I turned out the lights and retreated to the back porch, soothed by the moonlit water and the breeze in my hair. I sat outside for a long time as the temperature cooled, my thoughts wandering from Ruth and me, to Joe Torrey, to my parents.
I tried to imagine my father and mother in a place like this, but I couldn’t. Never once had we gone on vacation – the shop had always anchored us in place – but even if it had been possible, it wouldn’t have been a holiday like this. I could no more imagine my father grilling with a glass of wine in hand than I could imagine him atop Mt. Everest, and somehow the thought made me sad. My father, I realized, had no idea how to relax; he seemed to lead his life preoccupied by work and worry. Ruth’s parents, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy each moment for what it was. I was struck by how differently Ruth and her parents reacted to the war. While my mother and father seemed to recede into the past – albeit in different ways – her parents embraced the future, as though seizing hold of their chance at life. They opted to make the most of their fortunate fates and never lost a sense of gratitude for what they had.
The house was silent when I finally came in. Tempted by the thought of Ruth, I tiptoed down the stairs. There was a room on either side of the hallway, but because the doors were closed, I did not know which was Ruth’s. I stood waiting, looking from one to the other, then finally turned around and went back the way I’d come.
Once in my room, I undressed and crawled into bed. Moonlight streamed through the windows, turning the room silver. I could hear the rolling sound of the waves, soothing in its monotony, and after a few minutes, I felt myself drifting off.
Sometime later, and though I thought at first that I was imagining it, I heard the door open. I had always been a light sleeper – even more so since the war – and though only shadows were visible at first, I knew it was Ruth. Disoriented, I sat up in the bed as she stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She was wearing a robe, and as she approached the bed, she undid the knot in a single fluid motion and the robe slipped to the floor.
A moment later, she was in the bed. As she slid toward me, her skin seemed to radiate a crackling electricity. Our mouths came together and I felt her tongue push against my own as my fingers traced through her hair and down her back. We knew enough not to make a sound, the silence making everything even more exciting, and I rolled her onto her back. I kissed her cheek and trailed feverish kisses across and down her neck and then back to her mouth, lost in her beauty and in the moment.
We made love, then made love again an hour later. In between, I spooned her against my body, whispering into her ear how much I loved her and that there would never be another. Through it all, Ruth said little, but in her eyes and her touch I felt the echo of my words. Just before dawn, she kissed me tenderly and slipped back into her robe. As she opened the door, she turned to face me.
“I love you, too, Ira,” she whispered. And with that, she was gone.
I lay in bed awake until the sky began to lighten, reliving the hours we’d just spent together. I wondered whether Ruth was sleeping or whether she, too, was lying awake. I wondered whether she was thinking of me. Through the window, I watched the sun rise as if being heaved from the ocean, and in all my life, I have never witnessed a more spectacular dawn. I did not leave my room when I heard low voices in the kitchen, her parents trying not to wake me. Finally I heard Ruth come into the kitchen, and still I waited for a little while before putting on my clothes and opening the door.
Ruth’s mother stood at the counter, pouring a cup of coffee, while Ruth and her father were at the table. Ruth’s mother turned to me with a smile.
“Sleep well?”
I did my best not to look at Ruth, but from the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the tiniest of smiles flash across her lips.
“Like a dream,” I answered.
12
Luke
A
t Knoxville’s arena, where Luke had last ridden six years ago, the bleachers were already nearly full. Luke was in the chute, experiencing the familiar rush of adrenaline, the world suddenly compressed. Only vaguely could he hear the announcer laying out the highs and lows of his career, even when the crowd grew silent.
Luke didn’t feel ready. His hands had trembled earlier, and he could feel the fear bubbling up, making it hard to concentrate. Beneath him, a bull named Crosshairs thrashed and reared, forcing him to focus on the immediate. The rope beneath the bull was held taut by other cowboys, and Luke adjusted his wrap. It was the same suicide wrap he’d used for as long as he’d been riding, the one he’d used on Big Ugly Critter. As he finished adjusting the wrap, Crosshairs wedged his leg against the rails, leaning hard. The cowboys who’d helped tighten the rope pushed back against the bull. Crosshairs shifted and Luke quickly jammed his leg into position. He oriented himself, and as soon as he was ready, he said simply, “Let’s go.”