The
Chickasaw
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SHORT STORY: Actually, Chapter 6 of a
work in progress,
CHICKASAW: The Good Life and Hard Times
of Dr. Christopher Jacques.
by John R. Guthrie
Chapter
6
September,
2001: LILITH SPEAKS
With Chris, there in front of the
fireplace, my resolve sputtered and melted away lake a drop of water on a hot
griddle. I had resolved to avoid complications in my life after the fiasco with
the medicine resident and a murderously jealous Peter Oxendine.
Maybe, though that’s not what I wanted to happen. Anyway, Chris and I both
emerged from the protective shell of our clothing as easily and effortlessly as
a mayfly unfolds one day from a water nymph to enjoy those few glorious hours
of its life. Our tongues sought each other’s mouths as if we wanted to inhabit
the same skin, his hands busy, holding, caressing, massaging, making me wish
they could be everywhere at once, me responding in kind, him steely hard and
quite lovely.
Despite the throbbing intensity of
his desire, Chris, lean and tall, was considerate enough to wait, to wait until
I pulled him to me, both of us wet to the point of dripping, puddling, in our desire for each other, him fitting so
nicely, entering me with a fluid smoothness because I was ever so ready, me
responding to his thrusting with my own rhythm, taking, giving pleasure; sex so
good that it had to be right, as good as life itself, moving steady, slow and
smooth at first, trying to make the sweetness last but then unable to resist,
the tempo building and me holding him to me until I started come, once, twice,
three times, then feeling him responding in kind me pulling him even closer,
wanting him to come like a stallion, like a fire hose, like a water fall in the
valley of life, like the rhythms of the tides, the funk and smell and stink of
us as primitive as marshlands, as the secret lives of creatures that thrive in
the fertile darkness beneath a rainforest’s floor, and then I was spent, and
could only hold him to me, kissing him again, long and deep, my legs which had
been tense and thrusting so eagerly now useless and rubbery, spreading wide, my
needs met, but still wanting him to do what he wished, whatever he wanted with
me and we held each other close as life itself for a long time with him still
in me, joined to me yet by his dwindling and flaccid organ.
“Chris…”
“Yeah.”
But then I didn’t know what I wanted
to say, so I just said, “Good. So good.”
“Right,” he said, kissing me on my
nose, on my mouth, on my shoulder, arcing to kiss my breasts. Then he rolled
aside, lying on his back. He placed his arm around my shoulder. I rolled toward
him, my face against his chest, smelling the smell of him, the faint scent of
Irish Springtime lingering from his morning shower, the musky delicious smell
of a man at the end of his day, his skin, his hair,
the scent of the juices of our coupling still rich and redolent in the air.
For a long time, then, we didn’t say
anything. Maybe he was as taken aback as was I by the unbridled, mindless
lusting, the shameless and primitive need of both of us to love each other in
that way, to attend to that need by what is best and most succinctly expressed
by the Anglo-Saxonism, to fuck.
Good fucking, of course, goes beyond
the private parts, beyond the body all together. As the pagans knew, good fucking in involves not just the body, but
the spirit, a soul fuck, might be the right phrasing, though that’s not quite
right either. Certainly people who know the human body tend to make the best
lovers. So it seems.
But somehow, both of us brought to much
baggage to that coupling, baggage from things gone by that are the ghosts of
things past, wicked little beasties that come back to haunt you just when
things are going ginger-peachy. I knew, for my part, that I had to tell him
that I was married, even though I knew before a spoke that for this
raised-right Baptist boy-man the disclosure might be toxic.
Maybe somehow, deep down, I didn’t
feel worthy of love, maybe, like my spouse frequently said, I was just a
looser, the little red-headed bastard he’d mercifully rescued. And then for him to be traduced, cuckolded, by someone not worthy
of him and his pain-in-the-ass family who never liked me anyway. That
stiff necked and stand-offish family for whom I could never measure up even if
I lived ten thousand years and became empress of the known universe.
Satisfied in the deeper parts of my
being from my encounter with Chris, I finally rolled onto my back, his arm
beneath my neck, looking at the smooth shadowed white of the cathedral ceiling
with its exposed beams.
“Chris?” He pulled me closer so we
were torso to torso, skin to skin, the heat of him warming me.
“Ummhuh?”
I took a deep
breath before speaking again, like someone whose about to jump into an icy cold
river. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“Sure.” He said it
soft and low, him not really knowing where I was going with this. I hesitated
till he finally said, “So? Tell me.”
“Chris, I’m
married.” My voice was tense, pitched a little higher than I intended as I
blurted it out, saying it quick like if maybe it was but two little words that
flitted right on by, no one would notice and everything would go on as sweet
and easy as it had been. I felt him tense, and new I had his attention now, for
better or for worse. I kept on going, feeling somehow like I was on trial. I
reached over and pulled the tousled bundle of clothing, mine and his over me.
“Chris said, what
do you mean, married? Married to who?”
