A Long Night's Climb Into Sunlight

She began to move back and forth and to rock her hips up and down. A million years of instinct fought its way from the back of my brain and willed my body into the motions of coupling. Claire and I became joined as one entity, a being melded of grief, love, need, and the healing of touch. Inexperience made my actions uncoordinated; Claire’s passion taught my body the rhythm of caring and sensuality between a man and a woman.

Just when she began to shudder, I can not remember. The memory has faded to a blur of slippery softness that contracted around me. She began to moan, then a tiny cry slipped through her lips. Her rocking motion stopped for a moment as she pushed me deeply into her body. I felt her hips grind down over me, pushing me deeper still. The second cry was louder and higher. Claire raised and pushed down again, then again. She began to pant and raised on her hands. I saw her breasts begin to bob as her hips rocked quickly up and down. Suddenly, a tense feeling started deep in my belly. I gasped and thrust back. The feeling became stronger and rolled over me in waves. Claire cried out, raised herself upright, and squeezed her breasts with both hands. I felt my cock press against something deep inside her before everything exploded. Surges of semen pumped through my shaft, and Claire shook uncontrollably. I thrust up to feel the rapid clasping of her body around mine. As quickly as it had happened, it was over. Claire lay down on my chest, and I held her.

The kiss was soft and long, but somehow this seemed right to me. It matched the feeling of her body against mine, the feeling of slowly slipping from her body through the wetness of our passion, and the newfound intimacy between us. I felt a tear drop on my cheek and opened my eyes. Claire closed her lips and buried her face against my shoulder. We lay like that, just holding each other, and touching softly. I felt more tears against my skin. Her words were only a whisper, but they said more to me than a shout.

“Thank you, Jerry, for being here. Thank you for understanding.”

It was early morning when I let myself into the house. I had just enough time to change before heading to the gas station for my papers. As I pedaled my bike through the deserted streets, I realized the pleasure of this early morning trip through town had lost its appeal. That afternoon, I started looking for someone to take over the route. Tommy Bushlin was twelve, needed a new bike, and was overjoyed at the prospect. After a week of shepherding him through the route and introducing him on collection day, I signed everything over.

Mom had questioned me about my late night. Before I could answer, Dad put his hand on her shoulder and said, “He’s a man. He can choose his own hours now.” I don’t know how he knew, but I’m sure he did.

They brought Tony home to the cemetery outside Atlanta in an aluminum casket. I stood beside Claire as the rifles fired the salute. She accepted the folded flag from the young lieutenant and hugged it to her breast. We walked back to her car and I held open the door. Claire smiled the smile I’d grown to love, and had missed since the telegram turned her world inside out.

“Jerry, I don’t know how to thank you for staying beside me through this. Not many young men would have.”

“It’s easy to help a friend when they need you.”

“Jerry, I’m selling the house and moving back here. Now that Tony’s home, I want to be near him. Sandy’s trying to get back on friendly terms, and asked me to move in with her and Jack until I can find a place.”

I croaked my question around the lump in my throat.

“Can I write to you.”

“I’d be angry if you didn’t. I’ll send you my new address, and if you’re ever in Atlanta, you’ll always have a place to stay.”

She kissed me on the cheek, sighed, and gave me a big hug.

I sit here in my study, remembering those days of my youth, when my life was centered around school, a paper route, and the house on High Street. I switched my major to Journalism in my sophomore year. I never made it to Purdue. I finished my degree at Ball State.

Mom was right about me finding a girl, but she’d never have guessed how. I was walking to a class, my senior year, when a voice yelled, “Jerry, is that you?”

I didn’t recognize her at first. The black pants under her dresses and baggy sweaters had changed to a mini-skirt and well-filled, tight top. That scraggly short hair was now brushed to a burnished sheen that cascaded over her shoulders.

“Denise?”

I bought her a cup of coffee and we caught up with each other. It seemed only polite to ask her to dinner. We were married a week after we graduated. Her teaching job provided the income to get me through my masters. Now, I teach Rhetoric 101 to beginning engineering students, and am trying to finish my third novel. The first two sit in the bookcase behind my desk, right beside every paperback ever written by Abigail Winston. I don’t read them anymore; the paper never was much good, and they’ve yellowed and become brittle with age. About once a year, I do read the hardbound volume that sits beside them. The author is a good friend of mine, and has several other novels in print. I have those too, but this one is special. It’s a novel about depression and rebirth titled “A Long Night’s Climb Into Sunlight” and the author signed it for me on the day it was published. The feminine handwriting says, “To the man who pulled me from my darkest hour and helped me be me again, Claire Smithers”.

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Ronde.