed him. Then they fell asleep, her head buried in his chest, his arms covering her gently like a soft summer blanket.

– "-"-"JACK WOKE, THE sharp, wonderful odor of sex on his bed and in his skin, and he reached over to turn off the alarm. But the alarm was not set, he realized. Hadn't been set in quite some time. He was not getting up to go to work. There was no work. He did not have to worry about disturbing his wife. His wife could no longer be disturbed. Someone else had shared his bed last night, was about to share his morning. This was something new and while the world around him seemed to be collapsing, exploding, he couldn't help but allow a quick, contented sigh here in the world that was his bedroom.

He lifted his head, turned to see if Grace was beside him, but she was not. He heard a noise from the kitchen and luxuriated in the sudden, pungent smell of coffee that floated in. Jack swung himself out of bed, went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and took a quick, hot shower. When he emerged, he put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then heard Grace calling to him: "I know you're up. Get out here."

She was on the terrace, relaxed and comfortable in one of the two chairs around the cast-iron table. It was a glorious early morn; the chill had already disappeared. Jack saw that on the table was a wooden tray, set with two mugs of coffee and a plate that held a hunk of bread and a sharp, white Cheddar cheese. It was a scene he had lived many times with Caroline and he couldn't help but feel a tug at his heart. But the softness and vulnerability in Grace's eyes forced him into the present. And the sight of his blue-and-white silk robe, loose on her body, open to reveal one thigh and the curve of her breasts, made him smile and long for her yet again.

"I'm starving," she told him. "So I just foraged in the fridge."

He went to her and kissed her. She shifted in her seat and the robe loosened further; her right leg was bared almost to her hip now. He couldn't help but glance down. She quickly went to cover her leg but the silk billowed and, again, he saw a glimpse of what she'd been trying to hide.

"What is that?" he asked.

Grace flushed. He could see her biting her lower lip. She shook her head tightly.

"What happened to your leg?" Jack asked again.

Grace stood up from the table. She turned her back on him, walked to the edge of the terrace, put both hands on the brick retaining wall, and looked out over the park.

He felt his stomach tighten. She was too close to the edge. When he spoke, he could hear the words come out thickly. "It's morning," he told her. "I'm allowed to ask questions now."

She turned around to face him, said, "Yes," and nothing more, then started crying again, silent tears that ran down her face like rain streaking down a windowpane. Jack took a step toward her, felt his legs weaken as he got too close to the balcony's edge. He reached for her arm, touched her, but as he did, she jerked away from him, stepped back. He was left alone then, by the wall, and he found himself looking out, looking down. He was horrified to find that his stomach was in his throat and his legs were like iron anchors rooting him to the spot. He felt the dizziness coming on and couldn't move. He wanted to speak, to tell her to take his arm and lead him back to safety, but he couldn't. His throat was closing and the panic was setting in.

"I didn't call the police," she was saying. "When you went to Samsonite's apartment and didn't call me when you were supposed to, I didn't call the police. You must know that by now."

Jack tried to nod. Maybe he did. He couldn't tell.

"That's partly why I came here last night," she was saying. "I was worried about you. I thought maybe you were… I didn't know what happened and I was worried about you."

He tried to concentrate. Yes, concentrate on what she's saying, he told himself. Answer her. Distract yourself. Look at her, look away from the edge and think. Concentrate. "Why?" he managed to say now. "Why didn't you call?"

Grace was trembling. "I know he told you, Jack."

And now, here it came, like an unavoidable sledgehammer. It was upon him: the vision. His legs felt like they were nailed to the floor, but he could feel his body drifting toward the edge, could feel the inexorable force lifting him, throwing him over. He could feel that he was toppling over. He was Icarus, unable to fly, falling to his death… Concentrate. Talk to her. The sweat was pouring off him. Couldn't she see what was happening to him? Couldn't she help him?

"You figured everything else out, you should have figured this one out, too. I couldn't call the police."

What was she saying? Couldn't? Why not? He could feel the wall, as if it had hands that were reaching out and grabbing him, pulling him closer and closer. What was she talking about?

"It's stupid, I know, and if you'd gotten hurt I never would have forgiven myself, but I couldn't… I'm terrified of them. Terrified of going through all that again."

And suddenly, as the robe blew open again, fluttered in the slight breeze, even as his worst fear was gripping him and squeezing, cutting off his air and his clarity, he understood. "An accident," he breathed. "When you were young." She nodded and he could see her entire face tighten and her eyes go hard.

He could hear Kid, right here on the terrace, saying: There was an accident when she was a kid. That's all it was. At least that's all I'm gonna tell you.

Jack staggered forward, one small step, forcing his feet away from the pull of the edge. He forced himself to look down, decided to focus on the table. It was important to focus on something, important to concentrate on something safe, so he stared at the tray. First he took in all the accoutrements, then made himself take in the specifics. The deep-blue color of the plates. The roughness of the bread. The pale waxiness of the cheese. And then the knife. The beautiful knife with the finely honed blade and thick dark wood handle. The butcher knife that he knew so well.