Page 14 of The Sound Of Us

My erection grows with each thrust of my imagined lover, and Frank reaps the benefits. My fury, caused by his grunts of approval as his fingers close around my erection, threatens to pull me out of my secret place but I hold fast to the images spinning in my head and count down the eight seconds needed for Frank to take undeserved pleasure in my body.

It’s over.

NO LUBE FRIDAY is over.

Frank rolls over and within minutes, he’s snoring quietly. I wait longer still, just to be sure. And when his grunts and half-drunk mutterings have subsided, I quietly slip out of bed. In the bathroom, cleaning up is quick and exiting the house with a heavy jacket, a novel, woollen hat and boots is quicker.

This is the best part about No Lube Fridays. After sex, Frank sleeps like the dead.

My feet move quickly through the snow with Pepper. I drag a shovel behind me, covering up my footprints. Not that Frank has ever caught me, but I learned not to leave anything to chance, and I know how to, well, cover my tracks. I’m only allowed to go down to the lake to read when Frank says so. It’s not that I can’t go. I can. But only when he says so. Like my single lace panty hidden in the bottom of my nightstand, my midnight rendezvous with my books at the lake after Frank’s eight second marathon is my secret.

Dropping the shovel at the edge of the property, I step onto the main road, walking briskly down the road and around the bend, with Pepper trotting quietly next to me.

The road leading down to the Johnson house becomes filled with bramble the further in you go. That’s because the house sits next to the woods.

Since the arrival of the new neighbor this afternoon, I might be in trouble for trespassing, but Mrs. Johnson had no fencing to differentiate their property from the woods. So, it’s hard to tell if the spot near the lake where I’d spent many middle-of-the-nights these past few years belongs to the town or the new owner.

I take my chances.

When I pass the house a soft yellow light from the kitchen side casts some light onto my path. The light dims as I make my way to the lake, further away from the house.

A boulder sits near the lake and has, in the recent years, come to be known as my boulder of shame.

Here, all the parts of me that I hide from Frank can be set free. My dreams of wanting to be loved, cared for. My dreams to play the piano. Of running away from this place.

I hide all my secret wishes from Frank, just like I hide my beaded bracelet and my mother’s letters, my single lace panty and every square inch of my heart. Frank can’t touch any of those as long as he has no access to them.

Gazing out at the lake, I let my most shameful thoughts run rampant. I watch the gentle ripple of the lake and wonder what it would be like to stand out there with a bottle of Frank’s vodka, drink until I can’t stand up straight and just accidentally fall into the water. There’re some smooth rocks just inside the water’s edge. Easy to slip and fall in.

It would have to happen in the springtime. I’d choose the month of May, when River Valley gets the most rain and the lake has swelled.

It would be an accident. I wouldn’t just jump in. But if I was drunk enough, I wouldn’t be able to save myself. It would be a terrible tragedy.

On my boulder of shame, I contemplate all the ways I might die. How ungrateful I might seem to others, if they knew. I’ve looked death straight in the eye when I was diagnosed with cancer. I should be grateful to have been given a second chance.

Yet, here I am, wishing every day I could just close my eyes and never open them again.

Only one way to die is unacceptable to me: staring into the barrel of Frank’s gun. The deeply hidden rebellious part of me refuses to die at Frank’s hand. I would rather fall into this lake during the spring than die just because Frank declared it so.

Tonight I add to my sick fantasy about accidentally falling into the lake, changing the narrative.

This time, something else happens. A pair of strong arms slip around my waist, pulling me back, and out of danger. A soft, soothing voice in my ear, whispering,

I was so afraid you’d fall in, Axel.

What would I do if I lost you?

And then this nameless, faceless lover would pull me deep into his arms, shielding me from the world and telling me over and over how much he loved me. How empty the world would be without me. How wanted I am. How needed I am. That my death would mean something to him. I’d be missed. I wouldn’t be forgotten.

No longer amused by my morbid thoughts, I switch on my flashlight and open my book.

Eighty-five pages later, when I look back towards Mrs. Johnson’s house, the dim light from the kitchen is still on but this time, movement behind the curtains disturbs the still night. I look closer, focus on the outline of a man’s upper body.

Heart pounding, I hop off the boulder of shame and creep in a semicircle until I’m behind the big, old Scarlet Oak tree. What the fuck am I doing? Pepper whines softly. We don’t usually do this.

The side window, which has no curtain and has not had one for as long as I can remember, faces the oak tree. If the man moved into the kitchen, it would be impossible not to get a glimpse of him. I hold my breath, my body engulfed in a thrilling freeze. “Come on,” I murmur, excitement building with fascinating momentum.

It’s as if he hears me. An unsung melody between us, pulling him to me. A thing without the need for physical hearing. I call him with my heart and he… hears me.

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