Something She Can Feel

“Nothing,” I answered, but there was something. Like a rope was tied from my navel to Benji’s waist, I was being tugged somehow from my seat. “I have to go,” I said next and I didn’t know where I was going or what excuse I was about to use to get out of that church. But I just had to. I had to see.

“Go where?” Evan looked at me.

“My head ... it hurts.” I massaged my forehead. “I need to go home.”

“Well, let’s go,” he said, moving to get up.

“No.” I put my hand out to stop him. “You don’t have to come with me... . I don’t want you to miss the rest of the sermon. You were enjoying it. I’ll just go home and rest up a bit and come meet you at my parents’ for dinner. I’ll take the car and you can catch a ride with Jr and May.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I just need some rest. Some quiet.”

He handed me the car keys.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, kissing me on the cheek.

“Yeah.”

“Wait! Wait!” I hollered at Benji’s back. I’d run—not in an inconspicuous trot, but in a full dash as if the very air I was breathing depended upon it—out the doors by my seat, down the stairs, through the lobby, and out into the parking lot to catch him. I was out of breath and sweating, my hair had come loose and I realized I’d left my purse in my seat, but I was still running.

Benji stopped.

“Wait,” I said, reaching out to grab him as I fought to keep my breath. “Wait.”

He turned to me.

“Is ... he ... here?” I managed. “Dame?”

“He’s waiting for you,” he said, “by the river.”

They called it Princess Pale Moon’s Throat. A secluded, untouched corner of the Black Warrior River where a gentle stream created by rolling hills beneath the fall line separating the upper part of the river from the lower part ran beneath canopies of maple, sweet gum, and poplar trees. Behind the trees, a mixture of sand, gravel, and mud that washed up from the floor of the stream when the river ran high created

a path that was just wide enough for a car to come winding down to get up close to the stream so that someone could get out and walk over to enjoy its beauty. For years, this path was known as “the Throat,” a road that led lovers to the most beautiful face Alabama had to offer—Princess Pale Moon, a Choctaw beauty who was said to be loved by more men than Mataoaka, known to most people as Pocahontas. It was the most secret place in Tuscaloosa every lover, old and young, knew about. Unlike other parts of the river, which were now largely rerouted for navigation and big business with the coal from the basin, nothing was ever built there or left along the edge of the path to let anyone know it had been discovered. And we liked it that way. So much so that if anyone arrived in a car with their lover, hoping to park and be alone in the world for a little while, and there was already another car there, the new arrivals would quickly shift into reverse and head back out onto the main road. The face was to be enjoyed alone. The secret of the place had to be kept.

When Benji said Dame was waiting by the river, I knew where to go, where to head off the main road and catch the start of the throat to lead myself to the sweet gum trees. In the clearing, where the throat turned for the last time and then a straight path led to the stream, I saw the old pickup truck. It was up on the side of the path and the driver’s-side door was open. I pulled up behind the truck and turned off my engine. All around outside was silent when I got out of the car, but then a yellowhammer flitted off the top of the stream and flew up into the sky. I watched the bird disappear and then looked back at the quiet truck. I couldn’t see Dame.

“You’re scaring off all of the birds,” he said behind me. I didn’t turn. I just laughed and shook my head.

“Maybe he’s going to tell his friends I’m here,” I said.

“And maybe he already knew you’d be here, but he was too scared to approach you face to face.”

“Scared?” I turned around as I laughed. But Dame wasn’t there.

“Got ya!” He poked me on the shoulder and I turned again and there he was—brown and beautiful again.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t been out here since I was in high school,” he said, and we started walking toward the stream.

“Not at the Throat,” I said. “I mean, why are you in Alabama? I saw Benji at the church.”

“I know. I sent him there.”

“For what?”

“What do you think?” he asked. “I told him to go there and just see what happened. If you saw him and asked about me, then he’d tell you I was here, and if not ... it wasn’t meant to be.”