David Gates - A Hand Reached Down to Guide Me

When he catches his breath again, he says, “You’re pretty incredible.”

She’s wiping up with last night’s tank top, which is a lost cause anyway. “So are you going to have some ’splainin’ to do?”

“Do we have to talk about it right this second?”

“I’m not trying to steal you.” She lies back down, pressing the girls into his arm. “Just borrow you a little more.”

“Shit,” he says, “I forgot I have to open up this morning.”

“Haven’t you already?” She remembers he’d done that same little thing last night, with the eyebrows. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

She gets out of bed and puts on a T-shirt, which comes down just far enough to cover and still give him glimpses, then goes down to the kitchen. Spooning coffee into the French press, she hears the toilet flush upstairs. She puts water on to boil and goes into the half bath off the living room.

When she comes out, he’s sitting on an arm of the sofa, fully dressed, even his loafers. “So we have to talk about tonight,” she says. “What time can you come over?”

“I actually can’t tonight.”

“Oh,” she says. “Now let me guess.”

He’s turning red—sweet to see. “I could see you Sunday night.”

“That’s going to be too late,” she says. “Why don’t we have our coffee out on the porch.”

“You going back to the city?”

“Oh, you sound so hopeful,” she says. “Has something happened to my incredibleness?”

“I told you the situation,” he says.

She darts over to the front door and leans her back against it. “What if I don’t move?”

“Please don’t fuck with me,” he says.

Clearly he means the “please” to sound ominous, but she can hear the “please comma” beneath it. He doesn’t seem like a hitter. “If you don’t come back tonight,” she says, “you’re going to jerk off to me the rest of your life.”

“Shit,” he says. “I fuckin’ knew you were crazy. Let’s not make this a big drag for both of us, okay?”

So he has some wit after all. And some woman, surely, has loved him. Maybe his wife, for a while. And maybe his new lady is beginning to love him too, the lady she’s gotten him to betray.

—

When Lily had come by to pick her up in the rented Ford Explorer, two days after the Fourth, Portia opened the passenger door, stuck her suitcase in and said, “I don’t really want to talk, okay?” She made her seat go back and slept for most of the drive to Dennis Port. Lily set the cruise control between seventy and seventy-five—the golden mean!—and they passed through one public radio listening area into another, like Venn diagrams. Lily learned that since the solstice they’d been losing two minutes of sunlight every day, and that seven people had been killed in two suicide bombings—she didn’t catch where—and that Terry Gross’s nervous fake laugh was getting worse. As they were going over the Bourne Bridge, Portia opened her eyes and said, “I can feel you over there judging me. So what did Garrett have to say?”

“Why should he get to say anything?” Lily said. “Me either, for that matter.”

“Oh, you’re so Zen,” Portia said. “Fuck you. Fuck me , actually. So who did he go off with?”

“Nobody,” Lily said. “Actually, he was nice enough to drop me at my place.”

“Really. Are we talking about the same person?” Portia looked over at Lily. “Oh. And were you nice enough to invite him up?”

“Come on, I have some boundaries,” Lily said. “So does he, apparently.”

Portia settled back in her seat. “I need to get my head around this.”

They found their mother out on the deck with a canvas on her easel. “No, don’t look,” Janet said. “How was the traffic? I always hated the drive up here.” Their father’s favorite car game had been for them all to take turns improvising verses to “I Know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly”; once he’d rhymed “swallowed your father” and “Why did she bother?” Their mother hadn’t spoken again until they got there. “Listen, I’ve got tuna steaks marinating. What do you think, should we just go out and do this while we’ve still got some daylight?”

“How far out are we going?” Portia said. “I don’t like those clouds.”

“As far as I’m concerned, we can wade out and do it,” Janet said. “I doubt he’s going to know the difference.”

“You don’t know what he knows,” Lily said.

“Do you think he’s hovering ? You’re not back on pot, are you?”

“Mom, we have to respect his wishes,” Portia said.

“Oh, well far be it from me,” Janet said. “I know how much my wishes always counted.”

“I think you did all right for yourself, Mother,” Lily said.

“Can we not get into this now?” Portia said.

“No, I like it that she thinks,” Janet said. “It’s a very attractive quality. Or would it be an attribute ? Whatever it was your father had.”

“Please?” Portia said.

“I’m sorry, am I ruining the occasion?” Janet walked back over behind her canvas. “This is vile.” She took it off the easel and dropped it facedown on the decking. “I hope he is hovering, actually. Just to sweeten up his eternal reward.”

—

How’s this for prescience? Of course Lily will turn her cellphone on, and of course Garrett will call, and of course she will give him directions. And again she will fuck a man in a dead girl’s bed. Two in two days? She’s unstoppable!

She rolls back over against Garrett, fingers creeping around in his chest hair; you always come when it’s the bad boy. The fan’s still roaring, drying her sweat, giving her chills. “So,” she says, “I think I’m going to go for sixteen men on a dead man’s chest. Or is the pirate thing over with?”

“Hmm, I’m picturing that,” he says. “Looks a little gay.”

“Have you ever done two women?”

“Why? Is that a thing that interests you?”

“Did you and Portia do that?” she says.

He takes her hand away and sits up against the headboard. “I don’t think I need to answer these questions.”

“I forgot,” she says. “You go case by case. Is it hot to fuck sisters?”

“What about you? Is it hot to fuck somebody who fucked your sister?”

She puts her legs over the side and stands up. “Do you really have to leave so soon?”

He grabs her arm and yanks her back onto the bed.

“What are you going to do?” she says. “Rape me?”

He lets go of her arm. He reaches down, finds his T-shirt and pulls it over his head. Stands up and steps into his briefs. “Question.” Picks up his shirt. “Is Portia going to know about this?”

Lily makes no move to get up again. “Come on, wouldn’t you rather just improvise?” she says. “It should be more exciting for you. Test your little”—she flitters her fingers—“ ganglions . You can watch her face for signs. If you’re looking for your pants, they’re over by the door.”

From the bedroom window, she watches his car back out of the driveway; her arm still hurts where he grabbed it. Already eight o’clock, and getting dark. Two minutes less light every day. She’s got three hours to fill just to get to movie time—and she’s already run through everything she’s brought except Royal Wedding , which she really doesn’t want to watch. And then? And after that? She hasn’t had her swim today, could that be what’s wrong? The recreation area closes at sunset, but that shouldn’t stop a girl who’s already figured out so much.

She leaves her underwear on the floor, pulls on her jeans and gets her father’s white shirt out of the closet, goes downstairs and tucks the one-hitter and her lighter into the pocket. She’s halfway to the lake before she looks down and sees she’s driving barefoot. Since the gate’s closed, she passes on to the far side, where it’s privately owned and narrow paved drives have signs arching above them: Lochbrae, Breezy Shores, Pinewoods. She turns into a lane with a small sign simply reading Private and parks on the dirt, out of sight of the road, then reaches into her pocket.