CAVE-IN-ROCK
[Cave-In-Rock is a village in Hardin County, Illinois, population 346 at the 2000 census. It wasincorporated in 1839 and has a total area of 0.43 square miles, of which 0.05 is water.]
His glasses fall into the water. They fall into the water because they slipped off his face. They slipped off his face because he had taken them off to flick the crud from his tear ducts, something he had been doing so often he did it without thinking. Glasses off, thumb and middle finger of his left hand in a pinch and scoop, flick flick flick, glasses back on. Actually, they slipped off his face because he had said something funny or something that had struck her funny while digging the dried gook from his eyes and she had laughed that braying laugh of hers and punched him in the shoulder. So the glasses flew off his face, into the water, gone. The ferry sails on.
She says “Oh, no,” and he says “Shit,” and she says “I’m real sorry,” and he says “Damn,” and she says “I shouldn’t have punched you,” and he says “It wasn’t a punch, it was more of a slug,” and she says “I was being playful,” and he says “I know, that’s how you are,” and she says “I’m a loud girl. I can’t help it,” and he says “That’s what I like about you,” and she says “So don’t get mad,” and he says “I’m not mad. Or angry. Mad means insane,” and she says “Since when?” and he says “In England, when they say someone’s mad they mean they’re insane, crazy,” and she says “We’re not in England,” and he says “Yes, yes, I know. I’m just telling you the difference,” and she says “So don’t be angry with me,” and he says “I’m not angry, either with you or at you,” and she says “You look angry,” and he says “That’s because I’m squinting. I can’t see. I mean, I can see, I’m not totally blind, but I might as well be, and that was my new pair of glasses. With the exam, frames, and lenses, that’s nearly six hundred dollars just went into the drink,” and she says “I love that about you, how you sometimes use old-fashioned words,” and he says “Old-fashioned words?” and she says “Like saying ‘drink’ instead of ‘body of water.’ It’s real quaint. Charming. You’re sweet. How many fingers am I holding up?” and she laughs that laugh that makes everybody on the ferry turn around and look.
He wonders what he’s going to do. There’s nothing he can do. His spare pair – his old prescription – is at home. Another spare pair – an even older prescription – is at his office. He can see clearly if an object is a few inches from his face, but further than that and he might as well be looking at the world through a screen of wet gauze. He sweats about the glasses. The money for them didn’t come easy; the money – any money – never does. He’s supposed to get his eyes checked every year but he doesn’t because there’s always a whopping bill despite his insurance and AAA discount. No wonder his eyes get worse and worse and worse. Women have always told him “You have beautiful eyes” and he could care less. He’d rather have eyes that worked properly. And this woman, now…what was he really doing with her?
He says “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. They’re gone. Can’t dive in to go after them. God, it just makes me sick to my stomach,” and she says “So I guess the hike is off,” and he says “No, we’re almost there, let’s do it,” and she says “But if you can’t see anything, how are you going to enjoy it?” and he says “I live here, I’ve been over there hundreds of times, maybe not recently or not even in the past ten years, but I know the lay of the land,” and she laughs. He says “What’s so funny now?” and she says “It’s your turn of phrase. ‘Lay of the land.’ Get it? ‘Lay’?” and he says “Keep it down, will you?” and she says “Sorry,” and he says “No, don’t apologize, just try to keep up a modicum of discretion,” and she says “Modicum?” and he says “Forget it. Just remember we’re supposed to be discrete.”
He realizes, after all, that there will be no way to be discrete with her. Certainly not on a ferry in the middle of the day. There aren’t many travelers on board, but still…
She says “Listen to that.” He listens. She says “What is that?” He says “The wind through the caves,” and she says “Sounds like ghosts. Sounds like the moaning of souls in agony,” and he says “Yeah, they put that on all the travel brochures. The keening of the murdered, the victims of the pirates and highwaymen who roamed here and hid here and did all sorts of shenanigans here back in the day,” and she says “I wonder if there are any criminals around here now?” and he says “I doubt it, but I wouldn’t rule it out,” and she says “We’re having an adventure,” and he says “We certainly are,” and she says “Compliment my chest,” and he says “Compliment your chest?” and she says “Yeah, tell me I’ve got a great rack,” and he says “Do you have to say everything so loud?” and she says “Come on,” and he says “Why do you want me to tell you you’ve got a great rack now, in public?” and she says “Come on. Be a pig,” and he says “You’ve got a great rack, babe,” and she says “Only I guess you can’t see it so well right now,” and he says “I can see it. Them. Whatever,” and she laughs and all heads turn.
