1
Melinda Beck glanced out the window at the two boys playing on the sidewalk. Her son, the very image of his dead father, often played with the Alworthy boy from across the street. "Squire Alworthy and his bastard son, Tom Jones," her husband had always said. He had never liked the Alworthy youngster. But then he had always said that Shirley Temple was very shallow and seemed to be terribly "affected." He seemed to be very willing to condemn people for being "normal," for enjoying the mundane things. When he had been killed in the motel fire, along with the secretary he had only recently hired, his friends had argued for months as to whether he was defying society or secretly submitting to his mundane nature. But, Melinda knew only that her husband, who she had been passionately in love with since they were both fifteen, was dead. He was gone and there were only a few photos and myriad memories to allay her lonely nights - nights when Arnie would go to sleep early and she would sit in the living room, the television tuned to a tense drama, and not hear a word spoken or seen an action performed. Her eyes, which had once sparkled like a thousand pin points of fire, were now dulled as if the meaningless staring had dried their surface, fogging their brilliance until they were those of a Michelangelo statue, chiseled, flat, and depthless.2
How often had she been tempted to turn and hide from herself, to yield to one of those leering invitations, to submit to the pain and pleasure. There was something exciting in contemplating the look on a man’s face as she stripped before his eyes, completely unexpected, and then did all those things that Lynn had talked about but never allowed her to do. It always made her eyes burn, the perspiration on her forehead cold in the alien air. She thought of T. S. Elliot and his words drummed into her mind as they so often did at times like this.3
Between the idea4
And the reality5
Between the motion6
And the act7
Falls the shadow8
Between the conception9
And the creation10
Between the emotion11
And the response12
Falls the shadow13
Between the desire14
And the spasm15
Between the potency16
And the existence17
Between the essence18
And the descent19
Falls the shadow20
So it was with Melinda. "Between the desire and the spasm falls the shadow." She hated that shadow, unknown and undefined, intruding on her life like an unwanted neighbor, halting, advising, but unexplained, clinging like a wet robe. Even now she sobbed as that same anguish swept over her. Prudery, she often thought – damnable prudery. Like a bright point of light in her memory, she recalled that night, before marriage and the total dominance of the shadow. She had paraded and danced before the headlights of a car, the dew of midnight between her toes, her naked body white in the vivid beam of the light. At first she had only been able to look at the ground, but suddenly it was gone, dissolved by the blinding glare – the shadow was gone – and she wanted him to see her, wanted him to turn to oil, melting to seep across the meadow toward her. She wanted him swept away by what he was seeing.21
As vulgar as it seemed now, the memory caused her palms to perspire and she longed to be able to do the deed again, to feel that same release, the power swelling within her. If only Lynn was still there to see her. But, she was bound, a prisoner within her own skin. She crossed the room to the picture window and watched the two boys playing on the sidewalk.22
She had dated since Lynn had died, but she was afraid. More than anything she wanted to lose herself but she had always had great pride in her ability to keep from doing just that. She observed, like the chair umpire at a tennis match, which at the same time being one of the participants. It was an amazing ability, to leaves ones own existence and observe in a detached way the physical acts of your own body. Yet, only that one time there in front of the car had she released herself and stayed within, slitting her soul and baring it for the world. It was only in the glare of reflection that the vulnerability had been clear to her, and afraid, she had stitched that soul and locked it up, and now the lock had rusted from her own tears and only a person of great strength could break the lock.23
She went to the back of the house and watched the storm clouds building and time, compressed by her stare, allowed them to billow and roll, swelling like huge fountains of foam. She trembled at the thoughts that had been wandering through her mind and her eyes drifted down to the woods, dark and green, completely transfixed by the brooding clouds. She wondered if satyr were really from myths, and was then sure that they ran through woods like those behind her house, woods of no motion, trees petrified by the imminent thunder, leaves crystallized, suspended in time, absorbing the last light of the day, blackening the world.24
She knew, as most know, that the elements are present for the break, and like atomic fusion, only require a start. And then, unarrested, it builds and good and evil are meaningless. There is only the movement, the fusion, the energy, devoid of feeling or emotion, irrepressible until the moment that nothing by waste remains. Her forehead rested against the windowpane, her fingernails, slender and attractive and freshly polished, dug into her leg. She bit her lip and the blood came, warm and salty, and she suddenly stiffened. Just as the aerialist upon tipping to one side overbalances in an effort to correct himself, Melinda could see herself at that point, tipped perilously over backward, away from her original direction, yet poised on the brink all the same, the fall just as far in either direction. She took a deep breath but the trembling continued. In the background, beyond the sight of her eyes, the first stirrings of the leaves, the maples turning silver exposing the light underside to the frenzy of the wind, told of the inevitable storm.25
Author notes
Part 2 of the story I wrote about 45 years ago. All comments and thoughts welcome as usual.
What did you think? Please comment!
Comments
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"She hated that shadow, unknown and undefined, intruding on her life like an unwanted neighbor, halting, advising, but unexplained, clinging like a wet robe. "
Good stuff there - very good stuff
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