"Wandering soul,
wandering mind,
wondering what's gone wrong with me.
And try not to try.
Swayed by the wind,
swayed by desire.
Can't reach the moon up above,
and I don't dare touch the fire.
.
'Cause the trouble with wanting is I want you.
The trouble with wanting is I want you.
The trouble with wanting is I want you,
and I want you all the time.
.
Always on my mind,
always alone.
You could be miles and miles away,
but somehow you're close.
If I can't have my cake
and I can't eat it too
well, I guess the sound of your voice
in the aching will just have to do."
- Joy Williams, "The Trouble with Wanting"
.
Eliza woke the next morning and turned over to find that Arthur was gone from the bed. From the corner of her eye she saw a note on the nightstand and reached out to read it:
Gone hunting. Be back before lunch.
She dressed and went to Isaac's room, finding that he was already awake, dressed, and sitting on the end of his bed, reading.
"Morning, matey," she said with a smile as she sat beside him. She knew he was working on reading the smaller words in Treasure Island, his favorite book to be read to from.
He looked up at her with a smile. "I bet Arthur would like this one. Could you ask him to read it to me?"
"You can ask him yourself when he gets home," she said running her hand through the hair on the back of his head. "Well, after you get home from your lessons, anyway."
"He's not here? Where is he?" he asked, his brows knitting together.
"He just went to catch us some food, baby. Not to worry. He'll be here when you get back."
He groaned, "Do I have to go to lessons?"
"I thought you liked them!"
"Yeah, but Arthur's here! I wanna be here right when he gets back!"
She grinned. "I won't let him tell any stories until you get home. Promise. Does that make you feel any better?"
"A little," he mumbled. "But I really just like being with Arthur. I just like him."
She brought an arm around him and pulled him close. "I know you do, honey." After a moment she added quietly, "I do too."
When Arthur returned with a couple rabbits and a small buck hanging over the back of his horse, Eliza was on her hands and knees working in the garden. He skinned the game and went to the smokehouse to hang them.
When he came back out, he looked around for Isaac. Eliza's basket was full of vegetables, and she was rinsing her hands at the water pump. When he walked over and began rinsing, she handed him the bar of soap.
"Where's the kid?" he asked as he wiped his hands on his shirt under his jacket.
"I've paid for some extra tutoring during the Christmas holiday. He's in town; I won't need to pick him up for a few hours."
Not two full minutes passed before the two of them were scuffling and fumbling with each other's clothes up against the wall in her bedroom. With the rare instance of total privacy, they had sex twice that afternoon—once right after the other.
Afterwards, as Eliza lay beside him on the bed, she let the images replay behind her eyes. Before yesterday, it had been several months since Arthur had been inside her, and she relished every sensation—his tongue as he kissed her, the alternate rigidity and litheness of his body as he plummeted into her, the sighs and soft groans that sometimes escaped him. He had a habit each time of reaching underneath and touching the flesh where they joined with the tip of his finger; and each time he did, he sent her over the edge. Arthur had honed his skills as a lover over the almost seven years they'd known each other. But her favorite thing was when they both reached their peak and he gave out after the last moment, relaxing against her and trembling briefly as she held him, waiting for both their breathing to return to normal.
Arthur reclined in the bed and let his mind wander. One thing they had gotten damn good at was sex. This time had been rowdy and loud and breathless, what with the kid being gone and all. He took pleasure in watching her bite her lip, in watching her tense and release, in eliciting his own name from her lips. He smiled. He'd grown accustomed to her after all these years. He could strum her like a master musician could strum a well-tuned guitar.
Next to him Eliza rose up on her right elbow and came close to rest her chest atop his. As she looked at him, he brought his hand to her back and felt her soft bare skin, thinking about how this was a part of her that never saw the light of day.
Eliza felt his fingertips run across her back. She noticed his eyebrows come together as his hand hovered on a place under her arm, just behind her right breast.
"You have a scar here," he said. "How did you get it?"
She was taken aback by how he could've found it, since it was such a small, old scar that the only way to notice it was by running a finger there in a feather-light stroke.
