Two Weeks In England

If the world is full of love then our hearts are like hands

and each moment is grain that slips through like sand.

A. Farris “A Poem,” Green Ink Poetry

Welcome To England

PhD at Northwestern University, two years at the University of Chicago, I resigned because I didn’t think that three journal articles would be enough for tenure. I accepted a job as Assistant Professor at Rutgers University. I looked forward to teaching doctoral students in English education. The four of us headed back to New Jersey. We bought a house with three acres of property in Griggstown. In the second year, I opened a letter from my former adviser. Dr. Wallace wants me to attend the Writing Across the Curriculum conference in York, England. Thrilled to receive his invitation. Julia would say: “Only if we would go together.” She would also say: “We can’t afford it.” And she was right on both issues. So, two clandestine plans I had for myself: to borrow money and to leave her behind. It took me a half an hour to drive home, a two lane road running through wheat fields. I hardly paid attention to the road. Two hands were clenched on the wheel. I planned the whole way. Was the plan to escape Julia? Only for two weeks? Ooh, that was scary enough. So I thought “One step at a time.”

I parked in the garage, still trying to make the first three sentences come out as planned. I figured I had three sentences before she interrupted me. Permanently, I thought. I walked into the kitchen still engaged in figuring. She was dicing carrots and onions for a brisket beef stew. She glanced up and half-smiled. Half-innocently I figured. Adrenaline fueled my determination. My fists were clenched as I leaned in and told her, point blank, that I was going to the conference by myself. She looked startled, then amazed, then furious. She threw the knife in the sink. Arms firmly on the hips, she exploded. More angry than I had seen her. She wagged her finger at me one inch from my nose. I stood my ground. What the hell else could I do?

“You’re going to the conference by yourself? she shrieked. “No, by all means NO! Do you hear? I will go to the conference with you. Believe me when I say that. Besides, I have to care of the two children myself. No way.” She dropped the apron on the floor, raced to the bedroom, and slammed the door. Click went the lock. I could hear her screeching and moaning behind the closed door. Reading comic books in the living room, two children looked up horrified, tore to their bedrooms and peered out around the door. I was frozen. Dead silence throughout the house. Only a car driving by. I imagined the finger wagging. I murmured to whoever might be tuning in ”Black hole I’m falling in is deeper than I thought. What if there is no end to the tunnel?” I also thought “Julia. Julia.“ To be free from her. Across the other side of the ocean. “What was truth? What, lies?” A myriad of half-truths that I had been hearing for a decade. I couldn’t see what was in my head and what was real. I couldn’t fathom what she might do next. My mind was scorched. Ruined. Adrenaline dribbled away. Imminent depression.

A resounding thud, as if I were hitting the bottom. Depression floated on top of shame. I acknowledged that dark period of depression. I thought that depression was the motivation that made me work harder at the office. After all, at night, a martini before dinner and two martinis after was my night time escape. Dinner, couch, television, too oblivion. “Drinking escape to nothingness?” Perhaps the drinking lay on top of the chasm that I allowed myself to be trapped. I faced the tangled web every day. I needed to rip the fishnet to escape to real-ness. What ever real-ness was.

Suddenly the solution became crystal clear. I would describe the conference to death. I would say “Blah, blah, blah, and blah .” I could say to run on about the conference until she walked away shaking her head. Angry but this time, I assumed, futile. She had no intention of saying “go ahead.” “No” was the only word I’d unleash from her. What I had in my head was not one but two sneaky figures on opposite sides of the gridiron. Delusion was the reality. Grit, determination, and a sneakiness to succeed were my saviors. Oh my yes. My laughter on the disappearing plane. I dashed to the green Beetle, and, rummaging around in the glovebox, found a map of Great Britain. I unfolded the map and saw the city of York in Yorkshire. I raised my arms and said “YES!” Somehow I thought that England would be my escape. From a marriage with two young children which I loved. Julia which absolutely sucked. You could say I was escaping..

I’d won the fight to go, having packed two suitcases myself. We were in the car driving to Newark Airport. Can you imagine the anger all the way to Newark Airport? She was glowering at me throughout the ride. When I had taken the two bags out of the trunk, imagine that she yanked the door closed, looking straight ahead, hands clenched on the wheel, furious, gunned the squealing car and sped away with two kids, petrified and waving goodbye. Imagine flying to Britain to escape that anger. My neurons were eerily, crazily, smashing into each other. I was so focused on escaping that I forgot about the two children.

The plane taxied to Heathrow Terminal just west of London. Yawning and stretching, shouldering two bags, I walked to check in with my US passport at Customs. I took a taxi to Kings Cross Station. At the end of the taxi ride, I kicked into high adrenaline gear. I paid in new, crinkly one pound notes. “Keep the change,” I semi-shouted as I walked to the station. I bought a one way Second Class ticket to York. After waiting a half hour, I boarded the train and the voice box over the door said “two and a half hours to York.” That’s all I needed to hear. Welcoming sleep. Adrenaline vanished. I looked for the empty compartment, with a seat next to an outside window. I heaved bags above, slipped the ticket where the conductor could find it, and fell fast asleep. I snored softly all the way to York Station. Walking from the railway carriage onto the platform, adjusting two bags, looking at the map of York, locating the hotel on Victoria Lane, I plunged into narrow, crooked streets, small shops selling quaint things, pubs with funny names, ancient churches all around, and walls around half the city. Even though I had been there less than a half an hour, I loved the small city even better than I thought I would. Besides, I was across the ocean, too far from Julia to know what I was doing.

Arriving at the hotel, I put down two bags, ringing the bell for the assistant manager. When the assistant arrived, speaking with my American accent, I said “Hello. ” Speaking broad Yorkshire, she said “Hello” back. We grinned at the difference in accents. I offered my US passport. She looked at the passport, scribbled something down, and handed it back. She said “First American to show up. Here is a brochure which briefly describes where the conference is and the pub where you can meet all the other conferees. Welcome to the conference. I’m glad you chose this hotel.”

Taking the keys, I walked up stairs to the third floor and opened the door. Looking quickly at the room, dumping the bags on the floor, flinging myself on the bed, reclining on two pillows, running on less than empty, I relished sleep. My eyes nearly closed. Yet, in the small corners of my mind, I had to slide down from the bed to freshen up and go to the pub. Drummed into my body. Motor response was “yes” not “no.” A rinse of soap and water, a comb for the swipe of red-brown hair, hands on the sink, I looked at the mirror staring back at me. What did I see? “Slim body, slightly long wavy hair, and sort of handsome ” I mused. Turning away from the mirror in semi-disgust, putting on my coat, closing the door, walking downstairs, I thought “Let’s see what the map says. It says go left, not far from the Golden Eagle. The pub was listed for the second night for the party to meet the other conferees. I had never been in a pub before, so I was excited by the prospect. Besides I thirsted for a pint of brown ale. Maybe two pints. Who knows?”

Closing the map, turning left into a maze of crooked streets, I looked at shops and churches as I walked along. I stopped cold because I recognized that woman coming toward me. She’s American. She teaches English somewhere. I saw her in Las Vegas. We were at a conference. I had forgotten her name. She was alone in York. I hurried faster. She recognized me from Las Vegas. She hadn’t yet picked the piece of flesh that she would fuck tonight. She seized on me. I was available. She found the man she would fuck tonight. My dick was always ready. She already knew that I was handsome, slim, and the right age. We embraced and kissed. She almost bit my tongue off. She leered at me with her eyes. I grinned and leered back. Only three hours in York. We marched in step to her hotel. I had to go to the Golden Eagle tomorrow. Sorry pub. No can do tonight.

She bolted the door. Coats strewn on the floor. She raised to tip toes exploring each others mouth. I ripped off her sweater. No bra. Large breasts. They were sagging and rippling. I didn’t care. I massaged the tips. Tips getting harder. I ripped off her skirt. No panties. She ripped the shirt off. She pulled down my chinos. She fondled my penis with two hands. She rubbed it up and down. I nearly blew. She leered again. I put two fingers into the clitoris and rubbed it slowly around. Her breathing quickened. “Oh yes” she said. Her hands clenched tightly. “Awe . . . AWE . . . A-W-E!“ she said. We crashed on the bed. She was ready to fuck. She raised her legs wide in the air. I thrust the penis in with a jerk. She groaned when it entered. “Yeah!” She started to rock. She cried out “Oh gawd! Come baby . . . a-wow . . . oh, come . . . WA-HOO . . . COME!” In and out. Faster . . . our teeth clenched . . . until bleeping orgasm. 

We crashed on our backs. Spent for the moment. We looked at each other. “One more fuck before you go to the conference? What do you say?” I grinned back. Salaciously I think. I said “Maybe!” and rolled over. She said ”Hmmmm . . . “ Instantly I snored. I woke again. Three by my watch. My prick stiffened itself. “Stop prick. Naughty, naughty,” looking down at my prick. It welcomed rigid. To the hard prick I said “All right. Let’s do it.” I slid my hands around so that I could feel the breast tips hardening. She awoke and slid closer. Opened wide. Hanging on to those tips for dear life, entering my prick from the rear — this really turned her on — she said “Oh my god” and “COME BABY!” In and out. Faster. We said “oh . . . wow” almost together. Blasting orgasm. We crashed a second time on the bed, spent after two fucks. Breathing lessened. Asleep instantly.

Groggily, light slanting in, I looked at my watch. Seven o’clock in the morning. I looked at my fucking companion. Sleeping soundly. “Damn. What do I do?” Bleary eyed, because we’d had two fucks, I forced myself to get up. Motor response again? I guess. Anyway I dressed slowly. Strictly mind over matter. Rolling her eyes open, stretching luxuriously, wearing her bathrobe which lay on the chair, we exchanged minimal words, a peck at the door. “By the way, I’m Mary’ she said sarcastically as she let me out the door. She knew that I would come to her hotel for another roll and fuck. Actually, she had dibs on me for a weeklong fuck. She didn’t care what I did during the day. She even went to the conference from time to time. I was famished for breakfast. The cafe was on campus. Not far. It summoned me for a mug of steaming coffee to clear my head and my groin. 

I ate rolled oats with fresh cream and brown sugar and a large plain croissant. I felt more human. Paid the bill and hurried to the pre-conference meeting to hear opening speeches. The first speech was given by Nancy Martin, Director of the WATC Project in London. Martin was insightful and practical. I liked the address. The other speeches lasted the whole day. Yawning throughout, I raced back to the hotel, flinging myself on the bed. I looked at the meeting schedule once more before I closed my eyes. “Damn. I knew it. There’s a party for the entire conference at the same pub where I still hadn’t been. Brits, Aussies, and a smattering of Americans. ” I struggled whether to go. I lay on the bed undecided. I was pulled along by women. Any woman-kind. So I said “I guess I’d better go.” Determination always won over depression. I walked to the Golden Eagle pub, getting increasingly anxious about the women who arrived at the conference. I opened pub door and saw people milled about already, talking and laughing with each other. A mix of locals and other countries, including the US. Mary would be there, a pint of ale waiting, leering at me, underneath the table grabbing my penis, and scoop me off to fuck again. I longed for the fuck.

I took a seat at the bar and ordered a pint of brown ale. I took two swigs of ale. Mary vanished from consciousness. Live women occupied my space. I saw skirts just above the knee. Curvy naked legs below. Nudging my leg when she ordered from the bar. “Oh yes. By all means. Nudge my leg” I thought. Continued the silent conversation with a swig of ale. “Couldn’t get it out of my mouth to a woman. I just couldn’t talk with any of them. The brain keeps concocting the phrase to the next wriggling fish to catch. I couldn’t (wouldn’t?) do that concoction. At least I didn’t think so. Yet, women laughed as if the males were right. False laugh or real laugh? As if they had the fish caught and were reeling it in for the kill?” The brain always malfunctioned when I am ready to say the first word. Depression deepened. Fuck me to depression. Instead, I took two long swigs off brown ale. It was my depression monitor. Round and round I go. Never get where I go. I kept coming back to first sentence. Actually, the first phrase. That was it. Why didn’t I think of that before? No? I had thought of it many times before? In my mind always. At thirty four?” I was a fucking mess. Or so I thought inside. Outside? I was a different presence.

