Shareware Supreme Volume 6 #1/swsii.zip/swsii/201/RUBYV26.ZIP/RUBY26-9

Text File | 1993-10-05 | 21KB | 372 lines

Copyright 1993(c)

                          JASON'S LUST
                          By Vicki Moss


     Jason slumped on the couch, the tv remote held loosely in his
hands as he switched from channel to channel looking for nothing
in particular, his fingers registering his belief that nothing had
the power to interest him. But one image flashed by a little too
fast. What was that?
     He zapped back to channel five and sat up, an electrifying
chill running up his spine as though caused by the gadget in his
fist.
     God, was that Kaila? He stopped flicking the dial to watch the
larger-than-life face, animated and ablaze. With what? What was the
fierceness in those eyes? What was going on? He watched her tuck
a stray hank of coppery hair into a scarf she had tied up on her
head, her animated face flushed and damp with sweat, listened as
she spoke into the microphone.
     What was she talking about?
     "This can't go on! We're just the tip of the iceberg!
Dissatisfaction is spreading; people won't put up with it anymore!
This is just the beginning..."
     As she spoke, Jason heard a chorus of other voices in the
background, chanting: "The people! United! Will never be divided!"
Suddenly her face disappeared and was superseded by the face of
Connie Hung in the newsroom.
     "That was Kaila Mason, head social worker at the Bronx
Rehabilitation Center for Drug Abuse, speaking for the protesting
Coalition of Workers and Artists in front of the World Trade
Center. Early reports tell us that several thousand people are
standing on Church Street, holding up signs saying 'Tax the Rich.'
The protest is one of the largest of its kind here lately opposing
impending budget cuts. And now, the weather."
     Chung's face disappeared and the channel's newest
meteorologist was standing before a technicolor map of the United
States. Jason turned off the tv.
     So, it was she.
     But how could it be? How could that be the same woman he'd
known as his graduate student years before? He'd forgotten that she
had continued school after leaving the philosophy program to get
a master's degree in social work. Head social worker, he? He had
never known she was such a firebrand. He'd heard over the years,
from former classmates of hers, that she'd changed, blossomed,
after her divorce. Well, maybe she had.
     He looked at his watch. He'd better be going. He'd been so
absorbed by the tv, he'd forgotten the time. It was nearly
two-thirty; he was to pick up Brian from school at three.
He didn't like to rush. He liked to walk, slowly, getting the air
and some exercise. It was faster than grabbing the bus or even a
cab, and he treasured the walks, losing himself in meditation. Out
of his walks came his most creative work, work that helped him
arrive at the theories he expounded in his metaphysics books.
Downstairs, he emerged on West End Avenue and headed south. He
wouldn't have described his mind as blank during these walks;
rather, he might have said, it was dark as pitch, dense with the
material of neo-Aristotelian metaphysics in the subterranean
crevices of consciousness, his intellect hard at work there without
the intervention of his ego. That's how he might have described the
process, if asked. But creativity was not his field, and he didn't
waste a lot of time or effort pondering such issues.
He got to the school early and, while waiting outside with other
parents, chatted with one of the mothers.
     "How's Christine? Brian told me she won the third grade prize
for her science project."
     "Yes, she's turning out to be quite the little brain. She
surprises us more and more every day; the last thing we expected
our child to be was a scientist." The woman beamed with pride. Then
her voice softened, almost to a whisper. "How is Brian doing?"
Jason felt his face flush. He looked down at the floor, a habit he
indulged in when he wanted to collect himself, to get the words he
needed in just the right order. "He's doing well, thank you."
     "Oh, there they are!" The woman waved at a little girl coming
towards them. Then, as though reminding herself of her manners, she
turned back to Jason. "If there's anything I, that is, anything we
can do, I mean to help out in any way..."
     Jason waved her on. "No, no. We're fine, fine. Thank you,
that's very kind of you..."
     "Dad!" Brian came dashing out of the building, his backpack
bouncing as he ran. He carried a long cardboard tube, the one from
the aluminum foil Jason had given him a week ago. "Look, we made
these in art class!" He handed his father the tube. "Look into it!"
Jason pressed his eye to the tube. "Hmmmm."
     "Now. Turn it. Slowly."
     Jason turned the tube. "Ah! Lovely." He kept rotating the
handmade kaleidoscope, appreciating his son's handiwork.
The boy watched him, his face aglow.
     "You're an artist, Brian." He stroked the boy's hair tenderly.
