29
After my waitressing shift at the Lobster Roll, I changed in the bathroom, put on lipstick, and had a Beck’s out back with the lunch staff, all of us listening to Neil Young. It had been a long time since we’d seen one another. We didn’t talk much; we looked out onto Napeague stretch, the two-lane highway that ran alongside the restaurant, and we watched the cars pass. The sunset spilled down the road from west to east, returning to us slow, like honey from an overturned jar.
I drove Powell’s steel-blue Dodge Charger toward Montauk, whipping around the treacherous curves of Old Montauk Highway, ducking oncoming Jaguars, speeding over peaks, sending my stomach flying. I knew I was not going to die—not then, not that way.
In Montauk, the giant lamps of the ballpark illuminated the northern arc of the traffic circle, so I headed in that direction. Rourke’s car was parked at the field, so I swung into the lot next to Trail’s End Restaurant, left my shoes in the car, and walked across the street to the field. There were bleachers with friends and family mixed from both sides. It seemed like a nice group. I climbed a few rows up and sat, pulling my skirt tighter around my thighs.
Rourke was at first base. Though he wore a uniform that matched the other uniforms, he looked unlike the others. I located him through the cloth. I saw him differently now; I saw his limbs, and I knew their weight, their strength. Buttons were missing from the base of his shirt, and just past the split was his abdomen, the pale brown of his skin and black of his hair. He didn’t acknowledge me, though he knew I was there.
An old man paced on the rim of the field. He turned to those of us in the stands and chastised, “Shout it up out there, Montauk. You sound like a bunch of mutes!”
When the last batter of the last inning hit a foul that popped past first base, Rourke ran backward, then leapt to catch it. For a moment he prevailed in air; there was a collective breath, the slap of the ball against the hide of his glove, and raucous cheers. He headed in with his teammates, his stride long, his head modestly inclined. Before home plate he split off, coming to me, straddling the bench I was on. His face lowered to mine, our foreheads grazed, our hair intertwined.
“I missed you,” he said, breathing out. “C’mon.” He gave me his hand, the two of us rising. “Let’s take a walk.”
I followed his lead. It felt out of control to be in love with someone so masculine. It was like being an amateur with your own supernatural capacities. Both teams had collected informally around the second set of bleachers, and, as we passed, Rourke was handed two bottles of beer, which he took in his free hand, the one not holding mine. The guys spoke to Rourke warmly.
“Glad you showed up, man.”
“Nice catch.”
“Hey, next time you move, let a few weeks pass before you come back. We’d like to have the girls to ourselves for a while.”
At his car Rourke put the bottles on the hood and he bent to kiss me, wrapping one arm around my waist, pulling me in and up, bearing down. I remember the cool metal against my shoulders, the wet grass beneath my feet, and around us, the curious imperative of cricket noise swelling to near crescendo.
“How did you get here?” he wanted to know.
I pointed across the street. “Car.”
“Car?” he said, like that was funny. “C’mon. Get in. I’ll drive you over.”
Before joining me, he removed his wet shirt, tossing it into the backseat, asking me to hand him a clean one, which I did, holding it out to the part of his abdomen that obstructed the open driver’s window. As we were about to leave, there were two knocks on the trunk. Some guy leaned in the window. On his kelly-green jersey there were numbers, and a name, Roger.
Roger nodded to me politely, saying hi. “You guys coming to the Tattler?”
Rourke just said, “Not tonight, but thanks. We’re heading home.”
——
My first impression was of the darkness, the way it was dappled. The moonlight entered the cottage from various angles and settled in irregular patches like it does on the floor of a forest. There were earthy odors and the thrill of encampment. I thought of his winter alone, and about the applications of his privacy. I wondered how he’d stayed warm. I thought of the nights we’d missed—an entire year.
Besides the random pools of moonlight, the room was featureless in the near pitch. A cast-iron stove materialized at the distant right. He knelt before it, matches in hand. One triangular tip of paper swelled to life within the elliptical swing gate, then the flame progressed down the edge before catching entirely and illuminating in a fan the shallow range around him, his upraised hand, his bent leg, several inches of floor. The kindling caught, brightening more—a couch, a chair, a stretch of old windows above the kitchen fixtures, the suitcases, boxes, and stereo he’d taken back from Jersey. I knew because I’d helped him load the car.
I knelt in front of the fire while he went in back to change. There was nothing in my mind while I waited, nothing other than the vanes of firelight tripping erratically and the rising temperature of my skin. It was as if I were becoming the fire and the fire were becoming me. Rourke returned wearing a frayed blue sweater and a pair of jeans that were soft with holes. He was tall until he came down, sitting alongside me on the floor, looking at the fire too. He seemed less complicated than usual, his masculinity more authentic. I thought maybe I was seeing not what he chose to show but what he chose not to conceal, which was different. Though physically we were opposites, emotionally I felt strangely similar; I felt almost as I’d felt with the fire, as though being with him was like being with me.
I heard him take a breath. He asked if I felt like staying. He went no further, but I knew what he meant. He meant the whole summer, week to month, night to day—he was asking me to suffer the transformations in his arms. Yes, I said. I would stay.