In sheer desperation I turned to the bartender and said “Another pint please.” The bartender glanced at me, drafted the pint, and, scooping the brown ale off, placed the pint down in front of me. A handsome man ordering a second pint? Soon after the first one? Shaking his head. I gave him a large tip. I always overtipped. Why was that? The bartender turned to face another customer. I took a long drink, four swallows to be exact. I felt alone and lonely. People were surrounding me. On top of me. Talking and laughing. What in the hell were they talking about? Or laughing about? Some with men, laughing at or with women. Some without men. They were probably talking about men. I couldn’t squeeze the first phrase in with any of the women. And zoom quickly to a conversation which turned to thoughts of . . . sex? Running a conversation exclusively with myself? I was disgusted. Actually more than disgusted. I was ashamed. I took a long swig of ale instead.

I’d faced depression many times. I pushed the depression down. I was terrified to have my psyche analyzed. What would the results of my boundless chasm look like? The eyes who stood apart from me and saw everything? I experienced pain? I felt the ball of depression inside me. I kept the lid crashingly shut. Inside my mind where it all took place. It hadn’t gone to my heart which was plunked high on the right side of my chest. Which, longingly, stretched my heart out to the world.

I finished the ale, a depression monitor always. A buzz boose ensued. The mind continued uninterrupted. Around and around it goes without stopping. I looked longingly for a face. A live face. Anybody’s face. A face on a body. Sit face to bloomin’ face. So I would have a person to share a good time with. Laughing at my first phrase, leading on to hand shake. Announcing first names. Faces getting closer as they swigged ales almost to the bottom. Nuzzling now winking at each other. A shared signal between almost acquaintances. Putting on coats, nodding to other conferees, we would walk out of the pub. And fuck? My mind blasted to pieces. Those neurons that whizzed around cracking into each other. I saw ‘bang crash’ in my neuronal brain.

Stuck to the barstool I quaffed ale. I’d finished two pints in record time. I felt half-sloshed. Maybe three quarters sloshed. I felt as if I were stupid. I felt as if my tongue was stuck in my mouth. I felt like an asshole. That’s it!  I was a fucking asshole. I felt as if . . . I didn’t know because I don’t know. Handsome, slim, six feet, an accomplished athlete, finished my PhD, a professor, one book published, and yet . . .  Yes, I know. Nowhere to go but up. I get it. The woman that I’d pick out to try my first phrase? To do what exactly?

I glanced at her. Tousled hair and curvy legs. She ordered a half pint from the bartender and, while turning, bumped into me. After bumping into me, she smiled. A real smile, not a fake smile. I saw it before seeing it. “Sorry” she said in response. She turned back and paid the bartender. A myriad of neurons picked up speed. They were flying straight to her. I looked sideways at her. “Cute, slim, with a weird accent.” When she turned to me, she was aware that I was handsome with glasses. She also took into account that I was American, serious, and alone. Handsome presence over depression? She looked at me with a half-grin. She didn’t care one whit. She expected honesty in return. I reckon she was alerting me. She’d entered in my space? She didn’t need the phrase that I had worked on for years. I didn’t have to worry about the “right” statement to make to her? Glued to the barstool. My breathing increased tenfold. She shared my space in mini-seconds. She moved her leg a nudge until it connected with my leg. Was it an electrifying nudge? Is this what it is? She looked directly at my brown eyes? As if there was something in my eyes? Staring through the eyes? The soul which I had protected? The soul gave it away? Understanding where the heart was? Beating strongly? The cracking around my heart?

I didn’t know her first name. Less than one second later she replied. I kid you not. Right on time. “Hello! My name is Layla. And you are?” She was forward. I liked that. As if she had done the same things for years. She had? She pushed me to say my first name. I stumbled through my first name. I said “Treb.” Peach red. “Hello, Treb. Nice to meet you.” As if she wanted to know more about me. Damn it, she did. She waited for me to say more about myself. Glued again to the barstool, fumbling around for the second sentence, I felt mute-ness. Forward even more? She beckoned me to join her in our conversation. She wanted to know me? I was falling in light. An arrow stroke to her? Her essential real-ness? Could the real-ness rub off to me? Alarm bells went off. I felt like I was blindly flowing along? Where? I figured flight would be the only option. 

She cared not. She put her hand out for shaking. Willingly. As if it didn’t make any difference. No, eagerly. She wanted the hand to touch me. I felt the hand connect. Warming up my hand. I squeezed her hand harder. I wanted to connect with her through her hand. She squeezed harder. Let go of our hand reluctantly. Tingling rushed through my right hand. As if the tingling went to my heart. Mesmerized. Was this what it is like?

The light gray-green color lighted her eyes. She had sparkling eyes. They laughed inside her eyes. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She was alive when she talked. She lighted up, animated through her body. I felt pink color coursing through my body. I felt face reddening. She was real. I felt it. I felt her scoop me to our world. Light moves faster than speed?

We clinked pints. We said “Cin-cin.” Somehow, someway we talked. Sentences flowed from one to the next. It was so easy. Mine, American accent, and Layla’s, a weird accent. As if it were normal. It was normal? I was talking to a cute female in York? As if there was nothing to it? We moved to a corner table. I felt like I was talking to someone who cared. Down to earth. She joked; I joked. She was serious; I was serious. I relaxed because of the flowing talk. Because she looked directly at me, wondering what she could make of me? I imagined her as saying something smart and tender? She saw I was tense and depressed. She’d made up her mind that I was sexy. Depressed, kind, anxious, determined, and, most of all, sexy? In her mind? And her body? So quintessentially quickly? It took my breath away.

I could picture her standing, putting on coats, and walking to her hotel. A micro-second before. On cue she said “Treb? Could we take a walk to my hotel? “Me?” I said. She nodded and waited for what I might say. “Sure, we can walk to your hotel.”  Putting on our coats, walking out of the pub, taking my arm, we talked non-stop as we walked along. Where do my words come from? Almost on cue, she said “I’m Rhodesian, you know, from south Africa.” I interrupted her. “Ah, you had a weird accent because you came from Rhodesia.” I said. She giggled at my lame humor. And she didn’t care. “My parents and I moved back to England three years ago. I live in London, and they live in Chester. Just between us, I like the distance. I like four hours apart. I work for a non-profit company which has a publishing venture. Two people in the publishing venture. Actually, publishing ad-venture since we’re new,” she giggled at what she said. Two giggles I’d heard so far. I took heart and said “That’s why you are at the WATC conference. English and non-profit publishing.” I ran out of words to say. I thought “My Dad has moved from New Jersey to Connecticut. I wanted nothing to do with him for the abuse. I was still angry. So Rutgers, as a choice among universities, was okay.” But didn’t mention it to her. Yet.

I didn’t know her last name. If she told me her last name . . . and she did. I thought tender. And tough? Oh yes tough. On cue. She confronted me telling her my last name. But delivered with a giggle. It was easy to tell her my last name than my first name. She gripped my arm harder and invited me to her room. As if that were no big deal. I felt floored. No pleased. “Two micro-seconds?” I thought. Aloud I said “Are you sure? You’d like me to come to your room?” She gently teased me. “Come. We’ll have some red wine.” She pulled me in with her gray-green eyes.

She took out her key, opened the door, and closed the door behind her. Dropping our coats, turning, she looked at my face: handsome. She looked at my body: slim. She took off my glasses. She decided that I was kind and sexy. I felt pulled to her. My heart raced faster. We stared at faces and bodies. Blinding light came on. She wanted me to have sex. I felt sex. It glinted out. Electrically. Could I move to her? Could I put my arms around her? As if she knew? She did. She put two fingers on my lips. To still me. She dropped two fingers and kissed me lightly on the lips. Magically. We felt the need to embrace. We felt our arms go around her as if it were someone else. We felt warmth enveloping us. We felt our bodies connect. Envelop us. Electrifying warmth from two bodies. We kissed passionately.

She bumped into my chest. I felt her small breasts straining under her blouse. I liked that bumping. It galvanized me. She glanced up, tips hardening by themselves, embarrassed “Oh Treb. My breasts are different. One breast is larger than the other. Do you mind?”  “My god, no!” dumbfounded. She undid the buttons of her blouse. I slid my hands to feel her breasts. Warm and soft to the touch. I inched my hand to the hardening tips. I rubbed the tips around. “I don’t care that one breast is smaller than the other. I like both breasts,” I said softly to her. I felt my hands go down and softly grabbed her ass. A warm, cute ass. I felt my hands underneath her skirt. I felt my hands taking her panties off, dropping them on the floor. She trembled with pleasure. I froze. As if I would do something wrong.

I felt myself blow in one ear and the other ear. The neck, the breasts, the tips of the breasts, the torso. I felt myself slowly touch her tuft. She undid the buckle of the belt. She slid off my chinos. She slid my underwear off, felt my penis, and gently stroked it. It was rigid. Ready to go. We backed off, our hearts going a mile a minute. She tipped her face up, putting her hands on my chest, and said “Let’s go to bed.” She took my hand and ran to the bed. Shyly, on her back, legs raising, she whispered “Come in side me . . . “  I slid inside her. We felt tremulous quivers of pleasure. A quiet bird-like thrill? In and out. Faster. I blurted out “Awe.” Until we reached an orgasm.   

We marveled at what we had done. “We made love” she said. In York. As if that were special. It was special. We had been in love before. Yet, we kissed tenderly as if that were the first time. On one arm beside her, I said “First time with a Rhodesian woman moved to England, who spoke a weird accent.” She said a silent “yes.” We kissed tenderly. “First time with a married American and two young children to boot. I invited you to join me in my hotel room. And we had sex. It was a miracle.” Fixed on my eyes, waiting for me. I blushed and said “We talked and had sex, all within the first four hours. Yes, it was awesome. You know that I careened near blindness to fall in love with you.” She grinned and said “Yes” and “Me too.” Loving falls around us binding us in. We fell asleep, arms wrapped around each other.

Two Weeks Minus Three

Hands around my shoulders, we kissed and gave me a gentle push toward the door. “Shoo. Go to the conference. It’s special for you. I have three authors coming to see me before lunch. They’ll want time to talk. Even to reach a deal with me to publish his or her book. Wouldn’t that be great? I could have a signed contract.” She did a gig around the room. She nearly blew me away. “Hey, you. We’ll see each other at lunchtime. Don’t worry. I’ll be in the cafe waiting for you” and gave me a blown kiss out the door. Walking along, I thought “Sex? Oh yes. Kindness? Yes. Generosity. Yes. Giggling. Yes.” I felt on top of the world. As I arrived at the conference, showing my tag to identify me as an American, I registered and received a folder, with a welcoming smile from the conference assistant. 

I turned around, amazed by the size of the conference. People streamed in to register and others were strolling along, reading the schedule, or talking with each other. I switched to where my mind was at lightning speed. This popped up: Julia vs Layla. Julia was sneaky and bi-polar. I drank martinis. Now it was drinking three or four martinis and anger fueling each other. I grew to detest Julia. And Layla? I fell blindly in love. Overnight. She had three prospective writers lined up. I knew she was coming at noon. We made a pact to have lunch. I was planted here at the writing conference in York. I knew that much, but not much more. Was I mired in depression about my life with Julia and joy because of Layla?

