© Sauce*Box, Fall 1997. All rights
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Spring Rain
by Lisa Prosimo
The rain came, mean rain on a spring day cruel as winter, and she stood in the middle of the meadow, crying because she'd been so stupid. She knew the rain would come, as it did every year at this time, and still Jane had ignored the broken generator, relied on fate to decide if the rain would come hard enough to bring down the power lines. It did. Soaked and shivering, her boots caked with mud, hair plastered to the sides of her cheeks, she worked furiously to beat the descending darkness and divert the rising water away from the barn. Under her slicker the sweat poured from her armpits down the sides of her torso and onto her panties. She hadn't perspired like that since she had danced in the chorus of the San Francisco ballet. Stupid, stupid. No elaborate dinner tonight for Scott and his friends, on their way from Berkeley to enjoy spring break in the wilds of Montana.
Jane's shovel clawed the ground beneath her with a frenzy and she was so intent on beating time that she failed to notice the ascending dot in the distance, set against the backdrop of a falling sky, rushing toward her as if on a stream. And as the speck drew closer, it transformed itself into a four wheel drive vehicle, the tires biting into and swallowing the mud. Jane was suddenly relieved her son had the good sense to rent the proper car in this awful weather. The jeep stopped just outside the open gate, the door swung open and a blond head, not belonging to her Scott, popped out. Jane waved.
"Hi," he shouted. "Should I walk in? I'm afraid the car will sink in the mud if I drive it inside."
She beckoned the blond young man while trying to peer inside the rain for evidence of her son and his girlfriend. The boy wasn't properly dressed for a rainstorm, his bomber jacket, light slacks and running shoes completely out of place in this harsh landscape. When he jumped out of the jeep, suitcase in hand, his feet sank evenly into the muddy grasses surrounding the fence. Jane tried to erase the smirk on her face as he made his way through the heavy goop, but he looked so funny, so tender, that she couldn't help being amused. A native Californian, no doubt.
"Set your suitcase inside the barn," she ordered. "Then take up a shovel and help me get this finished before the light is gone." So was her introduction, and although he looked a bit perplexed, he quickly recovered and did what Jane asked.
They worked steadily, without speaking, moving the earth, trying to fool the rain, and finished the task just as the daylight died.
"You can forget those shoes until the lines are up and the washing machine is working," she said, as he pulled off the ruined footwear. "By the way, I'm Jane. Where's Scott and Jennifer?"
They were inside the house and as he talked Jane lit the candles she had gathered. His voice was shy, a lopsided grin on his face as he explained that he wasn't sure where Scott and Jennifer were. "The last I saw him, he was standing at a ticket counter trying to get Jennifer to change her mind about going back to Berkeley."
"Is that so?"
"They had a terrible fight on the plane. I don't know about what, but when we landed she was very angry. Scott handed me the paper for the rental car and said when he and Jennifer had worked it out, they would rent another car and meet up with us." He shrugged. "I'm Mark Kessler. Hello . . . and thanks for allowing me to visit." He stuck out his hand and Jane took it, feeling a bit foolish for her initial lack of hospitality.
"My son always falls in love too hard," she said. A smile wrinkled Mark's lip. "Yeah, I think so, too," he said. Tall and muscular, Jane wondered if Mark played some sport, but she didn't ask. His hair was dripping wet and he was shivering inside his skimpy clothes.
"I'll get some oil lamps going and figure out something for us to eat for dinner. We can take showers and get all this mud off. Hope you don't mind cold water." Mark nodded, gave Jane a look that said she had answered his prayer.
The potatoes skins crackled and the smell of sizzling steaks on the hearth filled the room. Jane tossed a salad and served the wine at room temperature. She dragged out Scott's boom box and was relieved to find the batteries still worked. "How about a little Mozart with dinner?" Jane asked.
"Sure, why not? All this is wonderful," he said, surveying the room. "Thank you so much."
Mark spoke simply, a hint of humility in his voice, which both pleased and surprised Jane. He was grateful for her effort, one she considered to be minimal, and she was touched by the clarity of his manner, the simple straightforward way he addressed her.
