Honeymoon
If you recognize this story, that's because it is the Epilogue for my multi-chapter "Works in Progress." I thought it would work as a one-shot and hope you agree.
The long dark brown lashes flutter open, from the corner of her aquamarine eyes, Christine glances at Erik.
Lying on his right side, the pillow tucked under the deformed part of his face – his sleeping position of choice – never wanting Christine to waken to find herself looking at the misshapen half. Despite her arguments to the contrary, he finds it difficult to believe she will not be frightened if his deformity is the first thing she sees awakening during the night from a bad dream…or simply seeing the mess the creator made of his visage.
It is his good fortune he himself does not have to look at his face except for those odd moments when he passes a mirror without a mask. One of the advantages of his skin disorder is he has no facial hair, and little body hair in general. This lack, if it could be called such, fascinated the Indian, Russian and Persian men, most all of whom wore beards. Another element to add to the mystique of this already mysterious man in their midst.
In those rare moments when he does happen to see his image reflected back at him, he finds himself first surprised, a little shocked, mildly disgusted and, then, after so many years, resigned. Perhaps that is how Christine feels. Horror tends to dissipate with repetition and time. And yet…why take chances? His good side is quite handsome if he is any judge. People, although offput by his mask, never actually shun him – simply give him questioning looks – seldom if ever followed up by anything verbal or even mildly hysterical.
He is finding this particularly true here in Niagara Falls. There is often an extended stare – as a couple, he and Christine are not the usual pair one sees here. This is a place for honeymooners – young people. Although there are some women closer to Christine's age, there are no other expecting women as far as he has observed so far. His own age, though difficult to pinpoint, is still one where he is more of the era of the parents than a peer of the visitors here at the hotel where they are staying.
The Cataract House – five stories with a view of the river. Nadir outdid himself with the booking. Not only is the hotel magnificent the history of the place has Erik fascinated. During America's Civil War, the hotel was major part of what is known as the Underground Railroad. The entire wait staff at one point were African Americans – free men. The hotel was sanctuary for slaves escaping the South, often being transported across the Niagara River into Canada by the head waiter – John Morrison - himself. In a small way, Erik felt a kind of kinship with the brave people in helping those who were at the mercy of an unkind world.
At first, he was concerned about leaving the comfort and safety of Phantasma. After all the years of hiding away, he walks freely through the park. The employees and shopkeepers all know him. The mask is seldom an issue because visitors to Phantasma were greeted with far stranger costumes and performers. A finely dressed man with a mask and wide brimmed hat hardly brought about a second look from anyone.
However, if he could love a place as much as Phantasma – Niagara Falls was that place. Here – lying in bed with Christine beside him, listening to the sound of the river, moving over rock shelves, building up energy to finally reach the edge becoming the majestic falls rages just outside their window – envelops him in a sense of home.
"How long have you been watching me sleep," she murmurs, rolling over on her side to face him.
"Not long."
"For you not long could be anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours. Have you slept at all?"
"I have," he laughs. Although her comment is true enough. Many nights after having gone to bed, he is prone to simply lie on his side and take in the wonder of her. In recent years, the hours he sleeps grows longer – although waking intermittently during the night still his habit. The nightmares ceasing for the most part, but a need to be alert – fear of being awakened by an assailant – is still present. Too many years of abuse continues to overrule the reality of his present life – if less often and less intense.
"You seem…I do not know…easy this morning…relaxed."
"Do I?"
"Yes, I sensed it yesterday – when we were in the tunnels. You were not watching every person who passed us and actually enjoying the experience. We might have been at home."
"My memory was rather jogged by the Journey Behind the Falls…as they call it – although my view under the Garnier could not compare with the beauty of the falls," he jokes. "Do you realize that this is the first time we have been away together, alone, in a strange place?"
"I suppose it is – I did not think of that," she says, "and yet you are comfortable with it."
"When I was young, I dreamed of taking my wife for walks on Sundays, like a normal man."
"We walk at home all the time – not long ago we walked along the bay with the children – the day we found little Ayesha."