I’ve made up my mind. Lightning speed because of depression. Monitoring the depression that lurks just under the surface? Yes always. Anyway, I’ll attend the conference. Running down the list of speeches, I said “I know which one to choose. The fifth grade class journaling about history. Let’s see what she has to say.” I arrived at Room B and, composed on the surface, found a seat in mid-row left, sweeping the bag on the floor under the seat. I swept the room to see what the count would be. I decided thirty people.

Smiling confidently from the time she walked in, she walked to the front of the room and laid down the speech. Glancing up, she said, “How are you?” sweeping the room, making sure that everybody was included. People grunted “hello” to her. Speech left on the table, as she strolled around the room. Speech memorized? Or did she talk as the words came out? She continued her discussion as the personal memories that fifth students had scrawled in their ever expanding journals which could be raised to the level of history curriculum to aid the class further. Fascinating to students as they could see the journaling turned into writing for the group. She can intervene when necessary, gently nursing students along with help to the point of reading their individual journals in class. She understood when journal writing warrants transformation from a journal to informal writing. She understood the competent writing which could be seen by someone else, say in the class newspaper. She was patient when the student could figure it out herself. Assisting the needs of students but not shaping them. Nipping at the corners. Helping writing get better.

She also encouraged the reports be published in a local newspaper. She knew that it needs to be honest and skilled writing from the students in the newspaper. Not easy for students, but worth the risk. She kept a journal which she read from sparingly every week for journal writings. She slid the journal writing she was doing in the middle of the ongoing “conversation” about journals. 

The journals belonged to students. But she asked the fifth graders if they wouldn’t mind the journals being made public for an address that she was making to the WACC conference. All students enthusiastically said “yes.”  She read some journal writing made public for a speech to her audience. The students were thrilled to be included in that address. She read the students with intensity and with love. Writing about “real” history, “practical” history. The fifth graders had become absorbed in reading the real research, in addition to the history curriculum, and in producing the journal writing that came from it.

Writing notes as I listened to her discussion unfold. When she was through, I clapped loudly. I walked to the front of the room and introduced myself. “Nice discussion” I said. She grinned at me, nodded, because I understood. I couldn’t wait to ask questions. She answered questions directly. I mused “It was not a speech but a discussion. An epiphany for me to consider. Cross a road and I’m in a different sphere.” After a pause I said “Thank you” to her. She grinned and nodded, a Buddha cross. I exited Room B and thought “It was going to be a formal address, but it was a discussion. Marvelous. I can’t wait to see what I’m going to do for the second address. Let’s see.” Locating it on the schedule, I said “I’ll go to the one about religion in high school. Fifth grade, history; high school, religion.”  I was off to the races. She gathered me in to become part of the Writing Across The Curriculum project. 

I thought about Layla on the way to Room M. It happened at the pub while I was finishing a second pint of ale. She bumped into me. She said “Sorry.” Real. I sobered up in a hurry. She introduced herself. Fumbling around, I introduced myself. How easy it was after the first sentence. We flowed to the next sentence. Sentences tumbled forth. First, the corner of the pub. Back and forth we went. Second: what did we talk about after we left the pub? It’s a random blur until the hotel came in sight. Third: tumbling our clothes off, crashing in bed, and making love. Sexy and real in a way that I had never experienced before. I hadn’t seen that tenderness and that passion. Gentle before the sex, then passionate during the act, then tumultuous at orgasm, then calm afterwords. It was a new sphere for me. We tumbled down the hills to loving. One night in York. An American and a Rhodesian via England. Crazy? It was impossible. And true. I was blindsided. Seared in memory. All the way to Room M, which, by the way, I heard a teacher give a great address in digging deep into the texts about Christian or Muslim religion in high school.

My bearings were thrown up in the air once again. Fragments filtered down were altered in various forms. Halfway conscious I plowed on. “Right or left turn. Okay, I surrender. The booth where she worked. I longed to see her up close, actually in the flesh. I remember her sweet sweat from the night before. Bodies crashing together. The explosive orgasm. Tousled hair real-ness. And visions, don’t forget.” I walked to the booth where she served as the only employee at the WACC.

I saw Layla but she didn’t see me. I watched her talk with a visitor about a book. Tousled hair gracefully bent, she explained what this book was about. Then, gracefully, she stood back and waited. The visitor read a few pages, smiled at her, paid for the book, and dropped it in the shopping bag. She looked up casually and recognized me. She grinned and came around the booth to kiss me. I blushed in public. “Wow! You look fabulous.” I stepped back. A light beige jacket on, a medium brown skirt barely above her knees, ravishing stockings on, a touch of breasts cleaving, a brooch to the left side of her neck, and a tousled hair of brunette hair. She was stunning and sexy. She blushed. I knew from my heart she was humble, tough, confident. and a giggle when she was pleased. I felt pulled toward her. I felt two hands holding her arms. They were warm to the touch. A stiffening in my crotch. Her eyes gave it away. She giggled. I dropped my hands and walked to the Mens john.

We had dinner alone. Our hands across the table, talking and laughing. I thought a mystery? Not exactly a mystery? A sad drama perchance?  

Trays on rack, arms around each other, we walked toward the hotel. We chanced to encounter a woman, walking the other way. I had sex the night before. Reddening at the sight of Mary — “Where was that guy whom I had sex with?” — walking toward me with another woman. I stammered out ”Hello” to her. Turning to Layla, “I’d like you to meet Layla.” She didn’t even look at Layla. She looked blistering daggers at me for having two fucks with her. She wanted more fucking. Layla stuck out her hand out anyway. The woman brushed it away. “Hello Treb” she said sarcastically She put her two hands on her hips and glared at me. Abruptly, swaggering as much as she could muster, she swept away from me. Arms moving. “Layla. You have to believe me. I met her one day before I met you.” I was guilty and ashamed. Stepping back to face me, arms on her hips, she glared at me in a different light, questioning my sex and sanity. She relished her anger. I couldn’t move. Frozen. Two minutes passed. Three? She let the anger slowly disappear. Just like that. She grabbed my arm and said “This, now. That, then.” Tough love I realized. I thought that all the way to the hotel. I would have been hurt and huffed, not gracefully, as I flew away. She walked along confidently, arm in arm, to the hotel. I had a glimpse of real-ness.

We took the lift to second floor. We settled on the couch. She hadn’t spoken. Yet we’re here. Suddenly I knew that toughness and tenderness were part of her presence. I felt a glimpse of kindness. Intelligence above all. More moments searing to memory. She turned to me on the couch and said “Peace for now?” Sarcasm free. She invited an immediate response. I received the message and said “yes.”  She half-grinned at that admission. And moved on as if that were settled. She inched closer. She put her hand on my knee. Toughness to sex? All of a sudden? Yes, oh yes. She slowly undid the breasts. She grinned slightly, pointing at her mismatched breasts. I grinned and nodded two “yes-es.” She invites me to be honest and to touch her breasts. Lightning speed? I slid my hands in and fondled her breasts. “Oh, Treb. Rub . . . them . . . around at the tip.” The tips hardened. I continued to rub them around. She groaned in pure pleasure. “Keep going!  Oh  . . . my . . . don’t stop.”   

She lowered her skirt, took her stockings off, and took the undies off. “Now, put your two fingers into the clitoris. Feel it. See? Keep rolling around. Now faster.” She rocked back and forth. She put her head back. I had a huge hard on. “Stop. So we can climax together.”  She led me to the bed. She put her head back. Dick sticking straight up. I entered her vagina. We moaned together. “Aww.  Awww.  AWWW!” Two separate orgasms. We stared in each others eyes. We didn’t know what to say. Sex covers all faults.

We slept soundly for seven hours. She squeaked one eye open. I was sitting up in bed, grinning, waiting for her. “You’re awake! Awesome you” I said reluctantly, after a couple of seconds had passed, “I have to meet Professor Harold Rosen and Connie at the cafe. My dissertation. You know, Dr. Wallace sent to Harold. And he read it. I have to see what he said.” Looking tousled, stretching luxuriantly, smirk on her face, blowing a kiss from the rumpled bed, she said “Naughty, naughty. Come to bed and have sex with me. Hmmm?” She lowered the cover, deliciously naked, waiting for me to slide on to her. Dick stiffening. Figuring what the option would be, blowing a kiss at her from across the bed, I dragged myself on the other side. Missed her warming touch. “Scrumptious but later” I said regretfully. I showered, dressed, and blew a second kiss at her from afar. I knew better than to hop in bed with her. I knew where that would end up. Instead, I closed the door and hurried to the cafe.

Drinking black coffee and reading the London times, Harold looked up from his newspaper. In an ironic voice he said “Welcome, I guess.” He put the paper halfway down and said “Oh yes, I know who you are. You’re Treb from Northwestern University. Your Chairperson is . . . ah, I know, Dr. Douglas. I remember him from last summer in York. He was dressed up even when he dressed down. I’ll never forget it. You did your dissertation on British-American collaboration. He sent it to me. It was a good read. You’ve moved to New Jersey, and you’re teaching at Rutgers. Slide over and have coffee. Have you had breakfast?” “No I haven’t had breakfast. oI’m absolutely famished” I said. Turning to the waiter, Harold said “Will you take his order for breakfast?  Make sure that you bring him bangers and mash, two sausages, and two pieces of brown bread. And put it on my bill,” a jab at me.  

Harold introduced me to Connie, who glanced up from reading the business section of the The London Times. Shaking hands, I said “Hello. Nice to meet you. I’ve read two books of yours. Both are great. To elementary age children.” Connie nodded at my compliments, but didn’t speak. She continued reading the newspaper, sliding little glances at me as I continued my conversation with Harold. She instinctively knew that I’d been sleeping with another woman. She smelled the sweat and the perfume. Caught red handed by Connie. She didn’t know that I’d been sleeping with two women. One for fucking; one for loving. Secrets galore I had.

Connie put down her newspaper and asked me the question I’d avoided. “Treb. Are you just fucking or in love with another woman?” She waited for me to respond. She tapped on the table. Harold waited for an answer. Reddening, as much as I could get out of my mouth, I said “Yes, I think I am falling in love.” She pish-pished that fluff and exploded in my face. “I think!’ Come on, Treb. That’s crap and you know it.” Glaring at me, arms akimbo on her hips, “Are you fucking or in love with another woman?” Didn’t take me long to cave in. Flushing, I said “I am sort of in love. With another woman. We’ve just met. At a pub. We talked and made love. I don’t believe it.”  Furious now, she wagged her finger at me. She leaned forward, and I said “Okay. I give up. I love Layla. Okay? I’m married too Julia for ten fucking years. She’s sneaky all the time. She’ll smile and, you know what, the opposite will occur. I HAVE to divorce her no matter what. I love the two kids. I like this conference. But, most of all, I love Layla. It’s fresh and real. So help me out here.”

Harold and Connie crumpled newspapers in disgust. “Grow up!  Be a fucking adult. You’ll have to decide on your own” he said. He growled and went back to his newspaper. Connie chimed in. “For goodness sakes, Treb. Julia or Layla. You are the adult who decides. No one else can do it. For once I agree with Harold.”  Startled, putting his newspaper halfway down, Harold looked at Connie. Exchanging glances, they put the newspapers back. That was it. I was dismissed out of hand. I had some more words to say, then swallowed them. I slid out of the seat because I didn’t know what else to do. As I exited I said “I enjoyed the bangers and mash. And regretfully the experience,” I said. Harold rumbled behind his newspaper “Ah, yes. The experience.” I said “I’ll see you later.” They jammed their newspapers even further in my face. It echoed in my brain as I walked away: be a fucking adult.

