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Passage
part 2
by Feech
Carmel pulls me up against him and rocks me
slowly, in time to that music again. They just
keep on playin' it. All the romantic shit.
I pull out the other side of his shirt and
place both my hands underneath, rolling handfuls
of his furred skin in my palms. He makes another
complimentary sound and lowers his head to the pit
of my shoulder, running his hands over my shirt.
Doesn't he know he could reach underneath mine,
too? I hint at it by bringing my hands back
around front and brushing his nipples with my
fingers.
Like the obedient, sexy man that I have him
pegged for, Carmel gradually works my shirt out
from its place crumpled in between my pants and my
short-tailed ass and begins running his hands over
my skin and fur.
I lay him down on the couch. He's watching
my face, touching me every place I touch him, and
I can smell plainly that he wants this, but I
don't care for the caution he's exercising. Don't
tell me you're going to ask for more stories,
Carmel. I don't think I need to tell you the
rest. Not to enjoy this. Damn, I want this.
"I never... really..." I kiss him again.
Both our mouths are moister this time. "...
wanted this."
He appears a little sheepish. "I never
really had this."
A few minutes ago I would have thought he was
shitting me if he said that, but I don't figure he
is. Either way, makes no difference. But at the
same time I shrug it off mentally, in the back
behind the shrugging is this joyful
bouncing-up-and-down giddy little completely
sugar-buzzed girl shrieking, 'He likes me! He
really likes me or he wouldn't do it the first
time with me!'
We work at massaging each other's backs and
shoulders and napes of necks and he presses his
chin over the back of my neck and my head,
occasionally stopping to nibble my hands or check
out my breasts. Oh, yeah, right, all of a sudden,
Miss High-and-Mighty Mara LeSard, your tits have
become 'breasts.' Like because you have a man
like Carmel Sherwood touching them you've somehow
become this snobby-ass society chick with people
giving a fuck about your looks. There isn't much
there for tits, anyway. But Carmel finds them and
what there is of them sends delighted little
telegraphs to my brain about the results.
I reach into the Realms below his
wrinkle-free garments and find that he does,
indeed, have a tail-- a short and very silky one.
Its silkiness is attached to bone and muscle and I
begin to gently rub it, which seems to please him.
Parts of me he's not even touching are growing
fairly hot.
I take a minute to pant and catch the wetness
of my mouth before I reach to kiss him again; as
soon as I back away I know I want to take my shirt
all the way off. I glance at him, but not for
long and not really waiting to see if he wants me
to or not. He's not exactly cold and
disinterested, either.
I begin to pull the cotton tee up over my
face, and he lets go so I can. Still he has to go
and ask, "Mara, are you sure you want this?"
I just nod. I thought we had that _done_
with, Carmel. No, see, I just go around stripping
in men's homes as part of a demonstration on
rodent control. Can you control this rodent? Did
you know that rats multiply like metal coat
hangers? What other naked females are chewing
holes in your woodwork this very moment? _Fuck_
yeah, I want this!
He wraps his arms around my bare torso, but I
still feel a question. He kisses me on the
forehead, with a little lick, but there's
something holding him back.
Then, he sighs. Damn. He's going to ask
something else. I almost feel the tears coming,
before I let them know how horrified I am at their
appearance and they slink back where they came
from. Not now. He doesn't have to know how
upsetting this can be.
"What happened?"
I try to enclose his mouth in mine, but he's
taller and, at the moment, more determined than I
am. I'm on the edge of something I've felt
before, close to despair, and I don't know if I
can fight it and come out on top. Maybe if I sort
of just ride it and see if I get washed up
somewhere safe.
As soon as he sees that I'm not going to try
too hard to avoid the question, Carmel settles in
on his side with our ribs lined up to one another.
He has his shirt off now, too, and I would like to
be spending my time experiencing our chests
touching without any interference of clothing or
past mistakes. I stroke his lower back, but I'm
frowning and distracted by those damn tears. They
may have gone into hiding, but they're still
peeking out of their little trenches, damn them.
Carmel touches the crease of my chest. "Why
wasn't your family available to talk to that night?"
I duck my head into his masculine-smelling
torso. There's nothing more to say but the last
thing. There are always more jokes, there are
more things to _say_, but for once, once and for
all, there are no more ways to stall. I could say
anything but the final truth and it would be the
wrong thing. I don't think I could bear Carmel's
expression becoming any more stern than it already
is. He's sorry for stopping me, because he knows
now that I want this.