Jane asked the obligatory questions about school; about Mark's background and interests, and he answered each of her questions, taking turns speaking and funneling food into his mouth, moving his body in quick thrusts, grabbing for the bread, the wine, reminding Jane of the way new colts move, unsure of their actions, yet comfortable in their bodies. He told her how he and Scott had met in psychology class, and when studying a unit on grief, had discovered they had lost their fathers around the same time. "We started to talk," he said. "And, well . . . you know."
Of course she knew. Scott's grief had been her own, and she felt a resurgence of that grief as she listened to Mark. At least she could deal with it now, some three years later when thoughts of Jack no longer sent her into a dark pit of gloom.
I n spite of the fact she spent the majority of her life alone, Jane was not a lonely person. She loved the small ranch and her horses. Doing all that needed to be done required more hours than she had, and there wasn't much time left over to dwell on her solitude.
Without asking, Jane threw another steak on to cook and opened a second bottle of wine. It gave her pleasure to watch Mark eat. "I used to hate to eat when I was a kid," he said. "I'd run under the bed at dinnertime." He laughed. "I was a very scrawny kid."
She was tempted to say, "My, look how you've grown," but she didn't, and she was thankful to have someone to feed who enjoyed her food, and her company. Such a sweet young man; an endearing quality about him, a friendly open face. They sat on the floor across from each other in front of the blazing fire, plates in their laps, like comrades. Scott always said his dad and mother had a talent for making his friends feel at home, that after awhile Scott's friend's became theirs as well.
"Mozart," Mark said, "is great, but do you have any Billie Holiday, or Tony Bennett?" Jane was amused and only mildly surprised by his request.
After dinner Mark lumbered to his feet, wiped his hands against his thighs, and gave a slight bow. "May I have a dance, Mrs. Haigh?" Jane nodded and extended her hand. He pulled her up and she slid into his arms. Her body fit against his nicely. Breasts she feared were beginning to sag in this her forty-second year, felt supple next to his chest. Warmth flooded her limbs as he drew her across the floor in a liquid motion, one dance, and then another. Half a dozen, and the look in this handsome young man's face let her know that she had ceased to be the mother of his friend.
Parts of Jane had died with her husband, even before Jack actually took his last breath, months before, when the doctors had operated to remove his prostate in hopes of saving his life. She had not allowed herself to think about being touched, even forbade her dreams to conjure up images of lust, and had been content to sleep alone. She had adored Jack, even going so far as to leave the world she loved behind to please him. The consummate California girl, transplanted to Montana by a husband who had a dream of horses running through grassland, wild little boys riding on their backs. Part of the dream came true, all of the dream became Jane's. Propinquity stopped her from longing to return to freeways and shopping malls; she had become one with this strange vista. For three years, her memories of Jack had been enough, until tonight, when this boy who moved and smelled so much like her son, touched her, his caress letting her know he wanted her, specifically. Could she blame the wine for the feelings that flowed through her? Yes, she might reason that wine had always made her mellow and giddy, and roaring fires had a way of working a special magic. And there were all those candles placed on almost every flat surface in the room. The entire setting was designed, though unwittingly, for her to drift on a current of passion, pull a no-brainer, all nerve endings and jumping muscles. She might have chosen to ignore the boy's body language, suppress her own, act as if she noticed nothing happening between them. But Jane had never lied to herself and the thought of conjuring up excuses didn't appeal to her. Wine or no, her mind was clear, anchored in lucidity. Here was a young man, beautiful, inviting her to have him. The question was simple. Did she want him tonight?
Ten years ago, she would have sworn that she could never be in this situation. Impossible. But ten years ago there was Jack, and she had never gone hungry. Faced with Mark's desire she realized she was ravenous, and that made the impossible plausible, the plausible, real. Yes, she decided. She would have him, and answered his overture by pressing her genitals firmly into his. All her years of abstinence imploded in a rush of heat between her legs, ending her sexual nonexistence.