Two Weeks Minus Five

Listening to three speeches, I heard laughing and anger. It died down but didn’t disappear. I was standing, on the second balcony, terrified at myself, and spoke out loud. To all the audience. I don’t know what came from my mouth. Making it up as I went along. Spitting it from my mouth as if the voice were some other human being. I spoke more clearly as my voice found me. As if the voice was now me. All the audience turned to me, gripped by what I was saying. I gave a call for change from my mouth. History teachers, science teachers, math teachers, physical education teachers. British, US, Aussies, and New Zealanders.

The speech lasted ten minutes. Standing, they clapped. Stunned by the applause, I said “Did I make a speech?” The hands kept clapping. Those on the second balcony came closer, still clapping. They circled around me. One shook my hand. “Good for you!” another man said. A third woman hugged me and said “We’re with you all the way.” Incredulous, I said “You mean my voice rang out? To follow me?” astounding myself. “Thank you, thank you to all.” I made the Buddhist sign and fled the address hall. I wanted to be alone. To hunker down.

I ran to the cafe. To the passionate speech I’d just given, and the warmth that I felt with her. I looked around. “She’s not here. Damn it!” I sat in the back corner. Breathing slowed. I thought “I stood on my feet, on the second balcony, amidst one thousand people, and gave a speech straight from my heart. Trembling, fingers fusing solid, I erupted into words that formed concepts just outside of me as I was speaking. Some people got the gist of what I was saying. They approached and congratulated me. Me!"

As she came in, out of breath, she saw me out of the corner of her eyes. She waved, smiled, and kissed me on the lips. I started talking before we sat down. I went so fast that I tripped over myself. She laughed and said “Slow down, you. You have to get your breath under control. I have half an hour. Then I have to be back with an author. This is his second book. He’s a good writer from what he said in his resume. We’ll have time for your story after we order food.” She put her hand on my arm because I was embarrassed. “Don’t ever be embarrassed. When you’re ready, pour out the story. I love you and I’m waiting to hear,” she said. Turning to the waiter she said “Could you bring me two coffees with cream, two mozzarella and tomato sandwiches and a single salad? Thank you. I’m paying for the whole ‘shebang'.” Turning back to me, I love Americanese. Weird Rhodesian accent stands in the way.  I’ll have to hear the whole story from beginning to end.  She put her hand on mine to let me know that she was here beside me.

Between bites of food, I said “I fall in the zone reading either non-fiction or fiction. Doesn’t matter which one I choose.” Interrupting, she said “What’s a zone? I am Rhodesian emigrated to England,” laughing at herself. “Something like a private space?” I nodded “Yes. A zone where outside noises cease to exist. You’ve disappeared inside your head. You and the book. Then, by some miracle, after an hour or two, you emerge. The world has gone on as it always has.”

I continued. “You zone out with writing. Words from inside erupt to consciousness. You don’t know where they came from. It flows with you. You merge with the laptop The writing is typed down. This sense of excitement is enhanced because the writing, willy nilly, speaks for itself. All you can do is see the words that you have laid down. Adjust to their ascribed meaning. Subtle differences. But increasingly honest words to the writer. What the hell does that sentence mean now? You see? That’s where the excitement is. Not really knowing. Revision is between the two zones. Because it seems like the ‘fit’ is, for the first time, ‘perfect.’  Until the next revision. Or rearrangement. Or deletion of sentences. Put them in a journal, with privacy from parents, as young as four, they can take off. They can write while they learn to read.” 

Sorry, I left something out that is central. “Where there doesn’t seem to be a link between them, I mean reading versus writing, I discovered a link between them. I discovered that journals created fusion between reading and writing. An epiphany for me. The aspiring “writer” is required to begin with journaling. In other words, writing precedes reading. Got the flip-flop picture now?” She slowly nodded. “Also the need for journaling to become public. The journalists ‘turned’ writers whether they came to writing through essay, poetry, non-fiction, fiction, memoir, theater, film . . .“  I ran out of things to say. Standing up, with a kiss, she was off to a meeting with the author.

Ideas bursting from my consciousness. Hurrying back to the writing conference, I said “What do I have to say to these folks about writing?  Folks who don’t give a damn about writing?  Folks who walked away from writing. They would trash writing. Generate a need for journals? How do you generate a need for journals? Writing for all classes and races? Develop writing along with reading? Merge? Honest writing? Whether they write non-fiction, fiction, memoir, poems. Scientific. Sci-fi. Twisted writing, mysterious writing, humorous writing, and straight from the heart writing. From history through physics to physical education and sports? From pre-school through graduate degrees? To hate writing and to love it? Something that would make sense to the teachers. From start to finish. I had to say that writing is difficult, especially blank spaces where you didn’t know what might be next. Where you didn’t know how to finish the sentence, let alone the paragraph. Yet writing is joyful, even gorgeous. I have to say that too. I would say that panicked is a good word.”

Out of breath when I arrived, I heard three speeches in the afternoon. Didn’t remember any of them. Consumed by Layla and teaching writing. I ran to the cafe on auto-pilot. In a corner, coat off, I waited. Breathing slowed. She arrived, breathless. “Sorry,” she said as she sat down. “I was in a hurry to meet the teacher/writer. He had some good questions about the manuscript. Then he signed on the bottom line to publish his second book. I’m the editor. I did that all by myself. Isn’t that awesome? So here I am all ears.” Two hands on the table, facing me, she smiled a smile only for me. She put her hands lightly on my face. She loves me? She kissed me on the mouth. For a long time. She really loves me!

When we had been served, we ate chicken piccata.  She glanced up but she didn’t say anything.  She waited for me.  “Okay. I wanted nothing to do with Julia. I thought of the two children every know and again. I liked the conference. But I fell head over heels in love with you.” She had a fork part way to her mouth. She set the fork down. Her eyes were down. Why didn’t she speak? My anxiety intensified. We finished dinner silently. I paid our bill, put our coats on, looked at each other but didn’t speak, and went to a pub. Why was I not speaking?

We took a seat in the corner and drank a half pint of brown ale.  I couldn’t wait any longer. I blurted it out. Layla strained to listen because the voice was almost silent. “What happened to us? You and I. We’re going too fast?” She smiled but said nothing. At he same time, she was inching closer. Hands almost connected. Was this the moment that it seemed to be? Not my mind but my heart went out to her? A second later, she said, in an almost normal voice, “Okay, I’ll start. I love you so much I can’t even say why. I guess the talking and loving. And all the spaces in between. What about you?”  

I knew because my heart felt it. I wanted to have my words in a row. I said “In the pub, you spoke to me. Started me on my way to loving you. In bed together. Arms around each other. It washes over me.” I poured the words out of my heart. “I want to divorce Julia. I love the two children. And I love you.” We linked arms, but didn’t talk as we walked out of the cafe. Arriving at the hotel, we walked to the second floor. Door closed, we faced each other. Close but not touching. I put my hands on two elbows. She slid her arms up to my face. I slid my arms up to her face. We moved closer. We put our arms around each other. Gently. Our lips brushed. We moved back. I whispered “We found each other. Bumping into me, turning, saying you’re ‘Sorry.’ You captured my heart.” I ran out of gas.

We lay on the bed. Whispering I said “Let me touch you.”  She nodded, though her hands were clenched. Kissing her brunette hair, blowing in her ears, her mouth, her neck, her two mismatched breasts, including the hardening tips, all the way down to her torso, putting the tongue in the clitoris, I rolled it around. She gasped and shook. Now she was on top. “Let me kiss you slowly all the way down to your toes. Now I’m going to rub your penis. Oh my, it feels good rubbing it up and down.” I nearly had an orgasm. She stopped rubbing for a second. With her left hand on my shoulder, she whispered “I’m sliding the penis in. Oh gawd. It feels oh so good . . . I’m having . . . an . . . orgasm already.“

One Week To Go

We were swallowed up by the conference. Now it was over. We said “goodbye” to all friends we met at the conference, including James Britton and Nancy Martin. To Harold and Connie I said “I hadn’t solved any of my problems with Julia, just in love with Layla. That love has grown like topsy.” They grinned ironically, but didn’t say anything. They left that all to us and waved goodbye. We packed three bags and headed for the west country. An hour of driving west, I said, “What do you say? Go out for dinner? I like fresh cod and chips myself. Or stay in the room make love, talk softly, and then go out and eat?” Lightly I pinched her ass. We laughed because I pinched her ass. She pinched my sweet ass back. It hurt my feelings a little. She laughed uproariously and said “Poor soul.” I laughed because it was funny. Grinning at me, she said “I don’t know. Let’s think about it?” Slyly, she said “We could make love, then go out and have fish and chips. When we come back, make love again?” She wound her arms around me and said “Hmmm . . . ?” She distracted me while I drove. I said “Hmmmm . . . “ back.

I watched the curvy two-lane road. I was nervous about her parents. She slept. I said to myself “They fled Rhodesia by the thousands. The US newspapers made that clear.  What I didn’t know was that the land been “given” to them because they were white settlers? In what had been black land? Since time began? The blacks fled as the whites took over landholding grants? What kind of land did white settlers give them in return?  Did they just “inherit” the land? The blacks were required to become hired help?  As slaves to white farmers.”  

A tangle of questions. The questions arced racism. A bottomless issue at thirty-four. And white supremacy?  A two class culture: whites versus blacks.  The conservative culture ruled racism and white supremacy? I inherited the culture of what I am because I am an upper middle class white? The culture exploding? Which part would I support? What would replace it?” I feel as if democracy would be the only way? Democracy for all, regardless of color? Some questions were too big for me to handle. Or I was afraid to engage in the culture wars?

Returning to earth on one of my leaping bounds, I said to her “I know whites “settled” on the land. Yet, for years, even centuries, black people had been working that land by themselves. Before the whites conquered Rhodesia. Now, they worked the ranch with black help. I know that eventually blacks rebelled. I know from the newspapers that black revolutionists torched fires in the white houses. Enraged at land that had been taken away from them. A violent rupture? Fires burning all over? Terrifying for whites? I can imagine what white fugitives would be like fleeing to England. A furious, boiling, exploding anger at blacks?  All of Southern Rhodesia? A culture, economic, and social war?”  She glanced up, startled, but not shocked. I continued. “Your land was given to blacks. They had to return to England. I need your help to understand the story better.”  A sliver from my past. “My second black mother. Hired her when I was nine. Racism was omnipresent in the US” I trailed off. She looked hard at me, as if she had more to say.

I focused on the road instead. Light rain began to fall. She rested her head on my shoulder. Rather than talking about her parents in Rhodesia, she decided that she should talk about her parents now. In England. Obliquely. She said “About my parents. If you’re worried. And I think you are.” I looked startled. How did she know what I was thinking? Furrowed into my mind? Not quite a vision, but pretty close. In the next breath she said “I’m here beside you all the way, okay?

She continued. “Mom’s a love. Don’t you worry about her. She’s warm, kind, mostly honest, and quiet. My father” paused, then said “he’s a complicated man. He’s stern and tough because he’s Rhodesian and a former landowner. I’ve learned to keep my distance from him, particularly when he is on horseback. Crack the whip kind of Dad on horseback. He is stiff-upper lip kind of Dad, particularly on his land. He protects my family at all costs and has blacks under him. When the blacks have gone to their houses, when he sits down in his chair in the big house, when he sighs, when he has the bottle of sherry near him, when he has two sips of sherry, when he reads from two newspapers, I sidle up to Dad to let him know that I have already been doing whatever. I am calm and measured, because I was brought up that way. I am as honest as I can be. I fib a little to Dad. He accepts the fact that we slept together, but he doesn’t know that you are married and have two young children. Don’t tell anyone, okay? 