"That," she smiled, "is the mark left by a very young girl who didn't know how to use her mother's curling tongs."
He gave a breathy laugh and raised his brows. "Sure. If it ended up under your arm."
"I haven't thought about that in ages," she smiled.
He trailed his hand slowly up her back, past her neck, and into her hair. He'd always liked her hair, especially now, the way it fell in loose waves about her shoulders. It was like the sun. He ran the back of his fingers over her cheek and gently took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, looking at her.
Eliza looked at him as the sunlight came in angled ribbons through her bedroom window. She reached up and trailed a path over his strong, stubbled jaw. When she reached his mouth, she traced his bottom lip with her thumb.
"Say my name. Won't you?" she heard herself whisper.
"What?"
"Say my name," she said.
He looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. "You're crazy," he scoffed with a smile.
"Maybe. Come on, say it." She leaned down and kissed him once, twice. She smiled, enjoying the smacking sounds they made with each comfortable kiss. "Say it."
He looked at her, trying not to smirk. "Naw, what are you playin' at?"
"Just say it!" she smiled.
He lifted his head up on the pillow and looked into her green eyes. He felt her breath on his top lip, her mouth hovering just above his. "Eliza."
She kissed him more passionately and felt him breathe deeply. She kissed his neck, and he chuckled.
"You goin' for number three?"
She smiled and continued kissing him, working her way down his chest. Seeing his eyes close, she traveled down his torso to his lower abdomen and ventured further still.
"No, don't do that, no. Come on," she heard him say abruptly in a coarse tone as he sat up and looked at her, propping himself up on his elbow.
"Why not?"
"Because you're not a tart. Come on." He took her hand and pulled her up beside him, lying back down.
She tried to see the inadvertent compliment, but even so felt her face go warm. Even after six years of no longer being a teenager, six years of mothering their son on her own, he still had the ability to make her feel like a child.
With him on his back, she lied on her side, bringing her hands under the pillow and looking at him. She watched him bring his thumb and forefinger to his eyelids and draw them together at the bridge of his nose.
She kept herself from reaching out and touching the crows' feet and the various rough-hewn crags in his face, put there by years of weather and hard living—even at his young age of thirty. Many times she had tried to imagine him in his many different lives that she knew nothing about, that he refused to tell her about. She wondered what these lives meant for how he felt about her, or if they meant he felt nothing for her at all. He was more or less a sealed vault when it came to matters of the heart. At least with her. At least up til now.
"Was she very beautiful?" she asked.
"Who, the tart?" he chuckled. "Not remotely."
"Mary."
She caught him flinch slightly at the name. He stared up at the raw wood boards in the ceiling and sighed. "Yes, very beautiful. But we were also very young. I couldn't tell you whether time has been kind to her."
"When was the last you saw her?"
"Oh, it's been…going on thirteen, fourteen years now." He turned to her, his expression annoyed. "Did you read my journal?"
The question was a subtle jab, but a sharp and effective one. They both knew how many times she'd asked him to share something—anything—from his journal with her. She'd never stolen it and pried, but she'd asked. She couldn't help it. God only knew how many times she'd looked up at the stars when he'd been away and wondered where he could be, what he was doing, and what it was that could possibly take him away from their son and so far from her door. All she'd wanted was a chance to see into his world, to peek into his mind and heart—since there seemed to be no other way inside. Apparently Mary had not only found her way inside, but between the pages.
"'Course not," she said. "No need. You told me about her."
He searched her eyes for a moment, then his face relaxed with understanding. He turned to face the ceiling again. "I really don't wanna talk about Mary."
"I only have one question."
"What's that," he said sitting up with his back against the headrest.
"Do you see her when you make love to me?"
He took time to consider his answer, and it was several seconds before he finally responded. He looked down at his hands and raised his eyebrows. "Didn't realize I was making love to you."
She shifted to lie on her back and tried unsuccessfully to shore up the tears. She swallowed. "You're a cruel man, Arthur Morgan. Crueler and crueler all the time."