Why did I have to want this? Why couldn't I
have stayed away from anyone who would care enough
to ask? Damnit, I could have at least picked
someone that _I_ didn't care about. It's when
both people care that you get into trouble. But I
never thought of that, and now it's too late. I
care what he thinks, so that it hurts before I
even tell him. And he cares about knowing me,
knowing who he's holding, Goddamnit, so he hurts
me by asking. He has this serious-gentle
expression on his face like a war doctor in the
movies. Going to set the leg and knows it's going
to hurt like Hell.
"Why me, Carmel?"
He smiles, but still the concern is there for
the answer I'm unable to truly avoid anymore.
Asking a question isn't buying me any time. We
both know, now, it's down to the one thing.
Everything is related to it. The _why_ is related
to it.
"When Susan and I picked you up after your--
attempt. Right away, right then. You said we
hadn't caught you at a good time; you were polite
to us when others would have been angry, and you
made sure we knew that lying there and crying
wasn't something you'd usually allow yourself to
be seen doing. That your appearances mattered to
you, that at the same time anyone else mattered to
you, impresses me. Appearances and people are
important to me, too. And I admire you more the
more I know you. You can make me laugh. I do
appreciate that."
I sniffle a little, holding back a cough as
the things that I must say jumble into the back of
my throat and wait their turns. I can't tell
whether the tones of my own stifled voices are
jeering, or angry, or wailing. "You're too
damn... good."
"Did I mention you are beautiful?"
I shut my eyes, tight. "Carmel."
He hovers just over my face, bending to blow
a little breath over me where I'm still hiding in
his chest. I can hear him almost begin to shush
me, but he stops, as if fearing the sound might
offend or startle me. Instead, he hugs me,
speaking clearly: "You can tell me."
There's nothing for it. If there were _no_
choices when I stepped out into that traffic,
there are even _fewer_ choices now. The one I
didn't know I had has cared about me into a
corner. I feel my lungs locking onto the air
they've got, as if I'm going to be sinking into
deep water. My mouth, my forced-closed eyes, my
hands in their frozen states right over his fur,
even my throat, all clog up on me. I can't say a
single word in any sort of respectable fashion. I
have to whisper, and I have to do it fast, before
even that is taken from me.
"I shot 'im."
Now, this man, with ears twice as long and
just as sensitive as mine, leans in closer to my
buried and stiffened mouth, and asks me, "Wh-- I'm
sorry-- ?" And I know he's sorry, he sounds it
and feels it all over, but damn it, Carmel, aren't
you a rabbit for any reason at all? But I have to
say it again, and a _third_ time. And still I
haven't opened my eyes and my mouth is moving
uncontrollably in mechanical doll like gaping. On
the third whisper, he finally decides he's really
heard me. His whole body goes stiff under my
arms. Remarkably, his arms are still around me.
I think I begin to see land. But can she make it
in before she drowns? Oh God.
"Who?" He asks.
"M-- my brother."
Carmel is definitely not relaxed. I couldn't
have expected that, really. But there are traces
of horror in his demeanor. No, please, Carmel,
listen to the whole story. At least that. Don't
shut me out now.
Not that any amount of retelling could ever
make it all right. I just want him to hear me
out. As if maybe, in the time between its
happening and this particular night there might
have come some breakthrough that will make all the
horror moot.
"Why?"
He's still Carmel, and he's still asking.
I try to draw in breath, but I'm not having
much luck. I remember the scent of the
highway-black powder that spread back out over my
wrist, and I know it's too late to stop
remembering, or telling, now. If he doesn't ask
me for the whole story, I'll die trying to keep it
in.
Guns and cars have scents somewhat alike, I
realize. Deadly and oily. Any kid on the South
side could handle a gun. It was all one to us.
All blackness and oil and ear-splitting noise was
one and the same. It could kill you or it might
miss. Who gave a fuck.
I did. "He was going to-- hurt someone."
I gnaw on the air, my jaws working on
nothing. I'm seeing things in front of my closed
eyes that I don't want to see. I want to look at
Carmel's face, but I fear it. I've seen him
angry, but never with me. My body begins to heave
as if wind is whipping it.
"Why aren't you crying?" His voice is so
soft, I can't believe it's him for a minute. For
a minute, I almost look up to see where I am. But
it's Carmel, and when I can catch any inkling of
scent from the air I can tell that his emotions
are battering against the inside of his chest,
too. But his voice is barely raised. He sounds
like he's saying a prayer in his church.
I shake my head desperately. "No. I don't--
want to."
Still, his hands are over my frozen
shoulders. "Where is the rest of your family?
How did this happen?"
"I-- we-- it was just-- just the two of us.