When Jane's son was small, he used to play so rough, get into his games so completely, he'd grit his teeth and slam his form into her body, squashing her breasts. Making love with Mark was a little like that. Although he had an aptitude for lovemaking, he was impetuous, uncertain as to which parts of her to fill, and in his greed he filled them all, much to her delight; coming with the force of a wrecking ball against concrete.
Jack's touch was silken; his hands had meandered all over her body as if in slow motion, giving her all the time she'd needed. This was different, and yet Mark's touch brought back a sense of the past, her sixteenth summer at a mountain camp, when on a sultry night among tall grasses, hymens popped like Bazooka bubbles, hers among them. It had been a wonderful summer, full of discovery and the heightened bliss one can only know at sixteen. With each meshing of hips and lips, Jane pulled some of the flavor from that time back into her being. Poised under him, she reached up and placed one hand on each of his hips, as if to steady him.
"Am I hurting you?," he asked.
"No," she said, and a small laugh tumbled forth. "I was thinking that I'm a little like kibble and you're like a puppy who hasn't eaten in a long while."
"I'm not doing this right," he said sheepishly.
"Oh, you're doing it right. You're just doing it too fast."
"It's been a long time for me, and you're incredibly sexy."
"Am I?" Jane sat up and smoothed the hair from his forehead. Youth was so beautiful, so smooth and hard. "Let me make love to you," she said. "I don't want you to do anything. Just lie back and let me do it." He looked puzzled, but he smiled and she saw he trusted her.
He stretched out along the rug, placed his arms behind his head and looked up at her. Jane knelt over him, one leg pinned on either side of his body. Her hair grazed his face and her breasts rested against his. Their breaths mingled; she barely touched her lips to his. Her tongue brushed his chin lightly, circled all around his neck, over his collarbone, and down across his chest, wetting him thoroughly as she moved. He shivered under her, gave a gentle sigh as she continued her bath, moving her tongue lower, to his belly button, dipping inside. He moaned, moved his hips and she felt the sting of his erection against her soft middle. She pressed against him lightly, teasingly, while her tongue continued its work, making its way down to the soft hair around his penis. She slipped her hand over his shaft, moved her fingers down and held his flesh securely. "I want you to tell me when you feel like coming," she whispered.
"I feel like coming now," he said.
Jane slid her hand up, keeping a tight but gentle grip on him. "Concentrate on not coming. When I squeeze lightly, think about relaxing; let your body float down." After a few moments, she felt Mark's body relax. "That's it," she coaxed. "Nice and easy." Her mouth came down on the velvet tip and she flicked her tongue all around, barely wetting him.
He began to tense beneath her again and she again gave him a gentle squeeze, reminding him to relax. She knelt between his legs, pushed them apart, and kept her hand wrapped around the swollen head, while with the other pulled up his balls and began to lick all around, over and under. He moaned again, reached out to grab a breast, but pulled back as she breathed, "no." She was driving him crazy she knew, and the sensation of her being in charge made her more intoxicated than the wine she'd had with dinner. Her mouth went over his spicy sweet cock, riding it down as far as her lips would go. She held him closed, defying his release, and kneaded, clutched, and tweaked his heavy balls. He groaned in rapture, begged her to let him come. But she didn't acknowledge his pleas, kept sucking him, licking him, heightening, while withholding his pleasure.
"Please," she heard him whisper above her. "Please." He touched her hair lightly and as if waking from a trance, she released him. Jane leaned away from Mark, her eyes fastened to his cock, now purpled-veined and straining into the air.
He looked down, too. "I didn't come," he said, his voice filled with wonder. She smiled, rose over him, opened herself to him and slid down over him, filling her body with his penis. She tightened her muscles around him, grasped and drew him further into her, matching his moans. Slowly, she raised herself until all but the tip of his cock was inside her.
"I'm still with you," he said, his voice filled with the triumph of discovery.