I know my parents well. I understand and love them. But I live in London not Chester.  I have my own life to lead and, surprise, you showed up in the pub. Treb from New Jersey. Handsome, glasses, long hair, shy, intelligent, depressed, and kind. I knew you instantly. Reaching out always but you didn’t know how. I brought you here to meet them despite the fact that you’re married. You see I love you. We’ll be all right, you and me. Despite the fact that you’re married. By the way, don’t tell my parents about marriage or about the two young children. We have two separate bedrooms — Dad and Mom agreed — but when Dad snores, I’ll tip-toe to you, snuggle under the covers, talking softly, and make love. Then, with a kiss or two, I’ll tip-toe back again. It’s only going to be two nights.”  I nodded, and she fell asleep on my shoulder. 

Three o’clock in the afternoon. Skies darkening to growling black clouds. All of a sudden, the rain pelted down. Misting. Wipers working as hard as they could. The road curved back and forth. Two hands clenching the wheel, eyes glaring ahead. Suddenly a truck appeared. Inching up to the truck, waiting for the lane to clear, leaning forward to see if there was any way to pass the truck. Lane curving slightly to the right. I couldn’t wait much longer. I picked up speed. Engine roaring. Rain teeming down. I can pass the truck. Pulling in the lane almost beyond the truck . . .  oh god . . . a car coming the other way . . . barreling into the left front fender — WHANG1 — BANG! —  CRUNCH! . . . sheets of metal shifting . . . hitting my head on the front window . . . passing in and out of consciousness . . . whizzing through wheat fields . . . crackling . . . crunching . . . slowing . . . stopping . . . tires spinning . . . didn’t know where I was . . . ghostly silence.

She woke terrified. “Where are we? In wheat fields? Oh you’re bleeding. You have a gash in your right temple. Don’t touch it, okay?”  She fished in her bag and took out four tissues which she used to sop up some of the blood. “There. It’s a little better. You really banged your head hard but I don’t think you cracked your skull. And I don’t think you cracked the windshield. You’re fortunate. Don’t move.”  She opened the left side door and hurried around the car. She said “Unclench your hands. They’re locked to the steering wheel. Now come out slowly. Lean on my shoulder.”  We limped past the wheat fields, across the lane, to the other car. The other car’s right fender was smashed but didn’t go off the lane. I hobbled in the back seat, ashen-white and dazed. He saw my face. He looked at the wound. He shook his head. He looked at Layla. She wasn’t scratched. He shook his head again. I blurted out “It happened so fast. Only some flashes of it can I remember. The bang. Whirring wheat. Spinning wheels. Then silence.“ No further words erupted to speech.

Two police arrived with the blue light burring on top, the rain streaming down. Both of them shook their heads in wonder. One policeman piled in the front seat with a pad of paper and asked me questions. I forced myself to answer the questions but blanked after answering them. The second policeman dressed the wound. They took us to the police car. They deposited me in the Inspectors office at the police station. She waited anxiously outside the Inspectors office, concerned about what was happening to me. I was grilled by the Inspector. I was cold, shivering, aching in right temple, but answered questions. The Inspector, having completed the grilling, said “We’re through with the inspection report. I’ve asked all the questions. No charges or fines. I’ll close the file on you. You’re free to go. Good luck with your travels in England.” I shook his hand in relief, mumbled “Thank you,” and hobbled out of his office.

She jumped up and said  “No charges or fines? We can go?” She hugged me hard. “Focus your eyes on me. March out of the station together. Don’t worry. We’ll find a hotel. ”  Eyes tearing up, dragging our bags with one arm because it hurt, she steered me along. Behind the counter, a policeman said “Hey, lady and gentleman. I live in town and finished duty just now. I know a hotel that isn’t far from here. If you want, I’ll drive you to the hotel and drop you off.  It has a cafeteria that is open ’til 10pm.”  Looking at us, she nodded in agreement. I didn’t mind leaving it to her. Before she got out of the car, she said “Thank you so much. We’ll find a hotel room here I’m sure.” We got out of the car, leaning on her. The policeman opened the trunk, took out the three bags, closed the trunk, and tipped his hat. He wished us “godspeed.”

In the Midlands somewhere, outside the hotel, with three bags packed, without a car, my right temple excruciating, my bones exhausted, I cried. “Hey” she said confidently “I know where we are. We’ll sort this out in the morning. You’re alive and breathing. That’s all I want,  Now start moving.”  Startled, I dragged two bags to the hotel, slumping on the couch, opposite the counter, too tired to speak.

Reading the newspaper, the assistant manager looked up and said “Can I help you?”  “Hello. Do you have a room for one night? We’re exhausted as you can see,” Layla said. The assistant looked over at me, saw my bandage, and shook her head. “Let’s see what rooms we have,” the assistant said. “Oh yes, we have a nice room on the second floor.” “Perfect,” she said, and, struggling to my feet, I paid the bill. Concerned she said “Do you want me to take three bags up to the room? You can take the elevator to the second floor.”

Shuffling to the elevator, leaning on Layla, we rose to the second floor. She closed the door. I flopped down on the bed, tired beyond belief.  My bones were aching. The right temple, excruciating. Sleep was all I wanted. She took off my clothes and placed me in bed with two pillows. She took off her clothes and drew the covers high. Her arms went around me. I closed my eyes. “I screwed up. Big time. Rain teeming down. A truck that was going too slowly for me. A lane which curved to the right.  A car coming the other way. A second later . . . I remember . . . smashing into the car . . . right front bumper spinning off . . . I remember wheat fields . . . yes, slowing . . . stopping . . . wheels spinning . . . going unconscious . . . on and off . . .” I stopped, stunned.  

She said, lightly rubbing my face, “Turn your memories off for once. I’m not going away. We’re in one piece, under the overs, cuddled up.  Nothing more could we do. We’ll sleep tonight, and see what we can do in the morning. End of chapter.” She kissed softly all over my face. She laid her my head on her chest. “Look down here. Your penis is getting hard,” and she laughed because it was funny. “I’m tired, hurting all over, and my penis is hard.  Help!”  She smiled at me from the chest hairs, rose slightly and said “Let’s see what we can do. I’ll rub the chest around.” She laughed again. Now she said “Slowly, I’m wandering down to the torso and, look at that, penis area. Not touching it yet.”  My penis was rigid. “What about if I’ll fondle it up and down and see what happens. Uh oh. Do you want to put it inside?”  I nodded dumbly.  “There. I’ve put you inside. You want to rub up and down . . . even faster . . . “

Week Minus One

My eyes open staring at her. Tousled hair facing away from me. Arm almost around her head. Light blue cover running down to leave the left shoulder naked. Dick stiffened at the naked shoulder. A half-grin at her sleeping. Sex and love, spinning around in my head. Or love and sex? Yin-yang? If I do touch her shoulder what then? Guess I’ll figure it out later. Now, bone tired, aching, groaning to myself, I thought “I could sleep forever. But . . . I have to call a rental car company to hire another car.” I remembered the night before. I remembered exhaustion. I remembered a pain in the right temple. I remembered a penis stiffening. Less depressed, I slid my arms around her and kissed her shoulder and cheek. She opened one eye. She pulled me down to whisper “Here we are lovers. You and me.” Yawn. “What’s the time now?” I said “It’s seven forty-five.” “I’ll have to get up, even though I don’t want to. I know. Love equals later,” she smiled lazily. “Tough,” I thought but said “First shower of the day. You or me?” She laughed and said “I have a better plan. We can shower together. Water running on both. Soap and touch each other. If you don’t feel comfortable you can get out of the shower.”  I laughed and said “Washing and touching each other. Let’s do it.”

Shower off, dripping wet, I reached for a towel. She nuzzled my earlobe. She had her arms around my waist tight. “Hey, stop!” I said half amused She grinned and kept nuzzling my other earlobe. I turned her around and towel-dried her hair. She reached for my prick. “Hey you. Stop. I’m drying your breasts.” I kissed one of her breasts. She put her hand underneath her breast and kissed her tip a second time. “Hey, stop, Not the third time.“ We laughed together. I dried the tips. “Look. The tips are hardening.” I inched down to the cute ass.  I fondled the cute ass. Down to curving legs. “I feel goose bumps all over!” she said. “Scrumptious.” She took the other towel and, on her tippy toes, dried my back, my top front, and slid down to dry my penis. “Look at that. The penis is stiffening by itself. Naughty naughty. I don’t know if I can resist sex with you.” She dried my legs. Took a step back. “You are beautiful. Look at your body. Alas. You have to get dressed. When you have the rental agreement in order, you speak calmly. Make the customer service order as courteous as you can. Line up another car fast. Pleasantly. Swiftly. As if it didn’t make a difference. You can do it just fine. Now, shoo. I have to get dressed.”

With a longing glance at her, I took out the rental agreement. I read it over, inhaled a deep breath and blew it out slowly. I marched to the telephone and called the manager at the rental car company. After two rings, he answered and said ”Hello?” with a Midlands accent. Calmly, I said “I’m Treb” with an American accent. I told him my story. I did keep it brief, thank to her. To my surprise he said “No problem, Treb. I was waiting for you by the telephone. I have the the agreement and rental car here. Just sign your name on the bottom line and I’ll hand you the keys. That’s all you have to do. I’ll be outside with the car keys and papers when you’ve arrived by taxi.” I turned to her and said “A new rental agreement waiting for us. I can’t believe it. It was so easy.”  I lifted her off her feet and whirled her around. She giggled at me and said “I knew you could do it. We’ll call the taxi company, pick up the new car, and take off for Chester. If we drive straight through, we can make it in three hours. If we don’t . . . well, who knows where we’ll be?” 

A taxi cab pulled up. Three bags packed and stowed in the trunk. Taxi dropped us off. I signed the document. I drove now. We held each others hand. I said “I want to bring up your parents again. Not because I won’t like your parents. It’s not that, but I am married and have two young children. I’m scare for what I’d say. You know? What are your parents really like? I guess what I’m saying is I don’t know what Rhodesians are like? Like anywhere else? Are they stern?  Forbidding?  Distant?” Amused, even funny, she said “They are like parents everywhere. Don’t you worry. You’ll like them.” I filed that away.

“I’ll tell you are a sliver more of the story. Let’s see. Okay. You’ve dug deeper in our past than I thought. I was born in Rhodesia. An only child. Mom didn’t have more children. She wanted them, but to no avail. I played piano and rode horseback. As soon I was able to mount, I rode a horse everywhere. A brown and white gelding. I remember him fondly. Even to town. The town was small and dusty. But that’s where the sweet crumble biscuits were. I can see the jar which the the sweet crumbles biscuits nestled on the cookies counter. In the shack, which we used to call it, I took two sweet crumbles biscuits out of the jar. A black employee I paid. Four wooden tables and creamy cola in big mugs. We hung out there on weekends. Two white girls and one white boy. Total teenagers. I said “hi” to blacks and and they said “hi” back but didn’t mingle with them. Dad sad no. Blacks had a different part of town. When the house was sold, I would say transferred to a black family, we fled to England as fast as we could. I’m almost twenty-nine now.  

I went to a separate school from black children. Through elementary and into high school. Blacks completed only eighth grade. After leaving school, they worked as laborers on land like ours.”  She looked at me, a glimpse of messages sent.  I nodded “yes” in response  She skipped ahead and said “My country now is England. It’s old, and it’s new. My undergraduate degree from the University of Rhodesia was transferred to the University of London. A double major: in art history and English. That's the undergraduate degree. I’m working part-time on a masters degree in English at the University of London. I landed a full-time job in non-profit publishing. Now and then we publish a fiction book and, rarely, a memoir. 