Mom and the little brother had gone off to-- look
for work somewhere. Mom tried she-- she tried--"
Carmel strokes the side of my neck. The
world has not yet ended. Maybe it's hanging on to
make me suffer a little longer. Yet, I've opened
the vault where I keep these things and out they
came... If I say it all, is that any kind of
release? I can almost imagine some sort of hope
in the speaking of all this... this fucking shit
I've brought upon _myself_, but what was I
supposed to do? Like I had any fucking training.
So I would have known how to use my gun arm. I
tell you, I am a pretty good shot. If I was a
fucking policewoman, I would've known how to be
cool and shoot just right. But it's done. I
couldn't believe how quickly such a thing could be
done.
"Do you know where she is now?"
God_damn_ it Carmel, how can you be so smooth
and collected? I don't know whether I'm glad he's
still sane about it or whether to fear that this
means he's left me, detached from this sharing; I
couldn't blame him if he did. I rub a paw against
his chest and feel the tightness. No, this isn't
easy for him. He's working at it, hard. We're
working together, then, for this instant. If he'd
stay a moment longer. Did you hear me? _He was
going to hurt someone else_. I was only a fucking
kid. I _am_ only a fucking kid. I didn't know
what else to do.
"I don't--" I gasp, trying to remember how to
pull air into my lungs and speak with it. You'd
think I'd have instinct for things like breathing
and heartbeat, but damned if it hasn't all fucking
left me. "I don't know. I-- I ran away."
"Do the police know? Does anyone know?"
Now I do look at him. Don't you start with
me, Carmel Sherwood. Don't you start any of this
shit with me. Maybe you're rich and have a
fucking huge house with carpeting and all that
matters to you and maybe you _matter_ to other
people but-- I realize I'm not saying any of
this, just staring at him with eyes that are not
tearing, thank God, so I start speaking: "I don't
think you realize how many-- corpses-- litter the
South side in that neighborhood. They only check
it out if somebody cares. Nobody cares."
"Your mother?"
I shake my head, again. "I couldn't face
her." My mouth crumples in on itself and I focus
on his chestfur; anything but his huge eyes and
the concern on his face.
"So, to her, and to your youngest brother,
you both disappeared."
I nod. Sick but true. What can you do. I
should have done something long ago. But I'm a
bitch. Now it's a couple years I haven't seen
her. For all she knows, we both got shot dead in
a brawl or some drug episode we came up alongside
of. But with me, there's not even a body to dig
up rumors of. With my brother, there was a dead
body. He bled, so at first I figured he was
alive. But he was just bleeding out the rest of
his time here. It didn't take long, and then
there was _still_ a body. I don't think you
understand what that's like, unless you've been
there with your wrist burning from the powder and
your brother that looks like you lying with his
head up against a wall that's always been a roach
haven and has all those cracks in it that suddenly
look like an extension of the blood tracks on his
shirt. He was _still there_.
So there was only one thing left for me to
do. I had to run. It was finished, but the body
of the one piece of family I had left to me was
lying there as he'd been flung back against the
wall. His hand was loosely gripping the gun he'd
been swinging around while he smoked something
sick-sweet and mentioned out the side of his mouth
how this one kid was gonna get it.
"Don't," I said, leveling at him with the
handgun. This was nothing new. It didn't even
phase him. I'd threatened to shoot him plenty of
times before. But that was always for sibling
squabbles. It was never about him leaving,
stepping out of my sight, and doing something to
someone when I couldn't even see him. I knew I
couldn't let him do that. I knew it.
He chuckled. I was always so funny. Waving
guns around like I was somebody's business. "Shit
Mara, put that thing away."
"You gonna kill the kid?"
"Fuck yeah."
It burned in me. I hadn't felt anything like
that desperation. Not when Mamma walked away with
the youngest of us to try and dig up a job
somewhere, not when Ranny got sick on that fucking
overdose of some cocktail he took and had shakes
and fevers and said strange things to me and I
tried to contact Mamma at the phone number she
left and couldn't. It burned like a stove burn,
like I'd leaned on fire with the heel of my hand,
only it was all inside where there was no heart
and no stomach; somewhere in between.
"You better not."
He laughed at me. "You're cute when you're
angry."
I almost relented. He'd heard that around
from guys to their chicks and he knew I liked to
be compared to a woman, even if I was his sister
and would never be really pretty like the girls he
saw some places when they were drunk and didn't
know he was watching. He told me this stuff when
_he_ was drunk. A curl of white smoke like
something out of a smarmy Christmas movie drifted
up from the roll in his mouth. It all looked so
surreal, Ranny and I standing there with guns, the
smoke, his cocky expression and the way we
shivered because the air inside our condemned
place was cold. It looked so surreal that I
couldn't believe any other people really lived,
anywhere, or that he could go out and hurt them.
