Joe Burke's Last Stand Part 49

Willow was impressed. She thought about Stanford--the academic cliques, the gorgeous football players, the socialites. They were good at what they did; they were judged by how they performed in their groups; they lived by accepted rules. These people, in Mead's meadow, were just as sharp, just as physical (in a different way, maybe a better way), and just as easy and confident. They were all of the aboves. They were free. They were alive, or more alive, in a different way. A shiver ran up her back.

She opened a bottle of wine. The band was tighter, into _When the Saints Come Marching In_. As the light faded, the uninhabited range of mountains before them became darker and more mysterious, unexpectedly comforting. The mountains were timeless, or in a different flow of time.

"This is what they saw," Patrick said, "the first people." He pointed across the valley.

"Do you want some wine?" She held up the bottle.

"Change of pace," he said. "Sure."

"Cabernet Sauvigon," she said with new authority. "Your basic meadow red."

The firelight cast shadows; the group seemed smaller and more vulnerable. "The first people . . . " Patrick repeated. They were the first people, now, she realized. She bit down on her lip. Her heart broke open like a swollen peach.

"There's a little bread left," she said. G.o.d, she was crying again.

"You cry a lot," he said.

"Oh, f.u.c.k you, Patrick." She poured herself more wine.

"I don't mind it," he said seriously.

"Look, do you want to go?" she asked.

"Sure." Amber was over by the band; she was staying all night or going over to Art's. Willow told her that she was leaving, and she and Patrick picked their way slowly through the woods. "I've got to get a little flashlight," Patrick said as they splashed across the stream.

When they came out onto the road, a patrol car was parked in the middle. Two cops were ticketing a long line of cars and trucks that were pulled off to the side. "What's the matter?" Willow asked.

"Blocking the road. Obstructing traffic."

"They are not. What traffic? This is the top of the mountain, for G.o.d's sake."

"You want to give us a hard time?" He was threatening. Patrick pulled her away.

"Let's go, Willow."

"Have you been drinking, lady? I wouldn't want to see you driving."

"We're walking." Willow glared at the cops and let Patrick guide her down the road. The band was working on a Dixie version of _America the Beautiful_; the sax floated high over the tree tops into the night. She looked back. One of the cops was answering a radio call; the other was still ticketing. They were trying to ruin everything. "Why, Patrick?"

"Groups," he said, after a moment. "Tribalism. They're afraid of change. When they get their backs up, Willow, you've got to work around them. If you challenge them, they get worse. It's weird, but the more powerful people are, the more frightened they are, usually. You'd think it would be the other way around."

"We've got to fight back," Willow said.

"We do--by existing." The starlight was sufficient for them to walk down the middle of the road. They were quiet and then they talked and then they were quiet again. One person, who had been at the party, stopped and offered a ride, but they decided to keep walking. Patrick told her about his parents and his sister, Molly. Nice people. She wondered where he got the hard edge she sensed beneath the surface. The Irish? Were his parents closet rebels? Maybe. Probably it was from hard knocks. For what? >From who? For being honest. That was it. From people who cut corners with the truth to get ahead or get along. They were the same that way.

At the bottom of the mountain, they turned down Reynold's Lane to Route 212 and then up the Glasco Turnpike to the Byrdcliffe Road. At AhnRee's driveway, Willow said "Might as well walk me home."

"My mission," Patrick said. At the door, she suggested that they kill the bottle, and Patrick followed her in. She filled two gla.s.ses. They flopped into chairs at the kitchen table. She should have been exhausted, but she wasn't. When the wine was gone, Patrick stood.

Before he spoke, she asked him for a hug, and before he answered she went to him and put her arms around his neck. His arms went uncertainly around her. She pressed the whole length of her body against him, molding herself to his shape. His shoulders were broader than they looked. As his arms tightened, she felt herself loosen and grow warm.

He took a deep breath. They were losing control. "Patrick," she said.

"Patrick." She pulled away and took his hand. "Let's go out here." She led him to the porch and kicked off her shoes. Still holding his hand, she pulled him down onto the bed. She kissed him lightly with open lips. He was warm and tasted of wine and beer.

"My shoes," he said. She kissed him again, sliding her lips to the corners of his mouth and back. As he bent forward to take off his shoes, she unb.u.t.toned her shirt and removed it. She stretched full length on the bed, naked to the waist, and held out her arms. She heard his quick intake of breath and felt his palm on her breast.

"Willow?" She pushed up against his hand and began to move slowly from side to side. There was no more thinking, only a rush of feeling. She pulled him into her and encouraged him to take her, f.u.c.k her, fill her with his hot hard energy. As he came and collapsed, she hugged him with her arms and her legs, surrounding him with warmth, keeping him safe.

She remained awake, savoring the moments. It was the right time of the month. No worries there. Her own need for o.r.g.a.s.m was alive and well, like a promise. She stroked the back of his head, and he mumbled something in his sleep. G.o.d, they were together. She was still herself, but now she was something else, too. She had a pang of sadness for squirrelie, alone out there. Squirrelie.

She awoke snuggled against Patrick's back. She reached around and began to caress him. He was inside her before he was fully awake. She held him tightly, and as she began to peak she begged him not to stop. She was driving the train, and Patrick responded. "Baby," she called.

"Ohhhh." She opened like an exploding flower. Another o.r.g.a.s.m rolled through her, and then another and another. Completions. Irreversible.

She cried in wonder and fell back as he came, adding to the warm flood in which she floated.

Some time later, she said, "The Big Bang Theory? I get it." Patrick rolled out of bed and dressed.

"I've got to go, Willow," he said.

She wanted him to stay. She wanted to make a good breakfast for them.

She wanted to talk with him for hours, but a deeper voice, surprising her, said, "Bye, Patrick." He looked at her intently for a moment.

"Bye, Patrick," she repeated softly.

7

Patrick took a quick step and kicked a pebble into the woods along AhnRee's driveway. It would be fun to practice corner kicks again.

Willow was intense. Nice, too. Dynamite in bed. Who would have thought it? He blasted another pebble between two trees. Goal! It was going to be hot later. Breakfast in the News Shop would be a good thing. Coffee.

A fried egg sandwich. Willow's legs wrapped around him, and he relaxed for a moment remembering her hair against his cheek and over his shoulders where she had covered him. He felt a new sweetness inside.

His head swam. "Too much," he said to the fans in the woods and ran twenty yards to wake up.

Billy Jakes slapped him on the back in the News Shop. "Long night, huh Patrick?"

"Long night, Billy." Just as well he didn't have to work today. He took a bite of his fried egg sandwich and thought about the first people and the view from Mead's Meadow. The green of the mountains was so fresh, empty as one of the new canvases stacked against Hendrik's studio wall.

The first people had done well, really; they deserved a celebration. It was a righteous Fourth. Martin was there at first. Where had he gone?

Patrick wanted to know more about him. The music was great. And then those cops--they were really the losers, the ones left out or behind.

Why did that have to be?

"Officer Allen, ha, ha, ha." Patrick turned and saw Billy put an arm around one of the cops who had been on the mountain, the larger one.

"Gotta smoke? I'm innocent."

"Jesus, Billy. Here, G.o.dd.a.m.n it."

"Obliged, Allen. I truly am." Billy took a deep drag.

"I see you drinking on the street, I'm going to lock you up."

"I am much obliged." Billy began to cough. He went outside, and Officer Allen waved his arm as if to clear the air. There was a polite silence punctuated by Billy's coughs which grew fainter as he moved down the sidewalk. Officer Allen left with a newspaper and a supply of Marlboros.