Dad’s betwixt and between. He’s longing for land back in Southern Rhodesia. He works in Chester as an accountant for a small firm, but, deep down, he doesn’t care about the job. He’d like to be back in Rhodesia, owner of a large ranch. Whites ruling over blacks. Hat on, horseback always, sitting straight in the saddle, uncompromising, reins over one hand and with the other, directing blacks to repair the fence or round up a cattle to the herd. That’s the Dad I remember.” I pondered “A racist story continuing.” I didn’t quite see the connection.

She continued. “Mom, on the other hand, does care about her job. It’s a modest job, but in England where that’s safer. She likes to walk out of the house and go to her job.” Turning she said “By the way, we’re still learning to live in England. More for my Dad than Mom. And partly for me. You could say that I had such different lifestyles in Rhodesia and here. That is the short version of the story.” I heard her clearly, but didn’t speak. She skimmed the black problem. Or shunted around it? Even though her voice did speak out. Murky, glimmering at the edges?  Words, sentences, floated around in my consciousness. Partly connected. My brain exploded. I looked at the curving road instead. I didn’t care because I loved her.  

She interrupted my zone.  “I don’t think I have ever asked you about the Parkers. Where did they come from? I assume England.”  “Yup,” I said “They came from England.” Snuggling tight in my shoulder, I told part of the story.  “Where do I start?  Ah, I know. Three hundred plus years ago, sailing to America in 1638, arriving in Boston, the group divided. One group went to Maine. Another group went to Connecticut. I don’t know where Dad got the idea from but he started in Maine to find his ancestry. He found the entry. 1800 or thereabouts. Reverend Wooscott Parker and Wealthy Ann Pond Parker. He, laboriously, traced that to us. He loved laborious. ’Reverend’ was a big part of our name. Congregational all. Stiff upper lip. Upright Republicans. The father always rained.

I was born in 1937. My Mom was Canadian. The eldest of three boys. Every summer she sent me for two months to Burlington, Ontario. Sometimes she came with me. I loved Ralph, my maternal grandfather, best of all. He was gruff on the surface and sweet underneath. He had six grandsons. I was the oldest. He died in Canada when I was fourteen. I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral. Mom and Dad went to the funeral. Alone I cried myself to sleep in New Jersey.  

Mom started me out at the piano. I played classical music. For twelve years. Surprise! Two people playing classical music on different continents. Anyway, Mom had the third child, and, shortly after, she began drinking. She died at fifty-seven, suffering from two heart attacks. She was depressed, lonely, and, more than anything, defeated by her husband. Dad was physically abusive only to me. Rigid, alone, explosively angry, kept to himself always. Ashamed? Maybe. He drank for thirty years, long after I fled to college. I earned an MAT and PhD. Now here I am, a Professor of English Education teaching doctoral students. And yours for the asking. With an aching right temple.”  We laughed despite myself. “My vision works much faster than my speech. Do you understand?” We grinned at that mildly ironic statement.

Anxious is what I felt about the upcoming parent meeting. “What about my wife? What about my two children?” She looked at me, waited a second, and replied softly. “Yes and yes. You have to take care of what you say to my parents. You cannot reveal that you’re married. Especially to Dad. I mean verboten.”  I said “I’ve been head over heels in love with you. It was real. Curved to our space with us. Nothing at all about how I feel about you?”  “Nope, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Only “I like her.” That’s it.” she said sternly. I thought “Toughness with love.” Quietly she said “Where were we? Oh yes, I know. Tell them about your professorship at Rutgers. You have have charisma when you talk about work. Also, your involvement with Writing Across the Curriculum movement. Tell them that you’ve been drawn into the world of writing. They’ll love that. A writing mystery that you’ll unfold to them. Rather than you talking about your personal life. You have not gotten yet that my professional life is fine, but my private life is verboten.” I nodded agreement, but wasn’t sure. She fell asleep. So easily. Chest tightening. Breath quickening. Three quarters of an hour to meet her parents. To find my way from this puzzle. 

Six More Days

We’d arrived in Chester. I parked in the driveway, hands clenching the wheel. She, sleeping. I, frozen. She awoke. “We’re here, This is our new home. It’s small but cute.” She looked more closely at me. She unclenched my hands from the steering wheel. She grinned to cheer me up. “You can do it. Like an expedition arriving at the door. When they’ve opened the door, smiling right at them, you say ‘Hi, I’m Treb.’ Stick out your hand. It’s automatic. You can do it.” “Wow” I thought. “Sturdy is the opposite of anxious.” She linked her arm with mine, dragging me along, and began the slow pace toward the house, bags behind us.

Mom opened the door. She said a warm hello to her parents, followed by a brief hug. Turning to me, she said “I’d like you to meet my new friend, Treb. We met a week ago. An American professor from Rutgers. He came across the ocean to participate in the Writing Across the Curriculum conference. I met him while he was browsing in my booth. He was always looking at a book. We became friends. Over books. Isn’t that exciting? And here we are.” thrusting me forward for a hello. She fibbed twice. Once, to her Dad. The second to her Mom. I rallied to her cause. I looked squarely at her parents. “Hello, I’m Treb. Nice to meet the two of you” and shook hands warmly.

She said “Well, well, Treb. You’re here for a brief visit. Come sit down on the couch. You’ll have some sherry with my husband.” I glanced over to see that she brought out two glasses. Her father waited for me to start. “I’m from New Jersey. Somerville, if you know where that is. After my masters, I moved to Illinois, where I taught English in high school. I resigned and finished a PhD. I taught at the University of Chicago for two years and moved back to New Jersey. That’s where I am now.  At Rutgers University.” I looked at Layla for support. She made it clear that I was on my own. Quickly her mother said to her “You and I will go in the kitchen and bring out delicious prime rib, potatoes, and green beans. We’ll toast you and find out a little more about you over mealtimes.”  Layla blew a kiss to me as they headed into the kitchen.  

There I was, left alone with her ‘stern’ father. He poured two sherry glasses, We toasted. I put the glass down. I felt nervous, fidgety. He said finally “Where did my daughter find you? American professor. In the booth where she works? Reading a book? I assume it was “find.“ He paused then continued “You’re a handsome guy and charming to boot. And a PhD. My daughter brought you to Chester to meet us? That’s even more fascinating.” I bit my tongue.

We took a second sip of sherry. He continued. “What do you teach at Rutgers? I assume it’s english education.” I replied “Yes, that’s right.  English education for doctoral students.”  Interrupting he said “I was the owner of a large landholding estate in southern Rhodesia. Up at dawn, I gave orders from horseback. To blacks only. You have a PhD in education. So you mean white students and, I assume, black students as well? Equal? White and black? America is a strange country. Hmmm . . . “ Silence for a moment. Then he started again. “It means how to teach students to read? Particularly at the doctoral level. I’ve learned to read too. Now I read two newspapers. With sherry. But writing? I hated essay writing while I was in high school. So they become skilled at both? Reading and writing? That’s intriguing, to say the least.”

“Exactly” I say. “I engage the teachers to begin writing first at pre-school and reading second. In kindergarten class. That’s the sequence of steps. And how to design their research for finite consequences spelled out in article form. Also I design most of the courses. Here’s an example. I teach students to write poetry during the summer semester. And I have to write poetry too. Three weeks in duration. I join them in reading about poems by the makers of them and in writing poems. When the course is over, students and professors work is reflected in the journal which we publish.”  Her father drew back offended. He must thought that’s a weirdo theory. He thought a poetry journal was a laugh. Especially a journal that only reflected one course taught during the summer.  He couldn’t get his mind around it. He’d been an elite part of the white minority in Southern Rhodesia. What her father wants to hear is not what I want to say. So I immediately focused on talking about the other parts of the program. I ran out of things to say.

Fortunately, Layla and her mother were coming out of the kitchen with plates in hand. And red wine on the table. She saw that I was worried about my interactions with her father. She rescued me. “You’re talking with Dad one on one. That’s great. You must have had a good discussion. Now come along to dinner,” her hand curling in mine. “You can sit next to me” and kept the conversation directed towards education. When we had all been excused from dinner, Dad, the newspaper and Mom, washing up, she said quietly “How did your interactions go with Dad?” “I think it went fine, but I don’t know. I was anxious about everything.” Grinning at me she said “Don’t worry. You’re doing fine. I’m sure that Dad understands English education better than he did before. You can say, ’I’m tired now.  Do you mind if I go to bed?’ Mom will jump up, rush upstairs, concerned about you as her guest, and make your bed in the guest room. I love Mom, but she’s predictable. And that’s all right. I love her anyway.”  

Before long, I said the phrase that she had planted in my mind. “I had a good time with you both, but I’m tired now. Can I go to bed?” Immediately Mom got out of the couch. I couldn’t see her but I think she was grinning slyly. We trudged up the stairs with me carrying two bags. At the top of the stairs her mother said “It’s left to the guest room. It’s small but comfortable. The bath towels are here on the chair. The bathroom is down the hall. Welcome to our house. Is there anything else you need?”  “I don’t think so. Thank you for welcoming me.” I said.  Laughing at me, she blew me a kiss from her bedroom before she closed the door. She had planned it perfectly.

After brushing my teeth, walking back to the guest room, turning off the light, I left the guest room door ajar.  It didn’t take her father long to snore. When she heard five snores, she tip-toed down the hall, closing the door softly, removing her nightdress, and slipped in bed. Snuggling under the covers, so our skin touched, she said, with a squirming kiss, “It’s me in the flesh. Pinch me. I dare you. And make sex with me.” She kissed me for a second time. “Look, I know that we’re in my parent’s house,” kiss “If we’re quiet,” kiss “For only two nights,” kiss harder “We can make love. And talk after.”  “Oops! Look. My penis is already hard.” She touched the penis. I felt mismatched breasts. We looked at each other for a second and, holding her mouth shut, we came together. We blushed shyly after the orgasm. We had done the act within her parents guest room. Holding tightly, as if we could not part. She said softly “I think it’s time to get back to my room.” She squirmed free, donning her nightdress, with a kiss and a wave, and went back to her room. I marveled at the week that we had been together. York, falling in love with her, Writing Across the Curriculum conference, Chester with her parents. Finally I went to sleep.

Up early, down stairs with coffee and a croissant, I read a novel. Her parents had gone to work. Down the stairs she came. She said “Hey you.” Blushing, I put down the novel. “Was I zoned out? Lost in that novel? I’m sorry!’” She laughed. “I love your zoning out. You lose yourself reading books. All kinds of books. You disappear.“ A half-grin from her. “When Mom has me alone, and we’ll take a sip of tea, she will ask ‘Did you tip-toe to Treb’s bedroom? And stay for a long time? I fell asleep before you returned to your bedroom.’ And she would take another sip of tea. That’s all she would ask. With a question hinting at being asked but never expressed. And now put the book down, come up upstairs, and make love.”  Taking two mugs off strong coffee, we went upstairs.

We had gentle sex. Lying in bed, arms around each other, I reminisced about the weeks we’d had together. “I loved talk and sex. I enjoyed Writing Across the Curriculum conference. I didn’t enjoy driving two lane road. Horrible. The passing truck . . . rain teeming down  . . . a horrible accident . . . cracking my head on inside of the window, blood streaming down . . . Like it didn’t happen . . . yet, it did. I loved you for the way you found me clenched to the wheel.  Spending the night in the Midlands. For the way you found me depressed in the hotel room. More than ever I loved you for the way you had quiet sex with me. I remember driving to Chester. I remember you rooting me out of the car. I remember being dragged to the house. I remember spending a pleasant evening with your parents.  Today? I’m all yours everyday from now on.”