I pushed back some of the thick brown hair that
had snuck up over my shoulder. I had unruly hair.
It got in the way of my aim, so I instinctively
pushed it back.
"Little Sister, put the damn gun down."
That was the first that I realized he had
seen what I was feeling. Any other time, he would
have walked out the door with never another look
back. And I would have put the gun in a warped,
dresserless dresser-drawer and that would have
been it, until another day. But something told
him. And at that moment, I could not relent.
Because he saw it. It was there. And he was
going to do something I could not let him do out
of my sight. I couldn't be responsible for a
death I wasn't even there for.
"You ain't gonna do it, Ranny."
He narrowed his eyes. He wasn't much older
than me, really, but he was taller. He was still
letting his gun swing on his finger. I didn't
have quite the dexterity to do that. I held mine
with both hands every time I picked it up.
"Goddamn _fuck_ I am!"
"Don't shout!"
"DAMN! FUCK! I'll SHOUT if I Goddamn WANNA!"
blam.
just like that.
I didn't even expect to do it then. It was
like he'd pulled the trigger himself.
I stood over him with the gun still in hand,
gaping at his chest, looking for breath or some
other such dumb thing _God_ what the fuck was I
thinking.
He'd been standing close enough to the wall
that he fell with his head propped up on it. I
thought of calling the police. Then I remembered
never to call the police. It was something we
didn't do. I could kill everyone on the block if
I called the police, I believed. They would come
in firing and shouting and I didn't think I could
take any more loud noises. And I didn't want to
do anything else wrong. Where I came from,
phoning the police was wrong.
So I ran.
"I'm sorry, Mara. Please listen to me. I
have a fear of things being left undone. I have
this sense of-- need, I guess, for 'Justice', and
I just want to know that things are taken care of.
Please let me know what I can do."
It takes me about four ages to understand who
this man is that is talking to me.
"I-- nothing. There is nothing to do. I
don't--"
He curves a paw on either side of my face and
regards me closely. I can see from his nostrils'
movements how quickly his body is working to keep
up with the emotions, the fear, but I'm not sure
what he's fearing. There are too many scents just
from the two of us here to even sort them out
anymore. We've run the gamut and then some. It
hasn't taken us long.
"I'm afraid."
That I knew. Me too. But you're not
supposed to be afraid, Carmel. You're on top of
things, all the time.
"I guess I'm-- I'm-- I don't know." He
pauses, holding me tight in a moment's worth of
collecting himself. Neither of us has tried to
break from the other, but I sense that he's wanted
to jump up and pace the room more than once in
just these few moments. Then, gently, "How old
were you?"
I almost can't hold the sobs back. It's hard
not to cry when he's holding me so Goddamn gently.
"Six-- sixteen."
He nods. "Don't you want to contact your
mother?"
"I don't know where she is."
"But I could find her for you."
"Oh Carmel, I can't. I just can't. I
can't-- I can't face her. How could I-- tell
her--"
"I know, I know, God I know, but there's all
this left unfinished, let me help, please? I
could hire someone to find out what's become of
her and your other brother. You wouldn't have to
do anything. I could try to sort some of this
out, just try to see what I can do."
I shake my head slowly, not to refuse, but
just to show that I'm not even capable of
answering that at this time. I look around the
room, and find it the same as when I told him
about the shooting. It's the same room. Nothing
has changed. He's even holding me the same as
before. I guess I never really knew I could tell
this to anyone without it somehow-- happening
again. But there's no bridge to that time a
couple of years back except in my mind. Now he
feels it, too. I can feel him shuddering. I know
what's going on in his heart, in his chest. I've
felt it and told it to him. But no one else died.
It's still just-- just Ranny who's dead. I don't
mean that as if it's not a big deal. But I
wouldn't even be capable of going near doing
something like that again. And, until now,
speaking of it has felt Hellishly close to doing it.
"Did you love him?"
My lips curl painfully over my teeth. I
force back tears and salt fluid that seems to
spring into my nose and throat as soon as I
hesitate to cry. I nod. "I kinda had no choice."
"He was the only one you had."
I rub against his body, which seems
impossibly warm and real. He understands this as
agreement with his statement.
"Mara."
Yes. That's my name.
"I just-- I want you to know-- I'm not trying
to judge you. I guess... I don't know how to...
I thought maybe I feared what you had done, but I
don't even know... I know one thing I fear. It's
the only thing that hurts me as much as I know I'm
feeling right now. Mara, I don't want to be
useless to you now. Now that you've told me this.
