Blood of the Lamb

forbidden fruit; passion without permission.

For Susan, I thought, stolen bread is sweeter, and I wondered if she had lied to me in the truck about not having been with anyone else while we had been apart. Actually, she had avoided the question.

I should stop.

But I couldn’t.

As my body went limp, collapsing onto hers, a wave of guilt and regret swept over me, tugging me down, the force of its undertow too much for me to resist.

What have I done? I wondered.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“For what?” she asked in shock. “That was great. So intense.”

We were lying side by side on the floor between the two double beds, never having made it to either of them.

I felt empty, the void in my heart matching the absence in the room.

What was it? I wondered. What was missing?

And then it blew me back like the vacuous whirlwind of Job. Love was missing. God was missing.

“Wasn’t it? God, it was good.”

I nodded.

“But it always felt good,” she said. “And we had it good there for a while, too, didn’t we? I mean in every way. We were good together.”

Susan was always chatty after sex, which was all right with me, because I was always mellow and reflective. I used to love to listen to her, to the stuff that came pouring out of her with the wash of hormones orgasm produced.

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “God, that was good.”

Suddenly, I was overcome by an oppressive and overwhelming sense of loss for what might have been. We had been in love, we had dreams, we had-

“Hey,” she said, leaning up on her elbow, “did I ever tell you I was sorry?”

I nodded.

“Well, let me tell you again. I really am,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m so sorry for… for what happened… for all that I’ve done.”

My hard heart melted and I had to blink back stinging tears of my own.

“I’m sorry, too, Susan,” I said.

She smiled at me, tears at the corners of her eyes. “I still love you,” she said. “I’ve tried to stop, tried to convince myself that I don’t anymore, but I do.”

She waited, but I couldn’t say the same thing back to her exactly. Not yet. An awkward silence crept into the room like a fog, and I could feel the distance between us increasing.

“I want to make love to you,” I said.

“Whatta you call what we just did?”

“Sex,” I said. “But I’d like to love you body and soul.”

“Take me down to the beach,” she said.

I did.

We walked down the beach, holding hands as we followed the twisting and turning path of the tide as if mirroring the path of our lives.

After a while she stopped and turned toward me. When she looked up at me, I took her face in my hands and kissed her gently.

With tears in her eyes, she whispered, “Make love to me.”

I did.

And this time love, as well as the God who is love, was present.

No anger, no hate, no blame, and no shame. Just love and appreciation for the love we once had, for the people we once had been.

Our love-making on the beach beneath the warm glow of the full moon was tender and sweet, our bodies quickly finding familiar rhythms, seeming to nurture each other with a desire to warm and heal. She felt like home in my hands, and I experienced a rush of emotions similar to our first times together before the cops, before the booze, before the Stone Cold Killer.

Her climax, though quiet and sweet, was as intense as it had ever been, and she cried softly afterwards.

Tears of grace.

CHAPTER 38

The morning after.

Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror of my small, dilapidated trailer, dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes-the only color on an otherwise pale face, I strained for recognition. Who was this stranger staring back at me?

I looked bad. I felt worse.

I’d had a lot of mornings after in my life, and this one was like all the rest, filled with guilt and regret. I had made love to a woman I wasn’t sure I could ever love again, and the fact that she was still my wife couldn’t justify that. The pain inflicted, though not yet felt, hung over me like a dark cloud.

Like the stranger in the mirror, my surroundings seemed foreign to me. Dangling hollow door, paper-thin paneling, curling linoleum-covered creaky floor, rust-spotted lime-green sink beneath a leaky faucet, and cabinet doors that no longer fastened shut-it was bad. I deserved worse.

I needed to talk to someone, to share the dark thoughts slamming into the walls of my mind, to release the conflicting feelings swirling inside my chest cavity, but who? Who could hear my confession, who could offer compassion, comfort, and wise counsel?

A moment later my phone rang.

“Hey,” Susan said, her voice sultry and sleepy.

“Hey,” I said. “I was just thinking about you.… about us.”

“I figure you’ve got a lot of that to do,” she said.

I didn’t say anything.

“I’m going back to Atlanta today,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“To let you think,” she said. “I’m a different person, John. If you think there’s any possibility we can be together again, we’ll have to start over-get to know the people we’ve become. I’m in no hurry. I won’t rush you.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I don’t regret last night,” she said. “No matter what happens. So please don’t feel guilty about it. I’m a big girl and not nearly as fragile as I used to be. Don’t worry about me.… But think about me.”

“I will,” I said, and I felt an enormous weight begin to lift, as if the newness of the morning might bring hope rather than regret. “Thank you.”

“I know you,” she said. “You’re predictable in such a good way. I loved who you were.… I love more who you’ve become.”

“I love who you’ve become, too,” I said.

“Becoming,” she said. “Becoming.”

“Of course.”

“Good-bye,” she said.

“Good-bye.”

“No regrets.”