"I will," he promised. "Mistress," he remembered. She released him.
Oliver dressed and drove home. He was oddly elated. _Save yourself for
me._ An order. An implied promise. Another thrill ran through him.
4.
Oliver worked on the mailing list all week. He tried not to think about
Jacky, although she came into his mind regularly, especially at night.
Her big eyes held him before he fell asleep; her body was just out of
reach.
When he wasn't sitting in front of the computer, he worked on the
walnut box. He finished the dovetails. Fitting the bottom of the box
was a puzzle. He had cut it to rest inside; it had to be supported just
above the low bottom arches. He didn't want to put screws through the
sides of the box, and if he put supporting ledger strips on the inside,
the bottom would be raised too high. He fastened a small block to the
lower inside of each corner. The blocks strengthened the feet of the
box and supported the bottom just above the arches. He was satisfied
with that solution, but when he pushed the bottom down on the blocks it
did not fit perfectly flush against all four sides. The cracks bothered
him.
By Friday, after much experimenting, he had made tiny moldings to cover
the cracks. "Thank God for routers," he said to Jennifer Lindenthwaite.
"Took me about five tries, but I did it."
"I wish Rupert had your talent," she sighed.
"It's not talent; it's pig-headedness."
"Pigs are sweet, really," Jennifer said. "They get a bad rap." She
stood. "Let's see the program."
She liked what he'd done and asked him whether Jacky had approved it.
"Jacky said that, as long as I included everything that she wanted, you
should be the judge--since you would have to use it and train others to
use it."
"It looks good to me," Jennifer said. "I'll have Mary mail you a check
on Tuesday. We pay bills on Tuesdays."
"Thanks."
"It was good of you to help, Oliver. We may have to call on you again.
I think you should be entitled to a member discount. We have some nice
trips lined up this summer--day trips, and a canoe trip: Marsh, Myth,
and Earth Mother."
"Sounds buggy," he said.
"Oh, Oliver! Tents, silly. No-see-um netting."
"The cry of the loon across the night," Oliver interrupted.
"Right," she said. "Drumming for Gaia is a popular trip. Sometimes I go
along--quality control, you know."
"Inspector Jennifer," Oliver said. She reached for his arm, to shove
him or to slap him, but she stopped herself.
"Marshmallows," she said.
"Now you're talking. I'll let you know," he said, ducking out.
"We'll put you on the mailing list."
"Great," he called over his shoulder.
He went shopping for hardware. He found brass strap hinges and a hasp
and a lock that were well-matched. He would inlay the hinges--a pain in
the neck--but the brass would be fine with the walnut.
Oliver made progress on the box. He was pleased that evening as he
described it to Jacky. She listened quietly and waited for him to
finish. They were sitting on the couch in her living room. She was
wearing a black silk blouse that fell loosely over white jeans. She
stretched her legs, wiggled her toes in leather huaraches, and looked
at him closely.
Oliver felt the moment approach. He had been in a different world all
week; it was time to return. Jacky's face was firm and concentrated,
her eyebrows raised slightly. He looked into her eyes and felt again
the thrill of surrendering. He was hers. He wanted to be hers. He gave
himself to her utterly.
That evening and the ones that followed, once or twice a week,
continued the pattern. She beat him and humiliated him, bound him to
her pleasure, taught him how to massage her after a hot shower and how
she wanted oral sex. It was an alternate universe that existed only in
her house and only for a few intense hours at a time. His reward was to
be allowed to come at her command as she counted slowly to twenty or
twenty-five. If he came too soon or not at her number, she whipped him
with a riding quirt. "You are not thinking of _me. _ You are doing this
for _ME! _" He learned to think only of her as he masturbated, or, less
often, as she worked him with her hand. When he dedicated himself
completely, she counted him to orgasm at the perfect moment; she was
pleased; there was no whipping.