This is such a big part of what means anything to
you, and now you've told me, and what if I can
never help you contact your mother and sort things
out? What good am I to you then?"
"Carmel. I."
"Do you understand?"
"Carmel..." Don't make me cry, you stupid man.
"I'm sorry." He strokes the backs of my
arms, touches my face right where there will be
tears in a minute if he's not careful.
"Do you-- forgive me?"
"For what?" His voice is that smooth, deep
tone again.
"For-- ruining our night. For being this."
He whispers. "Mara, you didn't ruin
anything. I had to know this, or I couldn't have
done what you wanted to do."
"You knew there was something else, and it
would have bothered you."
"Yes."
The room is deathly quiet. It can be that,
even with the musicfeed going on. Trust me. I've
been in loud, deathly-quiet clubs, so I know.
It's all in the meaning of the coughs and the
shuffles.
I rub sections of his fur between thumb and
forefinger. "Mara."
I nod, afraid to speak again.
"Now that you've told me..."
I find all the parts of my body that are
involved in verbal communication, and set them up
for employment again. It's quite a project. I
cough a few times, clear my throat, and sniff--
without sobbing. My body aches from the dry sobs
I've already felt. "If I-- decide to find her.
If I use your resources. Will you--"
"Of course," he is already saying, quietly,
leaning over me in a protective arc. I continue.
"-- be there, at least? Be there? I can't--
be alone-- I--"
"Of course," again.
"I-- need you."
Damn, wasn't that trite; and now the sobs are
back again.
He lays his chin over my twitching ears and
presses calming hands over my body, which suddenly
feels small beneath him. "You're a wonderful
person. I need you. I would be _glad_ to help
you with anything I can. Please allow me to
help."
"Why would you do this for me?"
He jerks a shoulder, lightly, then speaks.
His voice is firm. "So, it could be a lot of
shit. I could handle that. It could be work from
Hell. So what, really, in the long run. I mean,
think about it. If this is all you're going to
throw at me, and in return I know you better, I
say you're worth it."
I almost want to say, 'Just shut up! You're
lying. I'm not anything.' but it comes out,
"Fuck it. I am _worth_ having a man like you." I
draw his face down by mine. He accepts the kiss,
sort of nodding at the same time.
"Of course you are, if you want me, you know
you are."
"Of course I fucking am."
I expected news like I had to give him to
hang in the air of the room, to haunt the night,
to foul it. But its existence is seeming to break
up into particles around us. Of course, he knows.
What is said cannot be taken back; what is done
cannot, however awful, be undone. But he's not
stopped existing with me. It hasn't smothered us
just by my releasing it into our shared space. I
don't really know what to make of it, whether to
believe it. But my own most recent words are what
ring most boldly in my head. I am worth it. He
said so.
I think, somewhere in me, that I have always
known it. I knew I was fucking worth someone's
time. No one else has just managed to be bright
enough to see it.
I think I'll keep this guy. I know I need
him; I can't go back and fail to admit that, now.
I meant it, even if it was trite the way it came
out. But it may be just as important that he says
he needs me. I can feel something in me lifting.
I've kept these things inside for too long. I
didn't know how much else was being weighed down
in there, by it all.
"Carmel."
"Yes."
We simultaneously recall that we are each
only half undressed. For one panicked moment as
he begins to finish the job, I think that he's
forgotten-- that none of this is genuine because
he's not dwelling on it every moment since I've
spoken it.
"Yes, Mara?"
"I--"
He places a paw softly over my lips. "It's
all right. I am not used to being faced with
anything I can't see how to fix. My mind is going
in circles working it out, but I'm still with you,
here. I can't forget what we started sharing for,
in the first place. Is this still what you need,
tonight?"
I nod, wordlessly, under his hand.
He lifts his paw out of the way of his own lips.
Suddenly it occurs to me that I can kiss him
because I want to, not because I have to stall for
time. The scents of his affectionate intent are
rising to the surface of our awareness, again. A
hundred snide comments on sex and fucking cross my
mind, but not one of them seems to fit. I don't
even feel like opening my mouth to talk, although
my mood is invigorated as if I'm about to step on
stage.
Now shut out the lights, because
traditionally I appear in the middle of a
blacked-out stage, greeting the oh-so-vast Soho
Club audience with a biting grin and a jab right
under the first instant of spotlight.
Now just leave those lights out until
Saturday at nine P.M., when I will actually _be_
at the Soho Club for you eager masses to heckle or
adore. Then, sneak your asses out in the dark.
Just sort of stumble up the aisles and close the
doors behind you.
That's right. Perfect.