"But we were not alone – just the two of us. While we are here, I can walk with my wife like a normal man and – miracle of miracles, today is Sunday!"
No longer content to lie abed, he sits up, bending over to kiss her soundly, before jumping out of the four-poster bed draped in white gauzy fabric. Grabbing his union suit, he pulls it on and walks to the window – throwing open the curtains matching those on the bed.
"Did you hear them last night? The Falls? They are considered one of the Wonders of the World," he says. "I wondered at Nadir's suggestion about coming here – but it was perfect." Hearing the rustling of the bedclothes, and a chuckle. He turns to look at her. "Are you laughing at me?"
"It is quite a magnificent sight. In all my travels with Pappa, I cannot recall ever seeing something so breathtaking," She replies, pulling her dressing gown on to join him at the window. "Much like you. Your drop seat is open, by the way…and I find your bottom to be a magnificent sight as well."
"It seems I must now invent undergarments less likely to fall short of their intended use," he says, twisting around, attempting to close the flap.
"I find it charming when you are less than properly clothed." Gliding her fingers over his buttock, she gives him a gentle slap before helping him with the buttons. Picking up a brochure from one of the small bedside tables, she says, "We should probably get dressed if we want to take one of the cruises before it gets too late. I would imagine the Maid of the Mist fills up quite quickly."
Taking the photograph from her hand, he puts it down again, and lifts her into his arms, returning her to the bed. "Perhaps we can take the cruise on another day.
"I thought you wanted to walk with your wife on Sunday," she says, wrapping an arm around his neck.
"There is time for that – we shall be here for two weeks, there will be another Sunday."
"True."
"Two weeks without children, friends, co-workers, employees – no fear of interruptions."
"Tantalizing, indeed."
Knock, knock. "Room Service."
"Room Service?" He repeats, frowning.
"Yes, sir," the voice through the door sounds to be a young man. "You requested breakfast at 9AM. I can leave it outside the door if you wish."
"Just a moment." Grumbling, Erik sets Christine down on the bed. Grabbing his wallet from the bureau, he removes some bills and pads to the door. Opening it a crack, he slips the money to the waiter. "Yes, just leave it – I am not dressed. This is for your service. Thank you. Thank you."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." His words muted by the closing door.
"What was that all about? Did you order breakfast?"
"No – I suspect Nadir thought he was being a good friend when he made the arrangements. That, or he was being a booby, hoping he would disturb what he actually did disturb." After waiting a moment, time for the man to leave, Erik opens the door a crack, checks the hallway and pulls in the cart laden with covered dishes.
"What did he order? I am hungry – famished actually," she says, getting up from the bed, to join him at the cart. Lifting one of the silver domes, her eyes widen. "Glasmastarsill…oh, Erik, he ordered pickled herring."
Erik groans, "You have not asked for your fish since Joshua, I thought you might have lost your craving for the stuff."
"Oh, no, I simply hide it from you in the kitchen…Helen is very good about keeping the larder stocked for me."
"May I assume you want to eat first?"
Nodding her vigorously, she picks up a piece of the fish, dangling it in front of his nose before taking a bite. "We have two weeks. Eating, touring, relaxing and…" tilting her head, eyebrows raised toward the oversized bed "no children or employees or unwanted guests."
"With the exception of the herring, the food does smell enticing," he says, lifting another cover. "Ah, Belgian waffles."
"Your favorite – with maple syrup…and here is the butter – both warming. Poached eggs as well. Nadir is a prince."
They each fill their plates and carry them to the table set up in front of the window, looking out on the river.
"As you say, we have two weeks…" Erik says taking a bite of his waffle. "Nothing wrong with sating more than one desire, particularly when your favorite food is dripping with warm maple syrup."
"Or puckering your lips with vinegar, lemon and onions," she replies. "Although I think I should like some waffle as well."
"Dear lord," he groans, but at the sight of her pleasure, enjoying the different foods, he can only shake his head and sigh. "I think I have changed my mind about walking with my wife on Sundays – breakfast is proving to be much more entertaining."
"We must honeymoon more often then."
"Yes, I believe I would like that."