They went out to dinner several times, a normal experience--at least
externally. Beneath the conversation, Oliver was well aware of what was
coming after dessert. She would encourage him to be assertive and then
she would pull him back, reminding him of his place with a glance or a
small smile, a good natured cat and mouse game.
She told him about the two older brothers who had bullied her on the
basketball court. She was a power forward in high school but too small
for the team at the University of New Hampshire. "Same game, different
scale," she said. "I should have been a guard." Oliver was impressed.
She had trained to be a referee and still reffed high school games.
"You just like the uniform," he teased. "The black shoes."
"You'd like one of them on the back of your neck," she said. "I know
you, Oliver." He was rewarded that night.
Late one afternoon, toward the end of June, Jacky called. "I need you
to come over," she said and hung up. This was unusual; their meetings
were always planned in advance.
"Oh, oh, Verdi. She's not happy."
Things were going well for a change. The Wetlands Conservancy had asked
him to recommend and install an accounting system. They'd gotten a
generous donation, Jennifer told him, from a bank. "Did you know that
Jacky Chapelle is on the Board?"
"I didn't," he said, surprised.
Jacky smiled when he asked her about it. "Community money," she said.
"Small community," Oliver said.
"Keep it in the family," she laughed.
The marinas were filled with white boats. Bikers and pedestrians were
crossing the bridge in both directions. Oliver parked in Jacky's
driveway. "Hi, Bubbles," he said. That was a mistake.
"I've had a disappointing day."
"I'm sorry," he said instantly. Her eyes narrowed and she pointed to
the bedroom.
"Everything off."
He undressed quickly and knelt by the bed. She gave him the rubber ball
and handcuffed him. "Bastards," she said and swung the ruler. Oliver
groaned for her. He had learned to wait out the initial blows. When she
hit faster, she didn't hit as hard. It seemed that groaning sped her up.
"Don't bullshit me, Goddamn it!" What? She cracked him hard twice,
paused for breath, and then hit him twice more. "Bastards," she said
again. She took her time, winding up for each swing, not speeding up.
Oliver began to groan for real. He squeezed the ball, but he was losing
control. He thought of getting up and running away, but he was
handcuffed and naked.
"Cry, why don't you?" She cracked him again. She was deliberate. "Cry!"
Boys don't. "Cry!" Crack. "Who am I?" Crack.
"Mistress," he managed.
"Damn you." She hit him again. A hot tear squeezed from the corner of
his left eye.
"Cry!" Crack.
"Please," he said. Crack. "Please." Tears began to fall.
"Yes," she said. "More." Crack. He fell forward sobbing, helpless,
howling each time she struck him. He cried so convulsively, so hard,
that he didn't register the moment when she stopped and began to rub
his shoulders, comforting him. He hadn't cried like that since he was a
baby.
"Get up on the bed and turn over." She took off her jeans and panties,
put them on the chair, and came back from the dresser with a condom.
Oliver lay on his back, numb and floating, as she teased and rolled the
condom into place. Her eyes were huge as she straddled him. "Fifty,"
she said.
He wiggled into position and gave himself to her voice and the long
slow thrusts of her body. At thirty, her voice cracked. By forty, she
was whispering and beginning to tremble. At forty-five, she gasped
sharply and slumped forward. She caught and braced herself with her
hands on his shoulders, crying out with each new number as he strained
up into her. At fifty, he exploded; a blind white jet took them
drenched and mingled into the universe. He heard her laughing in the
nebulae, and then he collapsed. She lowered herself forward. A button
dug into his chest. Her hair pressed against his cheek. Awkwardly, he
brought his arms over her head and cradled her as best he could.
She was half off when he awoke. She removed the condom and came back
wearing a white bathrobe. "You are beautiful," she said, pulling tight
the cotton belt of her robe. He felt his cheeks glowing. "Beautiful.
Would you like some tea?"
"No, thank you." She nodded and released the handcuffs. He dressed
slowly, feeling each movement of his body as though it were for the
first time. Jacky watched silently. He always left as soon as he was
dressed. "Good night--Mistress." His voice was quiet.
