Graeme Gibson - Communion

Now, and this is more difficult, going to her again, knowing the hair shrouding her face, knowing she waits for him: there are trees scattered up each side of the ravine, this morning he saw a hawk, he’s almost certain it was a hawk, it soared on ragged wings.

Her long body in his arms, strands of her hair in his mouth as he climbs out of the ravine, he vaults the fence by the garage, she’s waiting for him, she’ll turn as he comes in the door, light from the window in her hair, on her cheek.

A bottle of chilled white wine, it’s a ritual, either of them might have bought it: they’re listening to her records. Bright on the wicker placemats, the afternoon sun is still warm; the wine glass focuses a shimmering patch of light on the table by his hand. She reaches across the light to touch him. He goes around the table, he kneels before her, he burrows his face into her lap, his hands under her skirt grope for her thighs, her buttocks spreading as she sits: her hands are in his hair, she traces the muscles from his neck into his shoulders. They do not speak. She’s watching him. He loves her, he raises his face, she kisses him, her mouth is full of wine, he drinks: she reaches for her glass, her eyes are moist, pressing her mouth to his she dribbles wine, warmed by her body, into him; he loves her, his tongue is swollen against her teeth, she resists, she rejects and receives him; with mouths bruising together they re-explore familiar innocence. The floor is beginning to hurt his knees. His hands are at her hips, his thumbs pressing into her belly, his fingers stretching towards her buttocks, he levers himself from the floor, it’s only briefly awkward, she stands with him, they embrace, her long body in his arms; then taking the bottle of wine, what’s left of it, they go into the bedroom.

It’s so easy.

Her long body in his arms, strands of her hair in his mouth, still gentle they undress each other, a shaft of fading sunlight across his body and hers, he spills wine on her breasts, her belly, and drinks; laughing she presses him onto his back, her fingers, mouth and teeth at random on his body. With her again, for the first time again, he understands.

“You make me beautiful.”

Her long body in his arms, strands of her hair in his mouth, the urgent sounds of their bodies, passion growing like fear or anger, they clutch and bite in desperation, it breaks, they’re tumbling together into loneliness and awe.

On her street for the first time in daylight, he walks past her house, there’s no sign of her: a stark tree on the lawn, the windows are clean, there are bright curtains; he stops as if to light a cigarette. He doesn’t know her name.

He will tell her, he’ll say: “I’ve never encountered a situation in my own life where I could have behaved differently, everything that has happened, or not happened to me, because of me, all of it has been inescapable.” She watches him. Does she understand? her hands are curled in her lap, he’s drinking her scotch, smoking her cigarettes: sitting across from her, pale eyes, she doesn’t move, he believes she stopped him when he tried to leave, listening to her records.

He will say: “I’ve never encountered a situation, in the lives of my friends, when they made any kind of choice, when they could have done anything other than what they did do. Choice” he will say, “describes what might have been.”

“That’s a useless idea.”

“I believe it.”

“That isn’t good enough.” They listen to the music, she doesn’t understand. “I believe all kinds of things but I don’t let them make any difference . . . I hardly know you . . . Why do you make everything so difficult for yourself?”

Her street in daylight, he walks to her door: a stark tree on the lawn, the windows are clean, there are bright curtains, everything is clean; it’s the kind of apartment that will have fresh cut flowers, it will smell of wax, of furniture polish. He steps into the vestibule, her name is printed beneath her doorbell. Urquhart. Mr. and Mrs. D. Urquhart, he rings the bell. He’s forgotten his role, what he was going to say, she’ll know, she’ll cry out, protesting . . .

She’s taller than he thought, her hair is almost black, she looks at him impersonally, her black hair over her shoulders. “Yes?” Her voice is clear and open, he cannot meet her eyes, surely she suspects . . . “May I help you?” He must answer, he hears his voice:

“Are there any, do you have any odd jobs, you know . . . work around the house?” He manages to glance into her face, he doesn’t know where that idea came from, certainly she’ll refuse him. “Please . . . I’ll do anything . . . ” Calculating, she stares at him easily, there is sunlight in the room behind her, the flesh in the opening of her shirt is white, his mouth and throat, even his teeth are dry, he’s seen her breasts, they’re even bigger than he thought, she must know, surely she suspects, she’s opening the door! it never happens this easily, is she alone? he listens intently, but there’s no sound from the apartment behind her. She’s alone and she’s opening the door, she’s stepping backwards . . .

“Come in. I’m sure there’s something.” Trembling violently he closes the door, he follows her in the hall, her hair comes right down to her ass, his sneakers make tiny kissing noises on the hardwood. Everything is clean, the rooms are clean, they smell of furniture polish, soap, perfumes and powders, wax, there are fresh cut flowers by the piano and a bowl of fruit on an ornate stand by the window. There is an enormous black brassiere drying on a radiator in the bathroom.

Several women at a table by the window, they’re laughing richly. They appraise him in the doorway, it’s disconcerting. The table is covered with open beer bottles: she leaves him to drink from her glass, he watches the life in her throat as she swallows. “He wonders if there’s anything he can do around the house.” Dragging deeply on her cigarette, their buoyant voices overlap; it’s as if she’s devouring the smoke.

“Well he should begin with a beer.”

“For strength.”

“He says he’ll do anything.” Langorous, they’re superbly flushed with drink, their bare arms and throats in sunlight; they confidently reach and drink, they cross their thighs and stretch. He can only grin foolishly and take a beer. They watch him drinking.

“What do you do best?” She speaks to him from a chair beside the stove, he doesn’t know what to say. Her hair is short, curled about her ears and her smile is gently mocking. There are pearls around her neck, they rest on her small bosom and for some incredible reason he is able to say:

“I don’t know.”

“There must be something.” Although they’re observing him in such a way that he knows they must have some understanding amongst themselves, it’s almost a plot, certainly some prearranged agreement, and although the nature of his response is obviously very important, it will certainly determine how they are going to deal with him, despite all this they aren’t hostile, they aren’t baiting him, on the contrary, encouragement emanates from them like perspiration, like the odour of their bodies. It makes it possible for him to continue.

“Well. There is one thing, I guess . . . ”

“What is it?”

“Well.” They wait patiently, he really must try, he doesn’t want to disappoint them. Sun shining on the brown bottles, the women, small green plants, the whole scene in sunlight, there is dust and smoke in the air; Urquhart reaches to the ashtray, her black hair covers her face, she isn’t wearing a brassiere, she taps her cigarette and straightens, she flounces her hair back from her face, he hears a bird outside, he knows what he will say: “When the time comes, when it’s absolutely essential, I can walk from here to there.” He raises his arm and points, he sees his hand in the room. “To the back door there.”