Then he leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek, a habit
he was trying to break himself of. After all, the boy was growing
up; it was becoming awkward for his father to kiss his cheek. They
walked to the corner where he grasped Brian's upper arm, holding
it firmly to convey that his feelings were strong, as well as
spontaneously tender as he'd just displayed. "How was your day? How
did you do on your arithmetic test?"
     The boy shrugged and tossed his head back and forth as though
it wasn't really that interesting a subject to get into.
     "Well...well, not too well, really. I got a C minus."
     Jason had worked with the boy the night before the test,
drilling him on fractions and multiplication tables, but apparently
his child's talents lay in other areas. Feeling let down for the
boy, he squeezed his shoulder in sympathy.
     "That's all right, Brian. You'll do better next time. And you
do better all the time in other subjects. How was soccer practice?"
He knew the boy excelled in sports; this was a safer topic.
"Great! We'll be in the finals, for sure."
     They walked to Broadway and stopped off at the supermarket.
Jason was planning a chicken stew for dinner. He and Brian strolled
through the market, carefully selecting the vegetables. He wanted
the stew to be as good as when Marya prepared it. His cooking
skills were a matter of pride to him; he was getting to be a much
better cook than she ever was. Next, they stopped for ice cream so
Brian could have the dessert he always clamored for.
After the supermarket, they walked to West End Avenue and went
upstairs to the spacious apartment he was redecorating. He settled
Brian in front of the tv, then went to the kitchen to unpack the
groceries and start dinner. As he chopped the vegetables for the
stew, the sounds from Brian's six o'clock cartoons created a
soothing lull; he thought about Kaila.
     He remembered the first time he'd seen her. She'd waltzed into
his metaphysics class and seated herself in the front row, her
chestnut hair to her shoulders, gypsy earrings peeking through the
waves, her golden eyes glowing with intelligence. He'd spent the
entire semester teaching directly to her.
     Whenever he saw her after that--in the hallways of the
philosophy building, at meetings, or in a classroom--he wanted to
take her, right there. He could scarcely keep himself from forcing
her to the floor; even with his colleagues seated urbanely around
them at department meetings, he had to clench his teeth to control
the feeling.
     He was obsessed by her, thought about her all the time, while
teaching, while composing on his manual Olivetti, even at night,
while holding Marya, protecting his young bride from all her fears.
He, too, was frightened; he'd felt unmoored since his mother's
passing a few months before. He would cast his mind out to the
universe like a sonar device, haul back Kaila's image, and fall
asleep comforted and strengthened by that image.
     Marya was pregnant with Brian at the time. He'd only just
arrived at Columbia after completing his education at Kings College
in Oxford. He had spent a lot of time in Paris while getting the
graduate degree; he and Marya had met there. He'd thought her
fragile and delicate, and stylish as only Parisians were.
     Still, he'd come home to the U.S. without her, and they would
never have married if she hadn't followed him to New York like the
duckling in the story who thought the dog she'd latched onto was
a parent-figure. He was touched by her devotion. So they'd married,
and very soon after she conceived Brian.
     The affair with Kaila started the day after Brian was born.
That day, seeing her standing in front of the bulletin board in the
philosophy department, reading some notice or other, he had
strolled to her, his fists in his pockets.
     She had her back to him; her long hair was pinned to the top
of her head. He wanted to touch that long graceful neck, bury his
face in the indentation between her shoulders.
     Instead, to his own amazement, he blurted the news before she
even saw him. "I'm a father!"
     She turned, her face expressionless, as if she were waiting
for more information.
     "My wife had our first son yesterday," he explained.
     Her face brightened with understanding.
     "How wonderful!" she said. "I thought you already had a
family. But this is your first, you say?"
     "Yes." He nodded, imbecilically he thought.
     She smiled, but she looked distracted, as always. He felt like
a fool.
     "I'm glad for you!" She touched his arm lightly before
strolling away down the hall.
     The next day she appeared at his office door. She held out a
package wrapped in white gift paper with crawling babies all over
it.
     "This is for you," she said. "I bought you a mobile to keep
the baby's attention so he won't disturb you."
     She came in and perched on the chair near the door; she was
wearing glasses with lenses so black he couldn't see her eyes. He
got up and closed the door. The room felt dim and stuffy, although
strong sunlight rode across it on dust mites.
     "Thank you," he said, handling the unopened box by the corners
as if the heat in his fingers might accidentally sear it open and
destroy its contents. He watched her cross her legs, one narrow
knee over the other, wished he could be more casual, less formal,
wished he could think of a joke, say something that would make her,
both of them, laugh.