"Behave yourself," she said, looking at him thoughtfully.
He was on the bridge before he realized that he was driving and had
better be careful. He was hungry. Alberta's. Why not? He found a
parking spot, walked into his favorite restaurant, and got the last
open table, in a far corner of the upper level.
"How are we, tonight?" Claudine asked, smiling broadly. She knew
perfectly well. Women always do. Oliver imagined a sign over his head,
visible only to females: "Spent Male."
"Hungry," he said.
"You've come to the right place. Good halibut tonight, lime and ginger
sauce."
"I think it's a red meat night."
"Lamb? Lots of garlic, rosemary and Dijon crust? New potatoes?"
"Sold. I'll have a glass of Kendall Jackson Merlot." Claudine brought
him a large glass of wine, extra full. Oliver was a regular. He ate
there once a week or so on nights when he wanted to think. They left
him alone to make notes and sketches, to stare out the window at the
quiet street. He tipped well and felt that everybody was winning in the
exchange--so what if he were spending all his money.
Candlelight gleamed from glasses and warmed the walls. The room was
formal and cozy at the same time. He ate slowly, feeling calm and
unburdened. He ordered espresso and Death By Chocolate, then lingered
over Courvoisier. Verdi was aggrieved when Oliver finally got home.
Oliver made a great fuss over feeding him and apologized for the
unforgivable delay. He climbed the stairs to bed in a warm swirl. The
next morning he was very thirsty.
Jacky was called away on business the following week. The week after
that, in her kitchen, when the moment came, Oliver looked into her eyes
and felt no impulse to surrender. She reacted immediately. "Not
tonight," she said. And then, "That's all right. It doesn't have to
happen every time." They chatted, and he carried her smile home across
the bridge. It was warm, a bit troubled.
The week after that, she asked if he would meet her for dinner. "Oh,
boy," he said.
"Let's go to one of _your_ places, for a change," she said. They agreed
on Alberta's.
Oliver was early. He sat by a window and sipped a glass of wine. He
took a moment to recognize Jacky when she arrived. She was wearing a
broad-brimmed straw hat that covered her face, a low-cut magenta summer
dress, and leather sandals.
"You look terrific," he said. She took off her hat. There were extra
swirls in her hair and a small diamond post in each ear. Lip gloss
accented the color of her dress--a pale but deep pink, fresh and
elegant, white but tinged with the sadness of departing light; there
were babies in it and the silver of moonlight on old barns. "Some
dress!" Her breasts moved toward him.
"Would you like something to drink?" Claudine's voice straightened him.
"Can you make a martini?" Jacky asked.
"I'll try." Claudine glanced at Oliver, amused.
"Dry, please. One olive." The door opened and George Goodbean entered.
He was thinking about something and didn't notice them until he was
passing their table.
"Holy Moly!" he said, looking at Jacky.
Oliver introduced them. "Holy Moly means he wants to paint you," he
said to Jacky.
"Really," George said. "Who wouldn't?" He threw his arms in the air.
Claudine dodged around him and set a martini in front of Jacky.
"Perhaps we can talk about it another time," she said, smiling.
"Yes," George said. "Yes." He walked up the stairs to the upper level.
"He's been known to burst into arias," Oliver said.
Jacky sipped her martini. "Ah . . ." She put the glass down carefully.
"I like him."
"He's a good guy," Oliver said. "Good painter." He told her about the
casting adventure, leaving out the bronze valentine.
Midway through dinner, Jacky reminded him of their last session on her
bed. "That was very special," she said. "You please me in so many ways,
Oliver." She put down her fork. "I've been transferred. That's why I
was in such a bad mood that night. We acquired a bank. I'm supposed to
run it, turn it around. I thought I could get out of it, but I
couldn't."
"Transferred?"
"Maryland," she said. "It's a promotion, really."
"Oh," Oliver said. He put down his fork. "Damn."
"Come with me." It was part command, part question.
