Sunday Scribbling #152: Lost

From my (long) short story "Bitterroot," a snippet of Traci and Ben:

She saw the little feral boy peek out from Ben’s eyes—she’d once known his movements quite well, lured him out with her voice, fed him from her hand. She felt his pull, but she wasn’t sure it was her place to go there anymore. Before she calmed him all those years ago, he was a wild squirrel in the attic, crazed and frantic. Moments like these, free of the buzz of Ray-chatter, defenses down, the freeze frames of two heads in her bed almost—almost—ran to a blur of ink. She had no problem understanding the love she felt for this man when they were together; what she couldn’t fathom was the tenderness that came unbidden—most times, surmounting her willful refusal—for this demolition man who had all but destroyed her. Was she not far away enough? Was Montgomery too close? There were times she thought Atlanta, Raleigh, Virginia Beach. All with hospitals who said they’d take even her, with her sad sack withering skills, so-so evaluations, and recommendations full of backhanded and faint praise. She even made a trip up to Virginia, got as far as Charlottesville, walked around its pretty pedestrian malls, imagined herself living in streets full of gorgeous fall leaves, sat for hours in a coffeeshop, nursing a drink she couldn’t even pronounce, and then felt the unmistakable hook of that boy’s imploring eyes. She never made it to the beach.

In the old days, the boy would shiver. Sticky hot Mississippi summer outside, but inside shaking like an icy wind had just cut through the pine trees. Lying in bed, Traci would pull him in close to her, lying against his back, trying desperately to warm something frozen at the core of him, frozen beyond the reach of human touch. She might calm the shaking, but still feel the polar regions so far beyond her wingspan. In the evenings’ progressions, lovemaking may have entered the equation, but desire and sex were never at the heart of their anguished toil, not those nights.

She saw that the shaking had taken him over, and she felt a desolation in the room that could only have been his. She wished for desire—desire she could defy, strike down, nullify. Compassion was a godawful sticky mess, and she was sick of it. Compassion was a leash.

She moved to the bed at his side, and gently pulled him onto it with her. She reached down and pulled his boots off, then pulled the spread from the other bed over them. He rolled over, slid down a bit on the bed, and pressed his head up against her chest. Listened to the beat of her heart, heard the faint growl in her belly. And slept.

Image:
Cy Twombly, The Rose (IV), 2008