“What are you going to do?”
“Just go back to my hole and maybe drink myself to sleep,” he said. “C’mon. I’ll take you home first.”
I thought a moment.
“No,” I said.
“What?”
“I want to be with you.” He stared for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I said, and I got into the truck before he did.
10
From the Frying Pan into the Fire
Most of the night, I was just a good listener. Keefer sat drinking hard liquor instead of beer. Izzy kept a bottle of bourbon in his office, and Keefer brought it back to his one-room apartment. I sat on the sofa bed, and he sat on the floor and talked about his early life, the happier days when he was too young to realize how bad things were for both his mother and his older sister.
“It wasn’t until I was about nine,” he continued, lying back on the floor and looking up at the cracked and pealed ceiling, “that I understood how horrible it was for Sally Jean. I came into her bedroom one night because I heard her sobbin‘. My mother drank with my father often those days, and they were both sunk in a stupor. Only before he had collapsed, he had gone into Sally Jean’s bedroom to tell her one of his bedtime stories. That’s what she said he pretended to be doin’.”
Keefer formed a wry smile.
“It began with that ‘Three Little Pigs,’ ” he said. “You know, where he would run his fingers up her side to tickle her.”
“Oh, Keefer,” I said. It not only frightened me to hear such a sick story, it made me nauseated.
“He was still tellin‘ her the same story, only the pigs…”
“Keefer, stop!” I pleaded.
He looked at me.
“Yeah, it’s better not to hear about it. No one wants to hear about it. I bet my mother put her fingers in her ears half the time. Well, she don’t hafta do that anymore, huh? She’s better off.”
“No one’s better off dead, Keefer.”
“Right,” he said, and took another long drink of the bourbon.
“Why don’t you lie down here for a while,” I suggested. “Get some sleep.”
“Sleep,” he said, as if it was an impossibility.
“C’mon,” I said. “I’ll hold you.”
He looked up at me and then he rose slowly, put the bottle on the floor on his side of the sofa bed, pulled off his shirt, dropped his pants, and crawled under the blanket. I stroked his hair, kissed his cheek, and got undressed to lie beside him.
We kissed. I could feel his tears, the ones he couldn’t stop, and I kissed them off his cheeks. We held on to each other and our passions grew. He made love to me with a desperation I welcomed. I never felt more giving, even when I sensed anger had slid alongside affection and actually had taken command. He was rough with me, and at times I tightened my arms around him to calm him down as much as to keep myself from screaming. He realized it and became more loving, whispering how sorry he was and how much he cared for me as he kissed and stroked my hair, all the while still inside me.
We made love longer than we ever had, and when he reached his climax, he cried out like someone falling. I brought my mouth to his and we kissed so hard, it was nearly impossible to breathe. When it was over, we rolled on our backs, gasped, and waited to speak.
“Are you all right?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I said.
“Thanks for bein‘ with me,” he said, and closed his eyes. I tried to stay awake a little longer, but the day’s events took on their full weight and soon, I was just as deeply asleep as he was.
A very loud rapping on the rear door woke me first. Keefer groaned, but did not awaken. I had to shake him.