"No--I can't." He knew it was true as soon as he said the words. Am I
crazy? he thought, looking at her closely. "It is you who are
beautiful," he said.
She tapped the fingers of one hand on the table. "Are you sure, Oliver?
Money is no problem." He nodded slowly.
"Oh, Oliver . . ." She brushed away a tear. He had never seen her cry.
"Oh." She shook her head. "Who trains who?" she asked the window in a
tight voice. Oliver swallowed. He couldn't speak. This was happening
too fast.
"Sex," she said, looking back at him. "There's sex and there's
love--two different things. Sometimes they overlap. Sometimes, if
you're real lucky, they overlap a lot. Most people settle for a little
of one or a little of the other." She pushed her chair back. "I love
you," she said. She stood up. "Oh, well."
She regained control. "Good night, Oliver." It was a dismissal.
"Good night," he said obediently and bent his head. The mistress word
wasn't there any more. He felt terrible--honest, but terrible. He tried
to fix the image of her walking away down the sidewalk. He had an urge
to run after her, to sink to his knees with his arms around her hips,
to make her happy, but a dumb veto held him in his chair. It wasn't
right, or it wouldn't have remained right. He stayed seated and
finished his dinner. Claudine was tactfully silent.
He paid and climbed the stairs to George's table. "The lady's gone.
I've taken the high road," he said gloomily.
"My God, Olive Oil, she was . . ." George's eyes expanded. "I mean,
bazumas!"
"Yes," Oliver said. "Bazumas."
"That dress! That color!"
"How about a little Courvoisier, George?"
An hour later, he lurched home and put on _La Traviata._ George had
diverted him with a long story about how his father had made his whole
family jump through hoops during his last years and then had snuck off
to Atlantic City and spent most of his money before he collapsed. "The
old goat," George said, annoyed all over again, partially approving.
Sad glorious voices filled the apartment. Oliver began to hate himself.
What the hell good was he to anybody? The walnut box caught his eye,
shining and complete. It angered him, refuted his mood. He put it on
the floor. "Fuck it," he said and lifted his right foot high over the
box. Verdi let out a loud warning meow. "What?" Oliver demanded of the
cat. "What's the matter with you?" The cat took two steps forward and
let out another long low sound of protest.
"Huh?" Oliver bent over and put the box back on the table. "All right,
all right." He opened it. The bronze valentine stared up at him.
"Shit," he said. Verdi rubbed against his ankle. "Fucking box," Oliver
said with a certain amount of pride. He scratched Verdi between the
ears. There was nothing to do but go to bed.
The phone rang. He answered, but the person on the other end was
silent. He knew it was Jacky. "I'm sorry," he said. She hung up.
5.
Jacky's transfer left a hole in Oliver's life. He tried to explain it
to Mark Barnes without getting into details. "I mean, we were going in
different directions anyway. She wanted a lot . . ."
"Yeah." Mark laughed. "How it goes."
"But I got used to seeing her. She has a house in South Portland. I
used to go over there sometimes on weekends--nice place, garden out
back, blueberries, the high bush kind. I pruned them. We'd have a glass
of wine, get into it . . . Now, nothing. And the hell of it is: I
don't feel like seeing anyone else."
"Used to take me 18 months to get over a relationship," Mark said. "Now
it's 18 weeks and dropping. You know what they say about falling off a
horse."
"Climb back on--right." Oliver said. "All very well for you. I'm not,
like, in demand. I got lucky, was all."
"Come on! Just cuz you're four feet, two . . ."
"Five feet, two," Oliver said. "Don't you forget it."
"Ork. It doesn't mean shit," Mark said. "Do I look like Mr. Studley?"
"How _do_ you do it, anyway?"
"Fabric, man. They're helpless for fabric. You got to buy stuff they
want to touch. The ladies have _no_ imagination; if they can't touch
it, it doesn't count." Mark drank and smiled. "I spend a fortune on
shirts and sweaters. 'Oooh,' they say. I hold out my arm for the feel.