     "I brought you something else, too," she said, blushing. She
held out a sheaf of papers.
     "What is it?"
     "I'm working on a paper for my Aristotle class. I read your
book on potentiality and I wondered if you would mind taking a look
at it before I hand it in."
     He placed the papers on his desk, off to the side. "Of
course," he said, unable to concentrate on what she was saying. She
seemed to be waiting for something, but he didn't know what to say
next. His own words appalled him.
     "I feel so random," he confided. "I feel as though I have
nothing to hang onto."
     She stood, as though ready to leave.
     "Please..." He held his hand out to her.
     "Yes?"
     "Don't go."
     She waited.
     He took her hand in his. "I...I..."
     She tilted her head. He wished he could see her eyes. They
seemed to be aimed at his desk, not at him.
     "I want you," was what he wanted to say, but he managed to say
instead, "Where are you going?"
     "I'm heading back to Jersey," she replied. "I'm through for
the day."
     He stood, desperately wanting to find a way to make her stay.
     "Would you have some coffee with me?" he asked.
     "Now?"
     "Yes, yes. But not here. Not on campus." He began shoving
papers into his briefcase. "Let's go somewhere."
     "Well, I have my car here..."
     "Good! We'll drive."
     But instead of stopping for coffee, she drove out of the city,
to a park below the George Washington Bridge. As they strolled
along the rock-strewn path alongside the Hudson, he felt an aura
emanating from her that seemed to both draw him in and fend him
off, creating a strange kind of parrying that excited him. She
picked her way among the rocks, stepping over fallen logs lightly,
surely, as though she knew the path.
     "You've been here before?"
     She nodded. "I come here often. My children always know where
I am when I'm feeling down..."
     "You have children!?"
     She laughed. He'd never heard her laugh before, a
self-conscious laugh, not at all light or joyful. "Yes, three;
people always think I'm younger than I am. Alison is fourteen and
the twins are eleven."
     "You can't be very old. Did you marry young?"
     She nodded. "I was nineteen."
     Suddenly she stopped and knelt to empty some pebbles from her
shoe. As she rose again he put his two hands on her arms, lightly,
tenderly, sliding them downward as she came up toward him. He held
her at the elbows, his hands rigid the way they used to be when as
a boy he'd held knitting yarn for his mother to wind. He leaned
slowly forward, unsure of how she would receive him.
     She turned her face up slightly, her lips meeting his. Then
he grasped her arms more tightly and pressed his lips onto hers and
was astonished when her tongue came languidly forward to explore
his lips, his teeth, the whole inner cavity of his mouth.
     That was all.
     They returned to the car and she drove him back to the city,
then went home.
     The next day he waited outside her Aristotle class, though her
paper lay on his desk, still unread. He realized he was being
indiscreet; what if someone were to notice him and watch him
approach her? Ah, he couldn't help himself! At one point, he heard
steps on the nearby stairs and nearly fled; but the thought of her
body, how her breasts would feel, the smell of her hair...
     "Hello."
     She was walking past him; he'd almost missed her. At the sound
of his voice, she turned.
     "Jason." She was with another student; she hadn't seen him.
The color in her face rose only enough for an observant passerby
to notice; her voice was soft, unsurprised. Her classmate continued
on when she stopped; they waved an easy dismissal of one another.
He took her to his office. Inside, he held her in his arms, pressed
her to his chest as he had so often thought about doing, his face
breathing in the animal scent of her. "Darling..." It was as if he
had been calling her that all his life.
     He felt the pressure of her fingers, pressed lightly into his
upper back, stroking him as her lips brushed his neck, her tongue
working its way to his jawbone, his ear.
     "Darling, wait..." He removed his jacket and laid it on the
floor next to the desk. Still kneeling on one knee, he grasped her
hand and pulled her down toward him. She crouched beside him and
he slid his hand to her knee, up under her skirt, lifted the skirt
as he leaned into her, his body gently shoving her onto the jacket.
He kissed her, his tongue now meeting hers, his fingers discovering
the dampness beneath her underpants.
     "Oh, God."
     As he fumbled with his zipper, she slowly pulled his shirt
free and unbuttoned it, her hands sliding up the bare skin of his
lower back. Then she helped him lower his trousers to his knees,
all the time disguising the awkwardness with the stroking of her
hands, the whispering touch of her tongue on his chest, his neck,
his eyes.
