“I’m sorry.”
Anne grabbed her arm. “No! That’s great! He hasn’t shown any anger in-God, I don’t know how long. Oh, Clare, I knew you could do it.” She threw her arms around Clare in an awkward hug. “Will you come and talk with him again? Soon?”
The dark tunnel reappeared outside the limits of sight. “Of course I will.” Clare swallowed more wine. “Of course.”
Chris Ellis gave her a ride home. She had planned on walking back, but it was a mile, and her ankle was wobbly-she thought it was her ankle, messing up her balance-and so she accepted the lift. He let her out in her drive. She waved as he drove away, feeling guilty for not finding the right words to reach his son. She limped up the kitchen steps and paused at her dark door, breathing in the scent of night jasmine and honeysuckle, listening to the mad chorus of crickets singing for love before the frosts came and mowed them all down.
She remembered something Russ had told her once.
She opened the door. Shut and locked it. Flicked on the kitchen light. “Don’t be alarmed,” Russ said from the living room. “I’m here.”
“What?” She limped through the swinging doors. She could see him, the outline of him, sitting in one of the chairs in front of the empty fireplace. “I thought we weren’t doing this anymore. Why on earth are you sitting here in the dark?”
He stood up. “You didn’t leave any lights on. I didn’t want to draw any attention.”
“Well, I’m here now.” She snapped on a lamp. She looked at his face, set in deep lines. “What is it? Is everyone okay?”
“I had…” He shook his head. “God. A day.” He looked down at his feet. He was still wearing his boots. As if she might not let him stay. He looked up at her. “I…” He opened his hands, palms out.
“Need someone?” She smiled a little. Stepped toward him, arms open. He embraced her with a force that startled her.
“Not someone,” he said into her hair. “You.” He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder. “Only you.” His lips were on her neck. “Always you.” Then he was kissing her, and it was a different kind of need, catching in her like a spark in dry pine needles, desire like a hot wind pressing them together, whirling them around and around, sending them staggering up the stairs, shedding their clothing on the way.
He flung her onto the bed and dropped on top of her with none of his usual careful control. He twined his fingers in hers, forcing her hands deep into the mattress and surging into her with a rough urgency that tore a cry out of her throat.
“Oh, God,” he gasped. “Did I hurt you?”
“Yes. No.” She gulped for air. Cried out again. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop!”
“I can’t. Oh, God.” His voice was like a raw wound. He pounded into her, stretching her open and more open, going deep, deeper, hard and harsh and unspeakably good.
She clenched his hands, shaking, all wetness and straining muscles. Her mouth was open, her throat working, but his ferocious battering left her breathless, wordless, mindless. She spiraled up, tighter, sharper, closer, until he groaned, “Oh, God, Clare, I’m going to-” and that was it, that was enough. Her head snapped back and it was the dark tunnel reversed, all white hot light and an explosion of joy that turned her inside out and left her trembling. Russ’s voice broke and he shuddered, once, twice, three times, then collapsed heavily on top of her, his face once more hidden in the crook of her shoulder.
She stroked his back while he worked for air, his rib cage rising and falling beneath her touch. He made a feeble attempt to push off of her. “No.” She tightened her grip. He relaxed then, sagging against her. She ran her fingers through his hair, watching the strands of brown and blond and gray catch around her knuckles, feeling the shape of his skull beneath her hand.
“Don’t leave me,” he whispered.
“I won’t.”
“When I say don’t leave-”
“I know.” She pressed a kiss into the top of his head. “You mean don’t die.”
At some point, he fell asleep. She kept on stroking and smoothing his hair, watching her hand rise and fall, rise and fall, until she could admit to this exhausted, sleeping, damaged man what she couldn’t admit to herself. “I don’t think I’m fine,” she whispered. “I don’t think I’m fine at all.”
THAT IT MAY PLEASE THEE TO GRANT THAT, IN THE FELLOWSHIP OF ALL THE SAINTS, WE MAY ATTAIN TO THY HEAVENLY KINGDOM.
– The Great Litany, The Book of Common Prayer
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
Sarah was late to her own group session. She scurried down the hallway, her footsteps slapping the linoleum flooring and echoing off the walls in a syncopated beat to the shouts of young men and the thud of the basketball. She opened the door too hard, slamming it against the wall accidentally. They were all there; McCrea and Stillman bookending the group, Fergusson hunched over her cup of coffee, McNabb stuffing an iPod into her too-tight jeans, Will Ellis smiling at nothing. Sarah felt like pitching her notebook and pen and shrieking at them all to go home. She wasn’t reaching these people. She wasn’t helping them. She’d never been any closer to a war zone than downtown Newark. What in the name of little green apples did she think she could accomplish here?
Fergusson looked up at her, her face pale with fatigue. Studied her for a moment that must have been shorter than it felt. Then she rose from her rickety metal chair, smiling. “Sarah. Thank goodness. We were getting worried.” She crossed the floor and touched Sarah on the arm, once, giving her a squeeze that seemed to say,
“Thank you, Clare, that would be nice.” She let Fergusson fetch her the hot cider while she sat down, surreptitiously rolling her shoulders to get the last of the tension out, smiling at the others. When Fergusson handed her the paper cup, she let her eyes open just a bit wider than usual, showing her vulnerability and her gratitude. A little manipulative, maybe, but if she could use the moment to crack open Fergusson’s closed book, it would be worth it.
“We’ve talked about homecoming,” Sarah said. “We’ve talked about work, and about personal relationships.” She took a sip of the cider. Heavenly. “But all that is background. Reconnoitering the terrain. Tonight, we’re going to begin to dig deeper. The real issues, and the real work, are inside each of you. Tonight, we’re going to talk about why you decided to attend this group, and what you hope to get out of counseling.”
Tally McNabb glanced at McCrea, who bent over to rub a nonexistent speck from his hiking boots. Trip Stillman shifted in his seat. Clare Fergusson pinched her ring between two fingers and stared at it. Will Ellis looked up