'Yeah, nice--silk and cashmere,' I say. 'Alpaca,' or whatever the hell
it is. Next day, I mail it to them. Would look better on you, I tell
them."
"I don't have a fortune," Oliver said.
"Shop around," Mark said. "Linen. You got to start somewhere."
"Yeah," Oliver said.
For the hell of it, he checked out Filene's Basement, but he couldn't
find anything that didn't have the executive leisurewear look. The next
day he was in Freeport and stopped at the Ralph Lauren factory outlet
store. He bought a linen bush jacket that was radically marked down. It
was dyed a dark sandy color and looked as though it would last. The
traditional cut made it seem less trendy. Maybe that was why it had
been marked down.
Oliver was lonely, but he continued to feel as though a weight had been
lifted from him. The crying fit at Jacky's had liberated him. He
wondered why. Why had it felt right, somehow, to be punished by her? He
missed the sex, ached for it, but he didn't miss the beatings. He just
didn't feel guilty any more.
Guilty. As soon as he thought the word, Oliver knew that he was onto
something. He realized that he had felt guilty for as long as he could
remember--so long, in fact, that he didn't register it as guilt; it was
just the way he was. Why should he feel this way? He couldn't be
sure--this was murky territory--but he suspected that it had to do with
his mother. She seemed to hover around the edges when he thought back.
He wondered if he hadn't, at a very young age, taken on responsibility
for _her_ problems--with Owl, with him, with life. Maybe he had felt
that they were his fault, somehow. Whatever it had been, Jacky had
beaten it out of him. Probably that was why she picked him in the first
place. She had sensed his need, matching hers.
He continued to work at home and at the Conservancy. One afternoon,
Jennifer talked him into the "Drumming For Gaia" trip.
"I can't drum anything," he said.
"Oliver, you like music. I know you do." It was true. "We have a
teacher--a Master Drummer. A lot of people have never drummed before,
and they always have a good time."
"I don't have a drum."
"We sell them--simple ones. I have an extra one. I'll bring it for
you." She was enthusiastic and meant well. He couldn't say no.
The morning of the trip was cool and foggy. The group was to meet at
the Conservancy and then be bussed to Wolf Neck State Park. Jennifer
spotted him as soon as he drove in.
"Morning! I love your jacket." She reached out and felt it between her
thumb and first two fingers. That Mark.
"Morning, Jennifer. Yeah, it's nice. Linen," he said, but he was damned
if he was going to mail it to her.
"I brought your drum; it's in the car. I'll get it." She skipped over
to a white Volvo and took a drum from the back seat. "You're going to
love this." He accepted it, feeling foolish. She handed him a wooden
striker. "You can hold it any way that is comfortable." She took it
back and tucked it between her left arm and side. "Like this, or
straight up, if you're sitting."
"O.K., I get it," Oliver said.
"We'll be leaving in about ten minutes." He took a seat near the front
of the bus and tried to look relaxed. The drum was shaped like a
miniature conga, handmade with a skin head that was lashed tight. He
rested it on his lap and watched cars drive in. Twelve or fifteen
people got on the bus, most of them his age or younger, mostly women in
twos and threes.
Jennifer bounced in and sat beside him. "We'll pick up a few more on
the way. There's another group coming down the coast. I hope it doesn't
rain. Think positive thoughts, Oliver."
"What are they?"
"Oh, Silly," she slapped him on the arm. "Don't worry; you'll have fun.
_I_ am going to have fun!" She passed around a box of name labels and a
magic marker. "Aliases permitted," she said.
Forty-five minutes later, they stepped from the bus and gathered around
tables standing in a grassy field. Oliver had been there before. The
ocean was just out of sight through trees and down a steep bank. Paths
wound along a narrow wooded peninsula with views of islands, tiny
coves, wetlands, and pine groves. Picnic tables and grills waited in
small clearings. It was a popular place in winter for cross-country
skiing.
