Swan Peak (Dave Robicheaux 17)

“What is it, Dave? What bothers you all the time?”

Nothing other than an oblong black hole, one that waits for all of us.

“Nothing. I’m fine,” I said.

“Why did you get up in the middle of the night and oil your gun?”

“Primitive people believed they could drive evil spirits from the grave by firing arrows at them. Oiling a sidearm under a reading lamp in the dark makes about as much sense.”

I saw a question mark form on her face, then dissolve into an expression of loss and incomprehension. I saw her chest rise and fall, her eyes go away from me and return. “For good or bad, no matter what happens, we’re in it together,” she said.

“You’re a stand-up guy, Molly.”

“A guy?”

But I wasn’t interested in rhetoric or verbal assurances or defining myself or my relationship with my wife or even trying to explain how the measure of one’s life finally reduces itself to the possession of the moment, then the moment after that, moving through each of them in sequence from day to day, letting go of yesterday and asking nothing from the future except to be there for it.

“Good guys forever,” I said.

“Pardon?” she said.

I locked my hands around her back and lifted her into the air and walked with her into the bedroom, the bottoms of her bare feet touching the tops of my shoes.

“What you doing, cap’n?” she said.

I pulled her dress over the top of her head and kissed her on the mouth. She sat down on the side of the bed, wearing only her panties and a bra. She glanced toward the window. The curtains were billowing in the wind, and dust was rising from the field and we could see the shadows of ravens racing across the tips of the grass. “You hear a clock ticking, Dave?” she said.

I looked around the room as though I didn’t quite understand.

“You know what I mean,” she said.

“Hemingway once said three days can be worth a lifetime if you live them right,” I said.

“Hemingway shot himself,” she replied.

“He left behind books that people will read as long as there are books,” I said.

“But maybe no one told him that. Or he didn’t listen to them when they did.” She lifted her eyes to mine.

“No one knows what goes on in the mind of a suicide, Molly. They don’t come back to tell us.”

The room was silent.

She finished undressing and lay down and waited for me, indifferent to the fact that someone might walk up on the porch, or that a recreational rider might come down a trail on the hillside, or perhaps, more important, no longer worried about the lack of resolution in our discussion or a lack of resolution in the latter part of our lives.

When I was inside Molly, I saw images behind my eyelids that seemed to have little to do with marital congress. I saw gossamer fans floating inside a coral cave, a field of red poppies hard by the sea, a glistening porpoise sliding through a wave. I could feel her heart beating against my chest, her breath puffing against my ear. I could smell her hair and the heat in her skin, like a fragrance of flowers at first light. But Molly’s greatest gift to me during those erotic moments was simply her touch, the presence of her body under me, the grace of her thighs, the tightness of her arm across my back, the steady pressure of her hand at the base of my spine.

There are occasions in this world when you’re allowed to step inside a sonnet, when clocks stop, and you don’t worry about time’s winged chariot and hands that beckon to you from the shadows.

Then I felt a sensation that was like a fissure splintering down the face of a stone dam, spreading through my loins, collapsing my insides, draining my heart, pushing the light out of my eyes. I tried to stop it from happening, to make it last longer, to bring Molly inside the intensity of the moment with me, but she tightened her thighs and drew me deeper inside her and bit my neck and made a sound perhaps like the Sirens did when they lay atop rocks jutting from an ancient sea.

When it was over, I could hear no sound other than the wind in the grass outside and the hammering of my blood in my ears. When I kissed her again on the mouth, her fingers were wrapped in my hair, her body damp with sweat, our bedsheets imprinted with a moment I never wanted to leave.

That was when Albert knocked on the door and shouted that I’d had a phone call up at the main house.

“Who from?” I said from the bedroom as Molly drew the sheet over her breasts.

“She didn’t say. She said she’d call back in ten minutes,” he called through the screen. “She had an accent like a twanging bobby pin. She also sounded a little bit hysterical. Caller ID blocked. I’d leave her the hell alone. Message delivered. Adios.”