     She moaned, a sound of passive compliance rather than of
passion, as he came into her, his body, even partially clothed,
dissolving into the boundaries of her.
     "Hold me, Jason," she breathed.
     Afterward, they dressed and left the office, agreeing to meet
again the next afternoon; Jason could hardly wait.
     They met often at first, made love several times a week,
sometimes in his office, sometimes in her car; once, while evening
classes were actually in session, they met in the parking lot and
rutted against someone's car, too frenzied to wait until they were
safely behind his office door. In the agitation of his lust, he
even rented a second apartment--around the corner from the one he
shared with Marya--and they would meet there twice a week.
     They saw one another for several years; then, their meetings
began to grow less frequent. By the time he and Marya and the boy
left for London a few years ago to spend his sabbatical at King's
College, he had just about weaned himself from Kaila.
     She, though, had grown attached to him.
     It still pained him to think of it.
     They had gone to that dairy restaurant on the lower east side,
Jason pushing Brian in his stroller, Kaila ambling alongside them,
through the noisy streets, when he told her of his impending trip.
     "I thought you were going to leave her," she said, her soft
voice stabbing him.
     "But we, Marya and I, have had so much history together, you
see," he explained.
     Later, when he'd returned to New York, he had seen Kaila only
the one time, the day he'd gone to her house in New Jersey to get
the books she had stored for him in her garage. When he called her
after that, she was always too busy to see him. He supposed it was
her new career.
     His life had gone on.
     He had written his five books; become recognized by a small
segment of the metaphysical community; struck his private bargains
with Marya. But he'd always missed something he'd had with Kaila,
a feeling of safety in the world. Ever since they had drifted
apart, he had been painfully aware of the contingency of life, how
fragile everything was. He'd thought it must be age, thought his
newfound cynicism represented growing up. He was saner, he'd told
himself, more mature.
     As to Marya, he didn't like to think too much about her these
days. It was just that her place was with them; this was where she
belonged. The seat she used to occupy during mealtimes was empty
now. Her pillow next to him in the king-sized bed they had shared
remained untouched. The door to her clothes closet, empty now of
her clothing, remained shut. Family photographs, in particular
those taken just last Saturday at Brian's birthday party, showed
the small family, just the two of them now, posing without the
mother, her place in the photo unoccupied.
     But his place was occupied; he knew who he was and where he
belonged. She was the one who would suffer the loss; not he. He
admitted to a terrifying rage. That, of course, was justified. The
woman was a damn fool. And he didn't need her at all. He and the
boy would manage just fine without her. As they had all along,
anyway.
     He couldn't really complain. He was lucky and he knew it. He'd
managed to get the philosophy department at Columbia to arrange his
schedule so he could teach only three mornings a week. And even on
those days he was through by noon, which gave him plenty of time
to tend to the household chores and get Brian from school. He was
used to devoting those hours to writing, but at least he did still
have two full days for that. Three, if he counted the weekend
mornings when Brian knew to leave him alone until lunch. And he had
plenty of time to spend with the boy.
     It would, he understood, take Brian time to get used to the
loss. But he would be there for him, strong and consistent. And the
size of the empty place the boy's mother had occupied would
diminish in relation to the span of time that would pass.
     She was living in Mexico.
     He'd never been to Mexico, nor would he want to have been. It
was a wild land, in his view, whose long history, though filled
with lusty acts of violence, lacked the rich cultural coherence of
a country like England, say, where they'd spent their winter breaks
and all his leaves.
     Now she had gone and followed that old man she was living
with, to Acapulco, the one she had met in London during his
sabbatical. She couldn't have fallen in love with the man, Jason
was sure. She was just using him until she could attain some
independence and autonomy. Which she was not ever likely to do.
Or, perhaps she, too, suffered from lust. He supposed that he'd
been wrong to believe he would never again be so consumed by
desire. After Kaila, Jason had had no other women; he'd remained
faithful to Marya, the thought of his faithfulness bitter to him
now.
     But he admitted to himself--ruefully--that he had felt lustful
stirrings again this morning when he'd seen Kaila on tv, her
coppery hair tucked into that kerchief, unruly strands of gray
standing out like stray electrical wires catching the messages of
time, earrings dangling to her neck as they always had. And her
eyes, glowing with the same intelligence that had first drawn him
to her.
     Ay, Marya! he thought as he diced a carrot into the bubbling
water for tonight's stew. How could you have left me?
                               END