A Forty Year Kiss

37

One evening, weeks before Vivian had moved out of her house and into his, Charlie was sitting on the porch, drinking a glass of ice water with a wedge of lemon. Trying to drink more water, he noticed that he actually felt better, had more energy, was less lethargic in the morning. Dusk settled over the fields and forest surrounding his house. From the barn, he heard the neighbor girl, Maddie, talking to the horse. Warm light issued out of the open barn door, smudging a rhombus of yellow over the gravel just outside. He felt anxious to see Vivian again, even though they’d taken a walk that very same morning. Summer had that effect on him: he couldn’t stop moving, working, walking, tinkering.

He climbed into the truck and drove to her house. He just missed her. Was curious as to what she might be doing. He wanted to talk to her. It was a long drive, but even if she lived four hours away, the distance would not have stopped him.

He parked on the street and knocked on the front door. No answer. He tried the door: Unlocked. Called her name. Edged into the house. Called her name again. Withdrew his phone from a pocket and texted her: You home? From the kitchen counter, he heard her phone vibrate. He walked into the kitchen, and through the window above the sink he spotted her, out in the last of the failing light.

She was kneeling in the backyard grass in a pair of old gym shorts. The soles of her bare feet dirty. The width of her pale thighs. Her hands were working, digging. From time to time, she swatted away a mosquito. On the telephone line overhead, a mourning dove cooed.

Hello, he called out the window.

She startled a moment before realizing it was just him. Then turned and sat down. Blew hair away from her face.

Are you trying to kill me?

What?

You can’t sneak up on a person like that. You’ll scare them to death.

I knocked on the front door, he said.

Well, I didn’t hear anything.

What are you doing?

Digging up bulbs, she explained.

What?

Flower bulbs. Tulips. Some lilies. I thought I’d bring them to your house.

You look beautiful, he said, smiling.

I do not. I’m a mess. I’m filthy. And sweaty.

Forty years ago, he would have taken off his shirt and pants, walked into the backyard, and made love to her there in the grass. But now he just leaned against the counter, marveling at her.

My lord, you’re beautiful, he said.

Forty years ago, she might have said, Oh yeah? Come prove it then. But now she said, Make yourself useful. Put these in your truck, will you? And maybe, just maybe, if you’re lucky I’ll come home with you.

Sorry, he said, grinning, but did you say I might get lucky?

Don’t push it.

Back at his house, he drew her a hot bath. Removed her clothing. Then helped her step into the old claw-foot tub. He opened the window so they could listen to the frogs and night insects. He lowered himself to the cool tiled floor beside the tub. Then he stood, turned on the radio, and scanned the FM dial until he settled on a signal. He sat down again. She hung a foot over the edge of the tub with a satisfying little splash, and he held her foot to massage the sole, the arch, the toes.

Who is this? she asked. This music?

Bill Withers, he said, smiling. I think. Isn’t it Bill Withers?

It’s nice, whoever it is.

Yeah, it really is.

Whole years of my life. I don’t think I listened to any music. Isn’t that terrible? But it was like triage. Years of triage. Or fighting fires. I never even thought about music.

Can I get you anything? he asked. Something to drink? Or read?

No, she said, stay. Just stay with me here, please. This is so, so nice.