"Eliza…" he drawled. "I—forgive me, I… Look, Mary is not the reason I'm here, believe me."
"Then what is?"
"What?"
"The real reason you're here?"
They locked eyes, and he was tongue-tied for a moment. "That boy, I reckon."
At the response, she let a spiteful thought pass fleetingly through her mind—the reality that she knew their son better than he did. She nodded. "You never answered my question," she said, knowing he would be brought back to the one thing she'd asked that he had dodged.
He looked away. "Probably because I ain't rightly sure of the answer myself." He sighed, and his voice was deep and quiet when he said, "I reckon the cords of love are nigh impossible to break. You shouldn't expect yourself to be able to, Eliza."
"I don't," she said. "Maybe I only learned you could love a woman last night, when you whispered another woman's name in your sleep after havin' me."
She sat up and leaned away, hunching over as she brought the sheet up over her chest. She was suddenly completely disinterested in being near him, much less being exposed to him.
He got up and began to dress. "You know, I gotta go into town for a few things. It might take a while, but I should be here for supper. Think you'll be all right 'til I get back?"
"I always am," she said, not looking at him.
When Arthur returned at suppertime, Eliza was just about to dish out the meal.
"Arthur!" Isaac said as Eliza set his plate in front of him. "I thought you'd be here when I got home…but you weren't. I was scared you left for good again."
"Naw, 'course not. Never for good. Just had to pick up a few things." When Eliza came over he nodded and said, "Howdy."
She didn't respond and passed him his plate, and Arthur was keenly aware that she did so without touching or looking at him. He took the plate and thanked her as she turned. He watched her as she prepared her own plate and sat across from them.
"Mama said you went to catch something," Isaac said. "What'd you get?"
"Just a buck, couple rabbits," Arthur said as he took a bite. He watched Eliza as she ate, never once looking at him. He decided to try something. "Pass the cornbread?" he said.
She passed it to him, making sure to grip the pan on the far side so they'd never brush fingers—just as he'd thought. He sat back and sighed, clearing his throat. "Thank ya."
After supper, Isaac took Arthur to the sofa and asked him to read a passage from Treasure Island to him. He ran to his room for the book and came and put it in his hands.
"Do you do voices?" Isaac asked, sitting next to him.
"Sure," Arthur chuckled. "I can if you like."
"Mama always does voices for me," he said, coming close when Arthur opened the book.
Arthur peered up at Eliza, who was busying herself in the kitchen. "I don't, uh…I don't think I'm in your mother's good graces at the moment," he said quietly.
Isaac followed his gaze to his mother. "No, it's just 'cause she loves you," he said, turning back to him.
"What?" Arthur looked down at him.
"You know, sorta like…when I go where she can't see me after she told me not to, or…if I get too close to the stove. She gets mad, but then it's okay because she says it's because she loves me."
"Hm. I'm not sure it's the same."
"Sure it is. I know my mama. She only gets mad at you if she loves you."
Arthur glanced in Eliza's direction, then looked away. "So, uh…you ready to hear a couple pages out of your story? What's this one about, anyway?"
Isaac smiled. "Pirates!" he said, covering one eye. "And buried treasure!"
"Oh, our favorite kind!" Arthur propped the open book up while Isaac rested his chin in his hand.
Arthur read him a couple chapters; and when Isaac fell asleep, he carried him to his bed. When he returned, Eliza had finished in the kitchen and was heading to her room.
Arthur moved to follow her but had to quickly stop short when Eliza shut the door behind her, leaving him alone in the quiet.
He sighed and scratched his head, preparing to make his bed on the sofa.
.
"You know how to make me weak in the knees
when you pour yourself all over me,
but somebody broke you back in the day.
Now you never ever love.
Now you only wanna play.
There's a big old hole in the middle of you
'cause somebody left you black and blue.
Yeah we all make promises we can't keep,
and they're paper thin but cut so deep.
I cry when you do, I cry when you don't.
Why won't you tell me what, what you want with me?
One day we're together, then we're apart.
Why won't you let me fill up your empty heart?"
- Grace Potter, "Empty Heart"