Hidden Jewel (Landry 4)

The thought of the long ride back and in the dark was overwhelming. "I guess," I said. "But I'll have to leave right after I wake up."

"Deal," Jack declared.

"I'm helping with the dishes," I insisted.

"I'm not stopping you," he replied. I poked him in the shoulder and he pretended to poke me back. We giggled and hugged. It felt so good to be light and carefree after what I had experienced. Just being with Jack put me at ease. While I was washing and

rinsing the dishes, he came up behind me and kissed me softly on the back of my neck. I paused and felt his arms around my waist. I leaned back against him, closed my eyes, and invited more of his kisses on my cheeks, my neck, and finally, when I turned to him, my lips.

"You can leave those dishes," he whispered and once again lifted me into his arms. He carried me through the trailer to his bedroom and set me down gently. It was dark, but the clouds had broken and the rain was long gone. Shards of moonlight sliced through the darkness and through the trailer window to illuminate our silhouettes. Quietly, neither of us saying a word, we undressed. Naked, beneath the blanket, we kissed again, and I felt myself slip softly, comfortably, perfectly into his embrace.

Jack was very gentle. His lips were as soft as feathers, trailing down to my stomach and then up to lift and caress my breasts again. My moans were small whimpers that accompanied my quickened breathing. Even after he entered me, our movements remained graceful and gentle, building slowly to each crescendo and then building on that crescendo to reach greater heights each time, taking my breath away. Soon I was spinning, but it was a pleasant vertigo, a light-headed feeling that made me giddy. I felt as if I were falling back, but I didn't feel endangered. It was a wonderful free fall, a flight through ecstasy.

Jack's whispered words of love filled my ears along with the pounding of my own heart. I couldn't stop myself from telling him how much I loved him, too. The flood of emotion that had been damned up behind my wall of skepticism and fear broke free, and the rush of passion that followed threatened to drown us both. I clung to him; I demanded more and returned his kisses with more intensity.

Once I had feared I could never be a lover, but Jack's surprised laughter and plea to let him catch his breath made me realize those fears were foolish. I was the lightning that needed the right marriage of elements to fire up the night sky, and the right elements were someone who really loved me and someone I really loved.

Finally he turned over on his back and cried, "Mercy!"

I laughed and we held hands and waited for our hearts to stop pounding and our breathing to slow down. Then he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my fingers. He put my hand over his heart.

"Feel how content my heart is now," he said. "Feel how it beats for you."

"And mine too, Jack," I said bringing his hand to my breast. We lay beside each other quietly, astounded by how hard and how deeply we loved. I realized this was like the eye of the storm, the quiet that came in the midst of turmoil. Jack told me the hurricane was in me because I had been born in one. Maybe he was right. In the throes of all this disaster and tragedy, I had found him waiting to embrace me; I'd found his love, and with it I'd found the strength to battle the storm to follow.

I closed my eyes and drifted into a soft, pleasing sleep, but sometime in the night, as if I had been nudged, I woke. My eyelids fluttered. For a moment I had forgotten where I was. Then I heard Jack's soft breathing beside me, and I relaxed. Then I turned and gazed out the window that faced Cypress Woods. Immediately my heart began to pound, and I sprang up as if I had a coil in my spine.

"Jack!"

"Wha . . what is it?"

"Look." I pointed at the house. Just barely visible in a corner window of my mother's art studio was the glow of candlelight.

Jack sat up and studied the great house looming against the purple night sky. His eyes narrowed and he turned to me slowly. In a whisper he said, "Someone's up there all right."

Quickly we dressed. Jack grabbed a flashlight and a shotgun.

"It could be burglars," he explained when he saw my surprise.

I was hoping beyond hope that it was my mother, but another possibility occurred to me. "Or Buster Trahaw's cousins?" I asked.

Jack grimaced, but he didn't deny the possibility. Instead, he reached into the drawer and took out another handful of shotgun shells.

We got into my car and drove up to the mansion. The night sky was an eerie purple with the cloud cover broken here and there to permit some stars to twinkle. The strong breeze made the willows and cypresses sway ominously. Shadows seemed to float and twist over the grounds. When we stepped out of the car, I heard the cry of a night heron and then saw it flap its wings and sail over the field and toward the marsh.

I looked up at the mansion. The candlelight was still glowing in the window.

Jack took my hand and walked quickly to the side stairway. He paused at the first step. "Let me lead the way," he whispered. "And let's go up as quietly as we can."

I tried to swallow, but couldn't. My heart was thumping so loud I was sure that if it was a burglar, he would hear it. I was afraid to breathe. Slowly, cautiously, we mounted the steps that would take us to the studio. I thought they creaked enough to announce our approach. I tried to be as light-footed as possible. Once upstairs, Jack hesitated, checked his shotgun, and then, keeping me behind him, opened the door with a strong, quick thrust.

At first neither of us saw anyone. A few white candles were burning around an easel upon which there was a blank canvas. Then she stepped out of the shadows, resembling a shadow herself. It was Mommy, finally.

"Mommy!" I cried with joy. Jack lowered his shotgun as I hurried past him, but I stopped short midway.

Mommy was behaving as if she didn't hear us or see us. She wore a slight smile and moved as if she were sleepwalking. Her hair was disheveled, strands curling every which way. Her face was streaked with grime, a dark blotch on her chin, and her dress was creased and crinkled, spotted and stained, suggesting she had slept in it the whole time she had been away, and slept outside, too! In her hands she clutched some charcoal pens and a rag.

"Mommy, it's me, Pearl," I said and waited. She turned her back to me and stared at the blank canvas, which was caked with dust. Jack stood beside me, gazing at her curiously, too. "Mommy? Don't you hear me?" I asked. She didn't turn. "Jack, what's wrong with her?"