She rode him, writhed against him, selfish now, her pulsating clit with a mind of its own, overriding her desire to teach, to nurture. She wanted only to satisfy her own desire. A surge of sensation traveled the crest of a scream that burst forth from Jane's lips. Her entire body responded to the earthquake taking place inside her. "Now," she cried, "come with me, now!"
She was drowning, Mark's kisses smothering her. She moved her tongue rapidly inside his mouth, over his teeth. She was faintly aware of his cries against her lips as she continued to bounce over him lost inside the wave of passion they'd created. One spasm, two, and she was shattered, conscious of his hot fluid flooding her insides. In her throat, a cry of joy, strangled. Their lovemaking, furtive and even a little silly earlier, had turned into something exquisite. She closed her eyes and stroked Mark's body, and for a moment, transcended time and distance, and imagined she was reaching out to a lost love, to Jack, in a way.
Jane curved into Mark's body as he slept, the gentle radiance of the fire falling across his face, giving him the look of a contented child, while in the night she listened to the wind as it rushed through her canyon in fierce competition with the rain. Each element fought for sovereignty, and Jane knew the morning light would reveal a draw; both would be victorious over her meadow and forest, the leaves on the trees and the wild mountain grasses rendered slack, exhausted by the deluge.
They woke in the gray of dawn. Mark whispered, "You're very beautiful, Jane. Do you believe in love at first sight?"
"No," she said.
He laughed. "Neither do I."
Mark knelt before the hearth, piled one log on top of another and stirred the flame. Jane watched his back and arm muscles move under the skin. She reached out and placed her hand on him, lightly drawing her fingers across his shoulders. He turned to her and grabbed at her hand. "Do you think we might see each other . . ."
"No," she said. "We won't."
"But . . . why not?"
She did not know his needs; if there were parts of his life that had been broken, perhaps by a girl. Maybe he looked upon her as someone who could help fix something. Glue for the body or the soul. She had always prided herself for her practicality. If there is something broken, she thought, it will mend. He had his whole life ahead of him.
"Because it isn't necessary," she said.
He looked sad to hear her pronouncement, but his eyes let her know he would honor her decision.
She moved closer to him. "Make love with me again," she said.
A tentative sun fell across Jane's eyes as she swam upwards from a dream where frogs on gently swaying lily pads croaked wildly. Mark was pushing against her, whispering, "It's Scott. He's honking. Wake up, Jane."
They pulled on their clothes and Jane surveyed the room. There were the discarded dinner dishes, the empty wine bottles, the faint scent of sex, and all those candles, burned down hours ago, like used-up devotionals in an abandoned Church.
She opened the door. Scott embraced his mother and nodded to his friend. He waved his hands in a sweeping gesture, as if to say, "What's going on here?" Instead of speaking, he motioned to his girlfriend.
"Mom . . . this is Jennifer," he said, nudging the girl toward Jane. "So nice to meet you," said Jennifer, a benign smile on her face. Behind the smile, a bemused knowing look, part mocking, part admiration. As Jennifer sniffed the air, Jane decided she did not like Scott's new girlfriend. She returned the smile.
"The lines went down again," said Jane, "and the generator's broken." Scott nodded and flipped the switch near the door. The lamp came on. "Seems to be working fine now," he said.
Mark brushed past his friend, mumbled, "I'll check on the trench we dug. See how it held up during the night," and went out the door.
Scott took a step closer to Jane. "Mom . . . I want to explain what happened, why Jennifer and I are so late getting here."
"There's no need," said Jane. "You're a grown-up, honey. You don't need to explain your actions to me."
Scott's features clouded in confusion. He looked around the room again. "But, Mother . . . I want to hear about the storm. All about it."
Jane shrugged. "What can I tell you about storms that you don't already know? There was a lot of thunder and lightening, exploding clouds. But it's over now."
Again, Scott looked around the room, then at Jane. His eyes asked the question he could not articulate.
Jane's eyes answered her son's. "No more questions," they said. She leaned over and drew Scott's head down and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Welcome home," she said. Then she turned away and began to clean up the mess.
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