Chapter 11: They needed this (rated T); poverty
Please note: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...
Manhattan, late December, 2014
Late afternoon, and now the wind was dying down, and the fitful cold gusts were tamed to a gentler breeze. So gentle that it didn't rattle the metal table any longer on the balcony outside her flat. And inside, all was dark and warm and quiet in the living room. Nothing stirred. Nothing disturbed the quiet, save the faint sound of breathing from the other room.
She was dreaming of him. And then, she'd awakened and found him there in her bed. Reaching for her.
His hands running over her skin, and the feel of her back arching underneath them. Strong. His strong hands, let loose now, holding back no longer. She was patient no longer herself, abandoning herself to the heat and the sound and the feel of this man.
Like a river – their feelings like a river running over them, drowning them in the sweetness of their touch – lips, hands, skin; everywhere. And he had responded, pressing in on her, sliding his hands around to her back, drawing her over him, slowly, with every ounce of his control. That sound in his throat, sighing. And her, answering, sighing too. They needed this.
Both of them – indistinguishable now, melting together in their own heat. Exquisite heat. Rising like a surging tide, crashing and tumbling, drawn out like waves running up the grateful beach. And then falling back, slowly, withdrawing toward the sea, the endless sea. Leaving them emptied. Washed out. Quenched. Quenched in the river of feeling running over them. To rest. Their bodies twitching softly, like little earthly aftershocks, resting in each other's arms.
In a little while, she'd found him kissing her, his lips soft now, gentle on her face and neck. The heat had given way to something else now, and she could feel how the strength in him had been transformed.
He found he couldn't help himself, drawn to her, her skin so warm against his lips, so soft, so fragrant, calling him to her.
And soon, she was kissing him, too; on his hair, then his brow, marching softly to his mouth. Whispering to him softly near his ear. Making him smile.
Her arms circled him. And she was stretched out long and lean on his left side, careful not to press against his right knee.
She felt his long fingers on her skin, dragging so softly over her neck, her face, her chest; then gently tipping her head so he could reach her throat with his lips. Sighing. The two of them sighing in the dim light, their breathing the only sound disturbing the quiet of the afternoon.
They needed this.
Rome, Italy, late December, 2014
When the last of the gifts were unloaded from the vans, Harold watched as the children carried them in. Through the window just across the street from where he stood he could watch them. He was careful that Grace wouldn't see him there.
More children had spilled from their building - once word spread that something wonderful, and unexpected, had happened on their street. Their eyes danced, and they were rushing back and forth from street to inner courtyard, then back again. Arms full of presents. They'd never seen anything like this.
And Grace. Her eyes full of smiles, pleasure, watching them. This was unexpected, a sudden splash of color and whimsy in their gray existence. Grace's paintbox could stretch just so far. To heal such deep wounds, war wounds, with art alone. It would take more.
Wonder and imagination needed fuel to flourish. This surprise and these gifts would be remembered for a lifetime; and they just might be the fuel needed - to lift them from a poverty of ideas and hope.
She wondered about this unnamed benefactor. Who could this be, and how could she find him, or her.
For weeks now, she had had a sense of eyes on her, benevolent, but always watching. She couldn't shake the feeling. As though someone were watching over her and her children from the shadows - keeping them always in view.
Was this more of the same? These gifts? Was there someone in the shadows watching? A tiny voice inside wanted it to be yes, and it gave her this small sense of peace and safety to think of it this way. Her own private protector. Someone who would watch over her. It was like an echo from the past. A memory just out of reach. But tantalizing.
From his window, he could see the excitement, and the glee in the children's eyes – heart-warming. So nourishing for Harold. Why hadn't he done this sooner?
His eyes filled again, and threatened to spill over. And his heart. Heavy suddenly. He knew why.
So tied up with the daily pull of victims and perpetrators, crimes planned and thwarted.
This calling of his, once begun, was impossible to leave undone.
Once Harold knew, really knew, what went on - how could he walk away? The Machine, and his Team – all that stood between victims and those who would do them harm. Who could save them if not for his Team? Which of them would just walk away from this?
Someone would die if they did. Someone would die. Knowing what he knew, it was impossible for him to leave - impossible to have this other life.
So much to give up, though. He felt it now. Seeing her again. Seeing her again from this window. He heard himself saying her name out loud, reaching to the glass, touching her through it, as though she were there, an arm's length away.
So near, too far.
If only he could remind her - of their days together, of their past. If only she could smile again, and not shrink from his face. Somehow he would find a way. Plant a seed, watch it grow. There was time. He could help her remember him. The real him - not the monster in her mind. He could find a way. There was time.
He started to close his eyes, to remember her smile. But behind him on the stairs - something wrong.
That sound. Softly on the stairs.
Watching through the window, distracted by these thoughts - he'd almost missed it.
The sound he had made coming up here. That same sound.
On the stairs. A loose tread.
Harold turned from the window, toward the sound.