Four Days Left

While driving to London, I said “How was my visit with your parents?” She shook her finger at me. “I caught you red-handed. You meant to say is how your interactions went with my father.”  A poke in the arm to needle me. “Am I right?” I reddened, nodded. She zeroed in. “I’d say that your interactions were A-.”  She poked me in the arm again.  I attempted to laugh, but my mind was elsewhere.  I thought “How does she expect me to feel good about myself always? Why could I not pour my heart out to her?”  Pause . . . “A complicatedly human organism? Exploring all my consciousness about the dark self? She touched on tinder when it came to depression and shame? Ohh shit.”

She pulled me back to consciousness. Hopefully to real-ness. “Just kidding. You did great. Your anger is quick to heat up, particularly your father. I know that too with my Dad. I had to get a wide gap from my Dad. You need to block, possibly remove, those emotions to your father. I know you keep those in vivid memory. Always throughout life. You also need to block those emotions which occur as a part of marriage. All personal feelings or personal life must be kept out of bounds. You need to deal with those memories yourself.. You need to focus only on what you do as a professor. Where your feelings need freedom to express themselves. Work as opposed to personal life. That’s the short story. I know it’s hard for you, but I’ll help as much as I can.” Paused, then continued “You’re depressed part of the time about everything. Particularly inside. You don’t know which side of the line you’re on. Anxious about speaking and yet you blurt it out. Am I right?” My head was tucked down and nodded “Yup.”

A few minutes passed. “I bet it’s your father” she said. I was startled. My hurt and anger at Dad was deep rooted. “He’s the one who was rigid and abusive. He’s the one you turned your back on when you felt boiling anger. Your mother knew but she didn’t speak. You felt there was no one to turn too.” I nodded and poured out the abuse I’d been through. “Dad’s physical abuse occurred from eleven through eighteen. I walked up steps to his study to undergo the razor strap. Fourteen or fifteen times he whipped me. Or the wooden shingle in the dining room. That was worse because the family had to witness that pain I felt, with Mom and the two younger brothers looking on. I was left out while Mom did vanilla ice cream for the others. I couldn’t spit out the hurt and shame. I was furious and shamed alone.

The culture, white Protestant culture, forbade talking about the abuse. I had nightmares for six years. My anger was focused in my head. I was consumed by rage. I couldn’t spit out the anger. When I got older, I couldn’t see the point of staying to fight him. So I did the next best thing. I fled to college. The anger is still smoldering now. A brief story.”  She replied “Wow. Physical abuse ongoing.”  She put her fingers lightly on my face. “Father versus you. And you were young. Oh, Treb.”  “Yup” I said and kept driving. Feeling anger at Dad ongoing. She said “Stop the car.” She put her arms around my neck and squeezed hard. “Now drive.”

Another long pause. She said “Where did your mother fit in?” I forced myself to think about Mom. Pictures of pieces of her life. “She was afraid of Dad later, but not in the early years. Beautiful, bright, outgoing, warm, and vain. She was rushed off her feet by the stream of suitors. But, at the end, when she’s been married for more than thirty years, when she had become a US citizen, when she had three children, when she drank rye and water for ten years, when she had two heart attacks four months apart, when I came from Baltimore to see her in the hospital, she seemed old, wilted, lonely, and depressed. That was her defeat because of Dad. I blocked that out completely and focused on the dissertation. I didn’t know that she would die. I missed the death of Mom because I was doing my PhD. Yet, she did die. Abruptly. At age fifty-seven. Of two heart attacks. I was numb, hurt, but didn’t know how to cry. I missed her more over the years. Mom equals memories.”  

Enough for entanglements from the past. Black holes I call them. She understood black holes now. She knew intuitively which black holes I avoided. Depression ever present. I pressed on because I couldn’t do anything else. I said “You and me. We’ve come from different countries. Yet, when in love, the barrier crumbles. You talked and then I talked in response.” She laughed at the rim around depression. I didn’t notice because I was revved up. “We went to the hotel. We marveled at our naked bodies. Then had sex. And now . . . ?”

She appreciated the complicated neurons in my brain. I appreciated the neurons working in her brain. The brains were unique. No one is the same. Marveling at the neurons colliding differently within each of our brains. Rhodesian and American. Discovered each other in York through neurons, talk, and sex. “Yes! Hyper neurons” she exclaimed. “Neurons working overtime.”  We laughed ironically. She shrugged off the neurons in our brains, and said ”You’re right.  Despite the difference in background . . . you, from America and I, from south Africa . . . it does matter, but it doesn’t. I like the word “both.” That “felt” right. Yin-yang you said?” She paused then said “You know, I must sort out my own emotions.  It’s hard for me let alone you. You keep everything stuffed inside. You never let anything out. You’re guarded all the time. And then you blurt it out. Let’s see if we can do this together. Lovers and compatriots.” 

She touched me tenderly in the face.  I had to absorb this way of our determining the future. ”To put myself out in the world for you. To make us feel intimate. More honest. More truthful. No matter how painful it is. I never had this experience before. You tugged hard to open my smile and my life. Do you know what you’re asking me ?” I said. She nodded, without saying anything. She searched her bag, found a novel, and, with a tousled shake. was reading. She’d said more than enough. More than I thought she would say. Did she say grow up? I think that’s what she did say. An explosion of truths that I had to sort out for myself.

I looked at the road ahead, semi-rigid on the steering wheel. I don’t know how I did it, but stayed on the left side of the road. Cars and trucks whizzed by me on the right. Two hours passed. I stopped at a service station. To fill up on gas. She closed the novel, with a quiet smile. She still didn’t speak. We marched off to pee and got two large coffees. As we returned to the car, coffees in hand, I said “Why don’t you talk to me?  You had lots of things to say before.” She kept on reading her novel. “Why didn’t I talk?” I thought. “Depression lurked under the surface?” Seventy-five kilometers to Chester. My thoughts jumbled.

She put the novel down and said “I’m ready to talk now.” She giggle-laughed. “I’ll unzip your pants — hey you.  Keep driving.  No looking down. I’m going to rub your penis up and down. I’m curious.” Laughter and penis rubbing.  Breathing faster. “My prick is rigid.  Do I keep . . . driving?” Laughing out loud she said “You have to keep your eyes on the road. Yes, with two hands on the steering wheel.”  She kept her fingers jiggling, up and down, on the penis. “Look what’s happening.” Whitish squirt came out and dribbled down my penis. “You had an orgasm while you were driving. I love the feel of it. I’m getting excited myself! I masturbated myself, but never with you.” She giggled in pleasure, zipped up my fly, and grabbed a quick glance over at me. She kissed me lightly on the mouth.

My breathing slowed. Getting closer to London. I said “Wow. It’s close to London. I’m in your capable hands.”  She replied “Treb? I’d like you to stop at the next car park. Park at the edge where the trees are bunched. I’m sure that we’ll be the only car parked. When I’ve pulled down my pants, you put your two fingers in the clitoris and roll it slowly around? Just to see what happens. Okay?”

I glanced over and pulled in at the next car park. Took a space far enough away, turned off the engine, and locked the doors. She pulled down the pants and undies. Kissing hard, tongues circulating, her breathing coming faster, looking at her with a grin, she gasped “Shit! Could you put two fingers in fast?” “Naughty, naughty!” I slid my fingers in her clitoris and rubbed it around. Then slowly faster.  “Oh . . . oh my . . . that’s . . . it!.”  She felt the surge. Moments later, she felt another one. She gasped for breath. “Holy jees!” is all she could say. When her breathing lessened, she said “Second one was harder than the first. Explosions! Whirring light cascading over me.” She looked at herself in awe. We laughed because it was funny. Didn’t know what else to do. We touched arms. We came closer.  Feeling our bodies connecting, glued inside each other, we kissed each other. I started the car and drove the remaining distance to London.  

We pulled into the parking lot. “There it is! On the second floor. It faces south. You can see Thames River and Greenwich Park behind it. Close the flat door and, presto chango, it’s mine. Actually it’s ours. It’s a small flat. A living room, a bedroom, and a kitchen, but it’s cosy for me. I’m sorry, for us. Anyway, on Sunday morning, reading the Sunday newspaper, I drop the paper and read two or three books on the sofa. Or I fall back to sleep. I can’t wait for you to see it.”  

Locking the car, carrying two bags up two floors, there it was, flat 214. Unlocking the door, throwing three bags inside, coats crashing on the floor, walking to the large window, moving curtains to the edge of the window, we stood arm in arm, looking out at the Thames River. “Look across the river at Greenwich Park, surrounded by big trees and small lakes. I love it at this hour. 5:30pm. When I get off work. We can walk or sit on the bench. Hug each other or sit silently, arms around each other. When the weathers warm, girls and boys sail sailboats on the lake. On the biggest lake, we can row out to the middle, ship the oars, and enjoy the view. I want to be with you. Only you.”  She giggled at me, but underneath she was serious. Gathering her in, hands holding bodies intimately, she nuzzled into my shoulder. We sat for an hour looking out over the Thames and Greenwich Park. The evening deepened. Outside lights flickered on. Inside, intimacy and peace.  

She raised her head “Could you kiss me?  Hard?”  She drew her lips where I could reach them. I giggled because I didn’t know what else to do. “Be serious for once. Look at me. I’m vulnerable. Body and mind. As if I want to be inside your body. Make me feel as if I were inside your body.  Make us come together.” I undid her blouse. “Make my breasts feel as if they were alive. Make them tingly.”  I slowly rubbed the breast until it did feel tingly to her. She pulled her pants down and her undies down. “Slide your hands slowly over my torso. Now put your fingers in the clitoris. Rub it around. Oh yes!  Can I put my hand on the penis?” She rubbed it up and down. We fled to the bedroom, crashed, and she said “I feel the penis sliding in me . . . it’s . . . getting bigger . . . “ We breathed faster, our heads back. “I feel the orgasm happening.”  We cried out. Waiting for breathing to slow down, we were happier than I ever remember us being. Wrapping each other tight, we slept for six hours.  

She woke up first and grabbed the newspaper from outside the door.  She reached the third section of The London Times and said “Yoo Hoo!  Wake up. I’d like you to look at art museums.”  One eye open, yawning, put my glasses on, I said “Let’s see. You said art museums?”  I spread the fourth section on the bed and started to read the section on art when she said, giggling “I choose the museum. I like the Impressionists, and the best Cezannes hang in Tate Britain. I think it’s the primo one. We’ll do that together.” Waiting for me to respond. She said eventually, with a sly smile “Sure, why not. I’d like to see the Tate Britain. Especially Cezanne’s paintings.” I thought she was kindness personified.

Triggered from the past, I said “Williams College. Massachusetts. Undergraduate. The two art courses, during my freshman and sophomore year. They were two of the best courses I had. Impressionists were my favorite. I loved Cezanne and Monet. I liked Renoir, Degas, Morisot, and Manet but not a taken as much as I liked the other two” pinching her lightly. She laughed and said “Tate it is. It opens at 9:30.  We’ll have breakfast in the flat, kiss romantically, then go. It serves lunch. Good lunch too. We can compare notes on our Impressionists over lunch. Now, shoo! Be gone. I’m getting dressed. By the way, I make an incredible breakfast, then kissing, then Tate,” she said pinching my ass. I laughed all the way to the shower. A “yes” from my answer. Song from her as I entered the shower. I hadn’t heard a song before. It sounds like a Beatles song. It is. “Real Love.” And she has a good voice.  

She had thrown together a breakfast with three scrambled eggs lightly peppered, three pieces of lean Canadian bacon, two slices of dark brown bread toasted, a brimming glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, and a gigantic mug of steaming coffee. I was delighted. After we sat down, with the delicious breakfast waiting, I raised the mug and said “I’m honored to be here with you.” We clicked mugs. I gobbled breakfast down. She was pleased. I raised my mug a second time.