“His name’s Oxendine. Peter Oxendine. McGee
is my maiden name which I took back when I left
Peter was nice
enough guy at first. The sex was good at first. We were together since high
school. We ran off and got married the night after the senior prom, not telling
anybody until graduation day. His parents practically disowned him. They had
great plans for him, something much greater than marrying a red-headed gal with
a single mom who happened to be fucking his brains out.”
His mother, must
have said about once a day that first summer, ‘Lilith,
my dear, I intend to love you like a daughter, but I truly find this, this, unexpected development truly beyond
comprehension. I don’t intend any offense, my dear, but Peter is our only son.
We had such plans for him, such high
hopes.’ I was barely 18 and scared to death of her. I’d say Yes Mrs. Oxendine, I’m sorry, I truly am. She’d keep going, ‘are you
sure, you’re not P.G.?,’ pregnant being a bit to risqué for that oh-so-refined
very country club high church Episcopal lady to say. ‘If you are, you can
confide in me.’ She imply couldn’t imagine any possible reason her son would
deign to marry me unless there was some compunction such as unplanned
parenthood involved. Always my reply was the same. I’d answer in a little tiny
voice, No, Mrs. Oxendine. No, that’s not the
case. She’d keep on going as if I hadn’t
spoken. ‘We could help with that. Being pregnant doesn’t mean you have to stay
pregnant,’ she’d continue. ‘You have lots of time for that later on if that is the problem.’
Peter and I both
kept going to school, just to show them, in part, we were really determined,
since they had told us repeatedly in so many words how we—meaning me—had ruined
our lives and were now hopeless and beyond hope of redeeming our miserable
selves we now were.
“I got advanced
placement in nursing school because of college level courses I took in high
school, honors English, for instance. I got a B.S. in nursing with honors in
three years instead of the usual four. I usually held a part time job as I
went, carrying a textbook or notes in a pocket of that student pinafore and
studying whenever and wherever I could. I went to work at Drew-King the week
after I finished my degree. Pete and I lived, after a fashion, in
“We’d been students
nearly non-stop for six years. He was working full time as an engineer at
Rockwell in
“The jealousy
thing; there wasn’t anything for Peter to be jealous about those first five
years. Eventually, though, there was. Peter was either gone or, if he was home,
by then he was not there because he was drinking. Jesus, I was so very alone.
Then there was a silly flirtation or two that turned into what was essentially
a series of one-night stands. I was violating my own moral standards, but I
figured if maybe I got some loving on the side, I could hang in there in a bad
marriage, that someday maybe things would get better.”
“’Yeah, that
happens,’ Chris said softly, up on one elbow now, taking this all in. ‘Tell,
me, Lil, what happened then?’
“He started hitting the bottle even heavier.
One evening he was so late getting home. I was worried, started thinking about
checking the emergency room or with the cops. I finally looked out the window
at
“That’s when something else, something more
serious started. It’s nothing I’m proud of, but it happened. The guy involved
was a medicine resident. He was in a dead end marriage also. But his wife found
out what was going on. She got on the phone and called Pete at work. They met
for lunch and she told him all about it, right down to which motel we’d stayed
in when we were supposedly at a medical meeting in
“Chris said the
medicine resident thing was a bridge relationship, one to give me enough self
confidence to get out of a marriage gone bad. That’s a
recurrent pattern, he said, just like trying to save a marriage by adultery. He
gave a little edge to the way he said adultery that made me look at him close
and stop talking. He was looking at the floor. He massaged his lower jaw and
didn’t say anything. Finally I said, “Well, that’s my story. Aren’t you going
to say something?
“He finally said,
‘it’s a tough story, Lil. I’m sorry your marriage
didn’t work, and for what you went through.’ He was quiet again, then continued.
‘I hardly know what to say, though. You are still married. You were and are
unfaithful to your husband. I’d be less than truthful if I didn’t admit that
makes me feel uneasy.’
“I was pissed. I
shot right back, uneasy? It’s history, Chris. It didn’t have anything to do
with you. The marriage is dead.
“He nodded, ‘sure,
it’s history. But I’m Baptist. Like Grady O’Toole said, I believe in marriage. Like in the Bible. And I didn’t intend for things to go this
far between us this evening. I really didn’t. I guess, to tell the truth, these
are uncharted waters for me. I’ve seen it play out in patient’s lives so many
times. But I’m not sure I know how to deal with it in my own.’
“I didn’t say
anything then. Just felt like dying. I felt the tears coming, slipping down my
cheeks in spite of my best efforts. I got up and began to dress.
“Chris looked up at
me, him still lying on the floor, looking silly, somehow now, his dick flaccid,
flopped across his thigh. ‘You’re leaving?’
“This isn’t getting
us anywhere. It’s late. Frankly, I feel like shit now. We’ve had plenty to
drink. We’ve both got to work tomorrow. And evidently I don’t meet your
standards.”
“He stood as he
spoke. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just….’
“My tears were
dripping off my chin then, but I couldn’t give him the—the what? Satisfaction? of seeing me weeping
over this. I turned away from him and snapped my bra and pulled it around.