The second bus arrived. People milled about reading each other's name
tags. Oliver helped carry folding chairs from the back of the bus. A
van drove up. Its horn tooted twice, and a short round man popped out.
He was holding a stick adorned with feathers and bells. He stamped it
on the ground and shook it. When he had everyone's attention, he said,
"Bogdolf's the name; merriment's the game!"
"Good grief," Oliver said.
"Shhh, he's the Lore Keeper," Jennifer explained. She stepped closer
and whispered, "He's expensive, but he brings in extra contributions;
he's worth it."
"Good morning, fair folks," Bogdolf said, twinkling. "Good morning,
Jennifer. Have we time for a story?"
"Yes," Jennifer said. "Raul will be here at eleven for the drumming.
For those of you who don't know," she raised her voice and addressed
the group, "this is Bogdolf, Lore Keeper. I've asked him to speak to us
this morning." She sat in one of the chairs. Oliver sat next to her.
The others made themselves comfortable, and Bogdolf took a position in
front of them.
"Drumming For Gaia," Bogdolf said. "Fine. Very fine. I don't often have
an orchestra. Oh, we're going to have fun this morning. Ba, ba, boom!"
He made a pirouette and stamped his stick playfully. His eye fell on
Oliver, and he pointed at him with the stick. "Let me hear it, son." He
made striking motions with his stick. "Ba, ba _boom!_ Ba, ba, _boom! _
Let me hear it now." He had twirled his way directly in front of
Oliver. His eyes were sharp and blue beneath shaggy gray eyebrows. He
smiled happily, letting the group feel his joy. Oliver felt Jennifer's
foot on his; he stopped staring and struck his drum three times.
"Yes," Bogdolf said, spreading his arms approvingly. "The power!" He
looked upward and staggered back several steps. He looked again at
Oliver and made a commanding motion with the stick. Oliver struck the
drum three times. "_Gaia, _" Bogdolf said. Oliver felt a pat on his arm.
"A long time ago," Bogdolf began, "in the time of the Water People . .
." He paced back and forth as he told the story. His voice rose and
fell. He was on the verge of tears. He laughed. He whispered.
Threatened. Trembled. Finally: "And _that_ is how the little drum saved
the Water People." He looked at Oliver. Jennifer's foot pressed down.
Oliver struck his drum three times, and there was loud clapping.
"Gaia!" someone called. Bogdolf bowed modestly and made his way to the
coffee table where he was soon surrounded.
"Whew!" Oliver said.
"I'm sorry," Jennifer said. "I didn't know you were going to be the
orchestra." She giggled.
"First time for everything," Oliver said. They took a walk and watched
an osprey bring fish back to a nest of sticks high in a tree on an
island just offshore. They got down to serious drumming for an hour
before lunch and then for several hours afterwards. They warmed up with
straightforward Native American rhythms. Oliver found that he could
contribute as long as he played the most basic beat.
In the afternoon, they got into a Latin groove. Raul assigned parts and
demonstrated the son clave. Oliver, another drummer, and a boy with a
triangle were to play just the clave. Thank God for the other drummer.
Oliver and the boy followed him through the center of the complications
as the group got into synch and began to rock. He felt a duty to do it
right, to keep the beat, keep the faith. When they broke up for the
day, he felt refreshed. They continued sporadically on the bus, but
later, when Oliver was by himself, he couldn't recapture the beat. This
irritated him.
"I bought a book," he told Jennifer the following week. "I guess I'm
not musical. It just isn't inside me naturally; I need help to hear it.
Anyway," he explained, "if you take 16 even beats, numbers 1,4,7,11,
and 13 are the son clave beats. So, it is asymmetrical within the 16
beats, but symmetrical outside; the pattern repeats every 16 beats.
That's what gives it that rocking quality--the train leans one way and
then pulls back and leans the other. Ba, ba, ba--baba. Ba, ba,
ba--baba."
"There you go," Jennifer said, "who says you aren't musical?"