We settled on the couch, sorting through the newspaper. I asked “Could I have the sports section, pretty please?” She laughed out loud. She hadn’t seen that part of me. She was impressed and said “Well . . .  all right,” a brief pause, “Actually I read the sports edition last” a pleasant jab at me. It made us feel good that we’re close together. I said to top it all of “Touchee.” Blushing, pleased, she dug into the business section. In small flat in London’s southeast end, we read the newspaper together. As if we had always been doing that.

She jumped up, scattering the newspaper, and said “Let’s go to Tate Britain this very instant.” She grabbed my arm and said “I can’t wait to show you Cezanne’s and Monet’s paintings. Breathtaking all of the Impressionists. Leave the dishes in the sink. We can wash them later. Coats on. Onward.”  She took my hand, ran out of the flat, and drove to Tate. I jumped from side to side in the car, taking in the sights of London. We passed the Tower Bridge, Big Ben, Parliament, and Trafalgar Square. “Awesome” I said excitedly. Across the street was the Thames River, running eastward. Laughing she said “Hey, slow down. Focus. After all, we have to see Cezanne’s and Monet’s paintings.”  I said “Yes sir!” She glanced over, alarmed, and then saw the joke. She laughed uproariously.

She parked, paid the fees, and walked quickly to the rooms where the Cezanne’s and Monet’s were displayed. She dragged me over to the west wall and grabbed my arm. “My favorite piece of art . ‘It’s “Mont Sainte-Victoire.” Do you think it’s amazing?” She blushed at having shown this to me. It had been her painting. She came to see this one piece of art alone. Waiting to see what I had to say. I thought “Reaching out to this single painting. Consumed by the painting.” I looked at it carefully from all angles and a wide grin spread across my face. “I knew from a slide at Williams that this was Mont Sainte-Victoire. And from a book of Impressionist paintings. I love this painting.”  

I studied her to see what the painting meant to her. Whispering “It’s a rugged mountain, pinned in by two tall trees in the foreground. The mountain draws me to it. As if it were a real mountain.” Studying the painting more closely, blushing, she said “It’s also a mysterious mountain.” She grabbed my arm leaning closer, “Up closely. On the left. It’s a dark yellow dab for houses” pointing just below the mountain. “A shade of rusty brown for individual trees. A deep green for fields. A fallow fields awaiting planting. It’s an ordinary world and a magic world to connect you with the painting. It is for me.”  Stepping back a bit. Figuring something out. “A washed out yellow descending from the skies.” She had run out of words. Though spirit animated her body. Drawn into a ‘communion’ with the painting. An intimacy with Cezanne brush strokes. Both of which she projected in — no, toward, no, into — the painting. She merged with the painting. I heard her make that particular Cezanne hers in a way that I had not understood before. Heading toward the cafeteria, I said “I’ve not heard that in painting. In literature, yes. Several times. You spoke of feeling dreams to words. Speaking out while you develop memories of it. They’re spoken from “somewhere” else. It’s a truth-telling picture-memory of yourself communicating to a Cezanne on the wall.” And creative logic would have to wait.

Heading eastward through London, I said “Tate was out of this world. Awesome, you,” and gently pinched her side. “Ouch,“ she said and pinched back. She blushed with pleasure at my complement. “You said intimate things to me about the Cezanne painting on the wall. From your heart” excitedly. I said “Your gray-green eyes and your voice bored into me. I understand that painting now. I’m honored, but more than that, pleased as punch.”  “We do everything together.” She moved closer. “I know. Thistle and Ale. It’s not far from my apartment. It’s quaint and quiet. We can get a table far from everybody. Just the two of us. To hold hands and talk about whatever.”

Stopping the car at Thistle and Ale, walking to the pub, we ordered two half pints each. We didn’t say anything. Just held hands. We arrived at the flat, not saying anything either. We made dinner. After salad, pasta with red sauce, garlic and basil, after sitting on the sofa, after arms and legs wrapped round each other, after classical music on low, I think Chopin, after listening to each other’s hearts beat, I said the first thing “Let’s go into the bedroom.” She looked up, nodded agreement, and headed for the bedroom. We locked the door, and, after turning around so we could face each other, I said ”I will drop my clothes on the floor. You can see my nakedness. Now throw your clothes on the floor. We look at each other and memorize the you of me. I want to know you as you are. Tousled head of hair, just a shade off dark brunette; gray green eyes; a mouth for kissing, talking, and grinning; shoulders a shade curved; breasts, one slightly smaller than the other; torso spreading out to small gorgeous ass; a dark patch in front; curvy legs; feet just right. My eyes will close and see your image. Riveted to my heart.”

We had seen each other naked before. But this time, it was different. We saw with different set of eyes. I looked in her gray-green eyes.  She looked at my brown eyes. I dropped my eyes to her breasts.  Moving down the torso, ass and crotch. She looked at my torso and penis. We ached outward at each other. She touched her hands on my face. I put my arms around her tenderly. She was trembling. We kissed all over the body. We collapsed on the bed. She said “Can I get on top of you?” I nodded “yes.” She said “You love my mismatched breasts? You love me all over? We can make us come?“ “Now, slow . . . ly . . . slide . . . in . . . oh Treb . . . ” she gasped. The rhythm increased. In and out. Our heads curled back . . .  into every pore of our body . . . trembling . . . we said “oh” at the same time.  When we had finished, she kissed me.  Her lips were the tenderest I can remember them being.

Two Days To Go 

We made love at night, wrapped in each others arms. We woke at seven She donned her bathrobe and made breakfast. They delivered the newspaper to the door while we were having breakfast. I started with sports; she, the business section. We munched on toast and read the newspaper. We put down the newspaper, kissed, and talked about the plans that we were going to do today. We always reached an agreement. We drove to wherever we ended up. I felt wonderful being in London with her.

We dawdled over coffee. Some times the conversation was light, sometimes serious. We had lunch. We loved the same types of food. Inventive, cheap, out-of-the-way places. Mediterranean food, Greek food, Indian food, Thai food. Talking or not talking over lunch. Sometimes hands touched. Walking back to the car, we held hands and drove to art museums. We loved art, including sculpture. We loved live theatre, especially matinees. We saw Macbeth for half price. We went to independent bookshops to browse. While browsing, she laughed quietly at me who zoned out over books. I laughed as she bought the poetry books. She liked modern poets. I was surprised. I liked them too, particularly Mary Oliver and Sylvia Plath. She liked Philip Larkin and Seamus Healey. She purchased books by Heaney and others. She read two poems to me. One of them I recognized.: “Blackberry Picking.” I clapped at the end.

We sat on the grass at an outside concert at Hyde Park. They played Beethoven’s 6th Symphony. She put her head on my shoulder, slow rocking to the music. We walked in parks. Aimlessly. Late afternoon talking on the strand that wound around the lakes. We sat on the bench at 5:30pm, watching the world go by. We saw trees blowing softly, saw the grass going down to end at small lakes, and saw sail boats on the lake. Arms circling each other. We formed a happy blur. We had each other.

One final day left, in mutual pain, we made love fiercely and tenderly. We felt as if it is one body, fusing the limbs together. One spirit now. We never slept. We cried on and off. 5:00am. 5:30am. 6:00am. 6:30am. We left the bed to go on the couch. We clung together. Arms desperately around. We kissed each other tenderly as if it were the final time. We confronted the sorrow we would feel at separation. Looking directly at me, staring into my eyes, halfway crying, she said “Don’t go home. Ever. Stay here. I don’t know what I will do when you’re gone. No, you can’t be gone. If you leave to go to America, will that be end of our relationship? No, no. I want you here. On the couch. Where I can touch you. Intimately. To cuddle. To talk. To have sex with.” Halfway crying, desperately “Against all odds” half sob “I’ll come back to London. Don’t you worry. Count on it.“ “You think so?” she said.

What was I to say. Stay, leave, or come back divorced. Down to the wire. Forever or only for five months. That is the question. “I will return divorced. Ready to live with you. Or marry you.” After a pause, I said “Tick-tock, tick-tock. One tick less means that I won’t be here. The airplane disappears into the sky and lands at Kennedy Airport. I will be at home in New Jersey, wife and two children, teaching at Rutgers University.”

After a while, quietly she said “Come, let us build a new life together. In a flat in southeast London. Just the two of us. It will be fine if we are together.” We wrapped around tighter. I said “What a journey we’ve had together. In just two weeks. I finished two pints of ale. She ordered a half pint. Bumping into me. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.  ‘Layla,’ she said.  ‘And you are?’  ‘Treb,’ I said. We talked and responded. Marvelous sex. Writing Across the Curriculum conference. The bad accident we’d had. Two days with her parents. The quintessential four days we’d had in London. Only with you. Oh yes, by talking about Cezanne to me.” Seared in our heart and memory.

I tasted her lips. I said “What is the difference when I arrive in New Jersey? A widening gap between us? I will not hear about it. It will never, ever happen that I would hold on to Julia. I will divorce her promptly. I promise. Bottom line. I was in love with you. Only you. I was desperate to come back. I had already resigned my appointment as Assistant Professor at Rutgers University. And I had divorced Julia. Return to London. No job. But we had each other. A Rhodesian and an American living together in London. At a flat in southeast London.” The gray-green eyes looked into mine. She saw the brown eyes said “yes.” She drew back. She waited. For what? My blood pressure went through the roof. What would her response be? All of a sudden, a half-grin on her face, her response was “yes.” Yes” she shouted to all the world. We hugged each other. Our hearst soared. Nothing else mattered. 

Yet, we had to go to Heathrow Airport and fly off with her standing there waving as my plane disappeared. Ocean in between. A dilemma? One that could change my life? Forever? Damn me. While I was flying back, tears falling softly, I saw young children greeting me when I arrived in New Jersey. Surrounded by kids. Five and seven years old. I loved the children. And I saw divorce. I marry Layla. I waited for a letter from her addressed to the university office. I closed the door and read the precious letter. And reread it. Kissed the letter. And waited for the next letter. What was Layla going to do in London? Door locked reading my letter? Aching in love letter sent by me? Was she in love with me? Yes, I knew that love binds us.

Sneaky as always. Underhanded as always. Julia undermined my life. She overwhelmed me with two young children. She registered for a group psychotherapy class in Princeton. She overwhelmed me with sex. I started to drink three or four martinis a night. I gained weight. I stopped working out. She always had an underhanded plan. White Protestant culture got in the way? Push pull? Drinking undermined me? What kind of new life did we have now? 

In England. For two weeks. For love, talking, and sex. Is that it? Is love more than enough? That was the answer? However brief? That was the fucking ballgame? In love with her but . . . ?  I struggled to make a connection to her? I gradually lost touch with her? Is it possible for love to dwindle away until its smoldering ash? With me for a brief love time, she was ready move on with her life? To the next lover? For a two week love fling? Was it true for both of us? Was I to move on to another love fling? I started shagging other women for sex?

Neurons exploding in consciousness. Whirring exponentially around. I felt like I didn’t know anything about anything. Consciousness says visions fizzle out? I ached for her and was angry that she was not in New Jersey? Or damn her? She cried, briefly, and moved on to the next lover? The heart: what does it say? I’d burned out the connection to my heart? I couldn’t feel what the heart is saying. Mind, heart, and gut? 

What’s lost in us? What’s found in us? I dreamt of visions. Real-ness she said. Determination lies between. After fifty years I felt and told the “story.” And tell and retell the “story.” Now the “story” is out of my hands. The reader will retell the story. Or perhaps not. Doesn’t matter. Realness and visions prevail.