Finally I got myself under control enough to say, you’re a pretty neat guy in
most ways. But maybe you need to look back at that part of your Bible that says
‘Judge not that ye be not judged.’ It’s in the book of Mathew, as I recall.
“Lil, please,’, he said, “I didn’t
mean to hurt your feelings. I’m just trying to process all of this.’
“Don’t bother. I’m outta here. Thanks for a nice evening, Dr. Jacques. I
finished dressing quickly and left through the kitchen door.
“And that was that. What I’d though
to be the romance of my life collapsed like a bubble. But what can a girl do?
Despite my resolve, though, those lonely nights after my precipitous departure
from Chris’s house, I dreamed again and again that I’d lost something. I
couldn’t remember exactly what it was, but it was something precious, and no
matter how I searched, I couldn’t find it.
Sound like Alzheimer’s, huh? Early onset nocturnal
dementia. But having been dealt lemons again, I resolved to make
lemonade instead of lying down and dying, which is what I felt like doing.
***
The nursing supervisor called me in
three days later. Susan Weatherford was one of those southern belles, steel
covered in velvet, that keep a lot of things going in Austerity. “Have a seat, Lilith,” she said. I sat. “What’s with you, honey? You’ve
been looking like you lost your best friend these last few days.”
“Maybe I did,” I said. I felt the
tears well up in my eyes, dammed by the thin dam of my eyelids and a resolve
not to make an ass out of myself in the workplace, especially in front of
Susan.
“Love life out of sync?” she said,
looking intently at me, her brow furrowed. She was twice my age, and perceptive
as an MRI scanner.
“I guess you could say that. I’m not
sure it ever was in sync.”
Then to my amazement she said, “Dr.
Jacques is a good man, Lilith. But he can be totally
clueless in some areas also. I don’t know what happened between you two, but
neither one of you are dead yet. Sometimes things that go bad for a little
while go good again just as certainly as they got off the track for a bit.”
I wasn’t tearful any more. I was
blushing like a school girl, but determined to deal with that by not dealing
with it. I brushed at my eyes and said. “Susan Weatherford! I …I didn’t think
you knew about that.”
“Honey, despite the unquestioned
professionalism of both you and Christopher Jacques, watching you two dance
around each other like two wild geese during mating season trying to make up
their minds about one another has been better than the afternoon soaps for the
entire nursing staff. Besides, and I
don’t wish to be intrusive and I’m not going to be Lilith,
but it’s my business to know what’s going on in this hospital. And I do.”
I could only manage a weak, “Oh.”
“Lilith,
I’m always here if you need me. If you want to talk about it, I’ve got a good
ear for listening. And it won’t go any further.”
“We went out, first time to see each
other outside the work setting. We had a great time, then
I felt compelled to do my honest Jane thing. I told him I’m married.”
“That’s pretty much a technicality
at this point isn’t it?”
“Sure. I tried to explain that it’s
the tail end of a dead marriage, a marriage only technically, but I didn’t do a
very good job. I said a lot more than I needed to say. He expressed concern. I
reacted defensively and stormed out.”
“It is pretty heavy duty stuff to
deal with.”
“I know. Probably I should have let it
be for a little while.”
“Maybe, maybe you were afraid that
the relationship would flourish. Relationships can be precious and wonderful
things. They can also derail whatever other hopes and dreams one has.”
“Sure. The idea of returning to
school some day and becoming Nurse Practitioner, that’s my dream. The NP ticket
probably offers more security for a girl than the best of relationships.”
“Susan nodded, ‘You’ll have to
decide about that. You’re one of the best hires I’ve made. Bright
as new money for one thing. And as professional a nurse as I’ve ever
met. I want things to go well for you, and besides, it’s important for the
hospital and for the patients also. We need you, Lilith.”
I felt my throat tighten up, my eyes
misted up a bit. I hadn’t been overwhelmed with the feeling of being needed by
anyone lately. I managed to say thanks in a low voice without getting all weepy
again, though.
Susan shifted I her seat, leaning
forward. “So keep in mind that I’ve been there a time or two
myself. If there’s anything I can help with, including providing a very
well-padded shoulder to cry on, my door’s always welcome to you.” She handed me
a tissue from the box on her desk.
I dabbed at my eyes and blew my
nose, then said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.” I sat up straighter in my chair and
took a deep breath.
“Now, unless you simply don’t feel
up to it right now, I’d like to bring up some nursing business. It can wait
until in the morning, but….”
“No,” I said. “Please Susan, go
right ahead.”
“There’s a meeting of the American
Nursing Association in
“Wow. Talk about an offer a girl
can’t refuse. When do I leave?”
“Next Monday, 10 September. So pack
your bag,” she smiled.
“Great. Thanks for thinking of me,
Susan. Should be quite a memorable meeting.” I stood
up, turned and started to leave. I turned back as she said, “Lilith?”
“Yes?”
“If things don’t
work out with Christopher Jacques, he’s not the only fish in the sea, you
know.”
***
To be continued.
The
Chickasaw
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