He wonders what he was thinking. Not thinking, really, because he’d given up on that some time ago. Imagining. He had been imagining something novel, something erotic, something dirty. He had been reacting to her confession to him the night he met her, or rather the night they had reunited after fifteen years of zero contact.
She had said “Why put a negative spin on it? Did you ever think that maybe I was keeping you in reserve, that I figured sooner or later Steve’d turn out to be a dud or lose his spark or charm or whatever and when he did I’d have you to come back to, maybe, because I figured you’d never lose your spark? Yeah, that sounds like a bullshit line, but did you ever think that maybe I’m telling you the truth? Don’t shake your head ‘no,’ I’m asking you to seriously consider it. Well, okay, maybe it is a line of bullshit. But that doesn’t mean it’s any less honest. Seriously! I was always crazy about you, still am. Do you know how often I thought about you, think of you? A ton. Truly. I know, I know…that look on your face, you think it’s more bullshit. So prove I’m lying. You’ve been on my mind all the time or pretty near all the time ever since. I didn’t say anything, haven’t reached out to you all these years because I thought you hated me. I don’t blame you if you did, or still do. Well, if you still hated me you wouldn’t have met me here, unless you wanted to see me to tell me off or throw a drink in my face or humiliate me, and as you haven’t done any of those things yet – yet being the operative word here – I’m guessing we’re okay, or if not okay then we’re good. It’s been a long time, sure. I know. The passion wears away. And by passion I mean love and I also mean hate. Which brings me around to what I was trying to tell you about Steve.
“Sure, I love him, love him at some basic level of loving – we’ve been through a lot. But I don’t love him like I love you. I’ll explain later, if I can. Or maybe you already know what I mean. There are levels of love. And if there aren’t, I’m saying that because I’m trying to give my feelings for Steve the benefit of the doubt. See? I said ‘doubt.’ As if I doubt I love him, or I doubt that what I originally felt for him was actually love. I was there for him during his coke years, and he’s been clean for the last ten, so that’s good, so I did something good for him, being there, or I did something good for him by being there. And we used to do things. Exciting things. Out of the blue things. Ever make love in the rain? Steve’d put me on the back of his bike and we’d go off to some forest preserve and there’d be one of those shelters or cabins where you can take a picnic or grill things and it’d start raining and he’d get me on my back on a picnic table and screw me till Sunday, if you know what I mean. The both of us, naked, soaking wet, two animals.
“I’m not sure if the face you’re making is one of disgust or if you’d rather not hear this. Anyway, that’s just one example of the way he used to be, the way we used to be. Spontaneous. I guess I never saw you doing something like that. That’s not a criticism. Everyone’s different, and sex with you was fantastic, too, I’m not lying, it was just…different. Of course it would be, Like I said, everyone’s different. But that’s how I was, then – crazy about sex in the rain on a surface where moms and dads and little kids ate baloney sandwiches and drank from juice boxes. Rutting. That’s the word, isn’t it? Rutting. It means two animals going at it. Right? Or not all animals, but deer or something?
“You think I’m a pig. I’m not. No, you don’t think I’m a pig. You had me plenty of times, too. We were young, you can get hooked on it. Right? I took away the sex. You were pissed. You had every right to be. But I didn’t lead you on. You knew about him and me the whole time. He didn’t know about you, and by the way, thank you for keep your mouth shut, then, about everything. That’s how I know you truly loved me as I loved you. Anybody else would’ve have been not only pissed off but out for retribution. Right? Anybody else would’ve gone to Steve and said ‘Hey, you know, she’s been screwing around with me all this time she’s been dating you, so how do you like that?’ But you didn’t. We had that moment, we had that last time together, and you just…went away. For a time there I held my breath, waiting for you to get in touch with Steve and tell him everything about us, but you didn’t, or if you did, Steve never said anything to me, and why would he never say anything about something like that to me? Right? I’d’ve been out on my ass, probably with a broken arm, too, or he’d’ve chucked me off the back of his bike while we were going eighty on a back road. God, I think about that possibility and I shudder. But had anything like that happened, I’d’ve just sat there on my ass or broken and bleeding by the side of the road thinking, ‘I deserve this; I deserve no better.’
