Scott Nicholson - Forever never ends

She blinked twice. "Is that your deep, dark secret?"

Bill braced himself for her counterattack, the cruel feminine laughter that would slice like a saber. It didn't come.

"Bill, everybody makes mistakes," she said. "And God's heart is bigger than the sky. There's plenty of room up there for forgiveness. That's one of the best things about His love."

Bill looked up at the high ceiling of the sky with its thin stucco of clouds.

He wiped the sweat from his palms onto the blanket. "I was afraid you'd think less of me, like I was a hypocrite or something, the way I promote the church and stuff. While I'm eaten up on the inside with black sin."

And now Nettie was laughing, but it was a laugh of relief instead of ridicule. "Bill, I've got deep, dark secrets that would put that one to shame. And someday, I might tell you about them. Now, let's eat before the ants figure out we're here."

The tension that Bill had sensed from the moment they arrived seemed to lift into the March breeze, as if God had waved a soothing hand overhead.

"Too late to fool the ants," Bill said, blowing one off the back of his hand. It landed in the spilled mashed potatoes. Nettie laughed again, an airy music that was as natural to the meadow as the song of sparrows. Bill grinned at her and lifted the plate of fried chicken. His grin froze as Nettie pulled a bottle of wine from the basket. He looked into her deep, shining, curious, tempting eyes.

"I hope you don't disapprove." She twisted a corkscrew in with a firm hand. Her face clenched with effort as she popped the cork. "One of my dark secrets."

Bill's smile tried to shrink like drying plywood, but he kept it nailed into place. She was pouring the blood of Christ into two clear plastic tumblers.

No, this is white wine. The blood of nothing but dead grapes. Do you mind, Jesus? Of course, You used to drink it. But what if it makes me weak, prone to the devil's whispers? Or is this a test of faith?

But then he was taking the cup from Nettie and bumping it to her raised cup in a toast, and he was swimming in her beautiful eyes and the wine was on his lips and in his throat and then warming a small spot in his belly. He sipped again, nervously, and the warmth spread.

They ate chicken, she a breast, he two legs and a thigh. They had scratch biscuits that were as good as Bill's grandmother used to make, back before she bought her first microwave. Bill's plate was emptied of the mashed potatoes that Nettie had covered with thin gravy that was good even cold. The buttersweet taste of the raspberry tarts clung to his lips, and he wondered if his smile were as red as Nettie's.

They lay face to face, leaning on their elbows, and talked under the warm fingers of the sun, sharing their third cup of wine. Bill pointed to a sycamore branch and a flutter of bright red.

"Male cardinal," he said. "Watch for a second."

A small brown bird flitted from the growth of a spruce and the cardinal gave chase.

“Going after a piece of tail feather," Nettie said.

Bill was stunned. The Nettie he had known and dated and studied scriptures with must be back in Windshake, and this Jezebel had been sent by the devil to draw Bill back into the hellish fold. She giggled behind her hand and her eyes were alight with amusement.

And his lips were mildly numb and now the warmth had spread all over his body and he was laughing, too. Then he was laughing so hard that he fell toward her and then their eyes met and their lips met and they shared laughing breath and raspberry saliva and Chardonnay tongue and then the devil was on Bill's shoulder, whispering in his ear. But the Lord was on the other shoulder, drowning out the Prince of Lies with an orchestra of blinding sunburst heartbeats***

— and Nettie couldn't believe this was finally happening. Her heart had almost stopped when Bill said he had something to tell her "before she wasted much more time."

He was going to tell her that, while she was a nice girl, he didn't think they should see each other anymore. He would be too kind to say the truth, which was that she was homely and independent and not the picturesque queen he envisioned at his side.

He would just say that even though her company was pleasant, their relationship wasn't going anywhere because the tinder just wasn't taking the spark. And they should remain friends and continue the Lord's work together at the church and not have any ill feelings toward one another because the Bible said to turn the other cheek.

But he didn’t say those things, only some ridiculous thing about being divorced, but marriage wasn't as sacred as love, so why should he worry about it? But Bill was sweet to consider her feelings, even if his solemnity almost made her laugh. Some people took the covenant of marriage more seriously than others, and she respected Bill's tenets. Her own relief had gushed through her body so forcefully that she was afraid it was going to burst through her skin.

And Bill had not frowned on the wine. Well, perhaps briefly, but he had taken a cup, and then more, and she could feel his awkwardness fall away into laughter and now into this kiss, which was making her head expand, this kiss which was drowning her in a pool of light, this kiss, which was a moist dew, this kiss, which was a free fall, this kiss, which was tangling their limbs in liquid knots, this kiss, which was one long heartbeat, this kiss that was a pillow cloud that was her body that was fighting out of the blouse and cotton dress and winding inside Bill's shirt and trousers and skin and now the kiss spread over their entire flesh as the hot white honey wax arms of heaven embraced them and swept them aloft on a cream silk fire breeze and dropped them into a milk sky sun ocean and then they were racing together toward a frozen forever only now they were exploding like golden flowers and she was melting and flowing and arriving and disappearing only to find herself back in Bill's arms where her journey had always led.

Junior stumbled through the laurels along the riverbank, ignoring the sharp branches that gouged his skin, not caring that the flesh peeled from his bones like shucks from an ear of yellow corn. Because it wasn't his skin, it was the parent’s, and shu-shaaa had no awareness of pain or decay. There was no death, only change. Only a joining into the life that must become shu-shaaa so the journey could continue.

Junior heard the life in the trees and under the thickets and behind the shrubs and in the meadow and he stepped into the sunlight and saw the life that was like his own used to be.

A memory of being human, of a time before shu-shaaa Mull, swam in the swampy mist inside his head. He was about to cross the green earth skin to reach the writhing human lives so that he could touch their hearts with the hand of the parent. Because they sang with light and stole the sun that fed the life and their animal cries filled shu-shaaa's air.

But another force pulled him away, tugged at him like vines and creepers and kudzu, and compelled him to cross the river and ascend the mountain that rose from the earth to return him to a bed of memories. A place from his human past, a place of roots. An old human who deserved to share the glory, a human whose name was Mull, only its own name had once been Mull, but that didn't matter since they would soon all be one.

Fording the river, something fell from his pocket and rode downstream on the current, glistening in the sunlight. Another memory waded into his altered consciousness, a recollection of pleasure and smoke followed by a sharp prick of sorrow at things long gone. But the human thoughts were fleeting and quickly suffocated by the verdant rhapsody that was shu-shaaa.

He flowed toward the Mull farm, biting trees along the way.

Tamara pulled her car onto the shoulder of the road, trembling. She was lucky that no cars had been approaching, because she had veered into the other lane and back again, tires squealing in complaint. The creature that had dashed in front of the Toyota had the fuzzy, arched tail of a squirrel, but its eyes were bright wet specks and its head was as slick as that of an otter.