“But I do deserve better; I deserve you. I’m not saying you have to do anything about it, or even agree with me, and I don’t want you thinking that if you still have some small patch of genuine lovingness left over for awful old me that I’m going to hold you to anything, that I’m going to show up on your doorstep in the middle of the night with a bag of clothes and my mascara running. Actually, I don’t wear mascara all that often, if ever, but you get the picture. If I get rid of Steve – and anything’s possible – I’ll figure out how to do it, or let it happen gradually, or wait for that one big final blow-up, that point of no return. I’m just suggesting that maybe, if the feeling is mutual between us, and I think it might still be, as you’re here and we’re talking, maybe what we could do is just…figure out a way to hang out every so often. And mess around. Because I still need that. I’m not a pig. We’d have to be sneaky, though. You’re smart. You could figure something out. God, I wish I could read that look on your face. What are you thinking?”
The ferry lands with a gentle bump. He says “You’re going to have to lead me off this thing. I might misjudge what I’m looking at and wind up in the river.” She takes his hand. He feels like a flipped-over turtle, his soft parts exposed and ready for the hawks. He had imagined he’d hold her hand, but not because he needed assistance but because he would lead the way. Instead, he tells her what to look for, and she finds the road to the path to the caves. He realizes he’s worn the wrong shoes. Up and over the first fallen tree and around the first bend, trodding sticks and rocks, he wishes he’d worn his hiking boots. But he had had a premonition of himself, taking her from behind, in front of the big cave, stark naked except for his clunky hiking boots. What an idiot he is, he thinks. Who’s to say the scenario he’d planned would be anything but embarrassing and uncomfortable? There was a chilly breeze; he’d never be able to perform. There was his physique, too, to consider, not the same physique he’d been sporting fifteen years before. He felt like a man hiding in a display of throw pillows half the time. Why had he let himself go like this? Sure, he walked, he jogged, he did sit-ups and push-ups, but probably not as often as he should, and not enough. Or perhaps he was simply getting old like everybody else. Like her. His calves begin to ache.
She held his hand tightly. He says “Can we stop?” They stop. He looks around. Everything is a smear of brown, white, green. He doesn’t know where they are. He thinks if they just keep going in a wide arc to the left they’ll be at the big cave. She says “It’s beautiful,” and he says “Or so I remember,” and she says “And to think you live here,” and he says “Not here, but in town,” and she says “And all this time you were just a half hour away from me, in another state,” and he says “Yep,” and she says “Are you tired?” and he says “My feet hurt. Wrong shoes,” and she says “I suppose I could’ve said yes to the motel. But we’d’ve had to drive pretty far to find a motel where nobody we knew worked,” and he says “I don’t know anybody who works at a motel,” and she doesn’t say anything. He takes her hand, takes the lead. She says “Are you sure you can see where you’re going?” and he says “I can make out shapes, colors…I generally know what everything is. The details are gone, but I know what everything is. Here’s a tree. Here’s a big rock. I don’t know what that is,” and she says “A transistor radio. Somebody must’ve dropped it,” and he says “Don’t pick it up.”
She lets go of his hand and stops. He turns around. He says “You okay?” and she says “Kiss me.” She says this quietly, shyly. He hasn’t heard her quiet voice in a very long time, and he can’t help but be drawn to it. He takes two steps and breaks his ankle. She screams. The pain is gigantic. He passes out.
He awakens. She says “The good news is there’s no protruding bone,” and he says “Get help,” and she says “I can help you out of here,” and he says “Don’t be stupid, it’ll take forever for me to hop out of here, and I’m really in too much pain to move,” and she says “What should I do? I don’t have my cell,” and he says “Can you find your way back to the ferry?” and she says “I’m sure I can,” and he says “Just go back the way we came, if you can remember,” and she says “I can remember, we haven’t been walking that long,” and he says “We’re near the water, you can see it from here. Well, maybe you can see it from here, I can’t see anything. Just follow the river, if need be,” and she laughs. It’s the big laugh, the big, hearty hiccups of laughter. A couple of birds get the hell out of the trees. He says “What’s so funny?” and she says “You always make me laugh. It’s just you,” and he says “Go, go,” and she says “Maybe we could do something…you know, dirty,” and he says “Right now? I think I’ve broken my goddamned ankle!” and she says “Now, or when I get back. I’ll go get help, but they won’t get here right away, so either way we’d have time to screw. You wouldn’t have to move; I can get on top of you,” and he says “Oh, for Christ’s sake, go, go!” and she turns around and trots away.
He sits back on the dirt path, propped up on his elbows, his ankle bright with pain, the world a blur. He hears the wind sighing in the caves, the supposed echoes of those tortured and killed. He thinks of her, envisions her finding help, imagines her returning to him. He can imagine this now, and he has no doubts.
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