Evelyn is trying to learn to be patient, to wait for things to develop at a pace that Mick, too, will be comfortable with. Not with Haste, as the beautiful song by Mumford & Sons puts it.
Your eyes they tie me down so hard
I'll never learn to put up a guard
So keep my love, my candle bright
Learn me hard, oh learn me right
This ain't no sham
I am what I am
Though I may speak some tongue of old
Or even spit out some holy word
I have no strength from which to speak
When you sit me down, and see I'm weak
We will run and scream
You will dance with me
They'll fulfill our dreams and we'll be free
And we will be who we are
And they'll heal our scars
Sadness will be far away
So as we walked through fields of green
Was the fairest sun I'd ever seen
And I was broke, I was on my knees
And you said yes as I said please
This ain't no sham
I am what I am
I leave no time
For a cynic's mind
We will run and scream
You will dance with me
Fulfill our dreams and we'll be free
We will be who we are
And they'll heal our scars
Sadness will be far away
Do not let my fickle flesh go to waste
As it keeps my heart and soul in its place
And I will love with urgency but not with haste
We didn't mention the incident again during the following days. What slight friction remained between us slowly abated as we went about our little daily rituals as usual. I got on well with preparing my first lectures, and we took advantage of the beautiful autumn weather and spent as much time outside as we could.
Mick needed those breaths of fresh air almost as much as he needed food and drink. Whenever he was forced to stay inside because the weather was bad, he grew grouchy and morose, whereas nothing served to brighten his mood like one of those perfect days when autumn feels like an extended summer enhanced by splendidly coloured foliage. And if he ever allowed me to catch a tiny glimpse of what was going on behind that high forehead of his, it was on a walk in the park or along the beach.
As we strolled through the botanical gardens once again on a particularly mild early-April afternoon, he was exceptionally talkative, telling me a few adventurous tales about his seafaring days with just the smallest tinge of regret that they were over.
Outside the exit of the gardens, an old man was playing a plangent Irish ballad on his fiddle.
When we passed him, Mick said, "Funny, it feels like I've seen him before. There was an old man just like him, in the same spot, playing a song just like this one, when I first came here back in '38."
"You've been in Sydney before?" I was surprised, although I knew that he'd been virtually all around the globe.
"Yup. In fact, I spent almost two months here. Took a little time-out from the shipping and waited for my shoulder to mend." At my questioning look, he explained, "Well, I suppose I've never told you about that. There was a time when I was running a bit wild, and, inevitably, I got hurt one day. Separated my shoulder in a drunken brawl on deck." He grinned a little sheepishly.
I tried to imagine him as a young sailor, drinking hard and acting out, but failed. Yet another facet of his personality, another part of his life that I knew nothing of.
I wondered if the fight had been about a woman. He never spoke of previous relationships, but although I somehow doubted that he had been the kind to have a girl in every port, surely there must have been someone in his life before me.
By now, I knew better than to pry, hoping that he would tell me when he felt the time was right.
Instead, I asked some innocuous questions about that first stay in Sydney, and he related that it had been in a bar by the harbour that he'd met the man who had finally taken him to the Trobriands.
"Isn't it amazing how things come full circle sometimes?" I said. "And just imagine, I might have walked past you somewhere downtown without knowing."
"Maybe. But you don't recall a long-haired sailor with his arm in a sling, do you?" He laughed. "Anyway, what's more important is that you're here with me now." He stopped to kiss me.
We decided to eat out that night, at the pub we frequented regularly after a day out. It was a pleasantly shabby little place not far from my apartment. Tony, the potbellied owner, knew us by now and beamed at us when we came in, gesturing at Mick's favourite table by the window.
With the crutches deposited inconspicuously in the corner, half hidden by the green curtains, his tanned arms peeking out of rolled-up shirtsleeves and an animated sparkle in his eyes from a fine day in the Gardens, he looked very much his old self, and my heart swelled with happiness that he seemed to be making good progress out of his dark valley at long last.
We had a few pints along with a hearty meal and walked the short distance home rather late, in high spirits, me a little tipsy, too.
Mick yawned as I unlocked the front door. "It's been a fantastic day, but I'm pretty knackered. I'm going to bed, if you don't mind."
I didn't mind at all. I wasn't used to drinking so much and felt pleasantly drowsy myself.
While he went to the bathroom to get ready for bed, I opened the windows in the bedroom and in my study to let some fresh air circulate through the hot and muggy apartment.
I had made a habit of reading a few pages in my study while Mick was going about his evening routine and was leafing idly through some anthropology journals when a loud thunderclap made me jump.
There had been some faint rumbling in the distance for a while, which I had ignored, but now the tree outside my window swayed with a sudden gale as a dazzling fork of lightning split the skies, and no two minutes later, a heavy curtain of rain all but obscured the tree from view. I jumped up to shut the window and hurried over into the bedroom to do the same there.
I froze the moment I flung open the door.
Mick was sitting on the edge of the bed with only his undies on.
The second he noticed me, he hastily threw the shirt he'd just taken off over his lap.
It saddened me that he still felt the need to cover himself up when I was around. How long did he want to go on hiding his leg from me?
Without a word, I strode over to close the window, then went back to the other side of the bed to sit next to him.
I felt him stiffen as I laid my hand on his right leg, just below the hip.
"Don't you think it's time I saw it?" I asked calmly.
He didn't answer, but his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
"I know how you feel about it, but you can't keep it from me forever. And don't think I can't stomach looking. I can stomach quite a lot of things, and probably it's not half as bad as you think it is."
He pursed his lips, scrunching the hem of the shirt between his fingers. "It's not … disgusting or revolting or anything", he finally said. "What's bad about it is not what's there but what's … missing." He paused and took a deep breath. "But I guess you're right and there's no harm in looking. You already know you've hitched up with half a man, so …"
"Don't give me that rubbish again", I said rather brusquely and went on a little softer, "Whatever it looks like, it won't make me love you any less. I love this …" - I brushed the scar through his eyebrow – "… and this …" – I kissed the one above his mouth – "and this one, too." I touched the cut in his side. "It's all part of who you are. So what makes you think I won't love this?" My hand returned to the top of his thigh, feeling the warmth of his skin through the lightweight cotton of the shirt.
He hesitated, and despite what he'd said earlier, I suddenly had some very vivid images of horribly mauled flesh in my mind, of ragged wounds and burned skin.
When he lifted the shirt to reveal what was left of his right leg, I was almost relieved to see that it looked perfectly normal except for the fact that it ended bluntly mid-thigh. The sight was disturbing, but not because it was gross or repulsive but because I had known this limb when it was still whole, when he had used it, unthinkingly, as he walked and ran and swam and dived and carried heavy loads from the supply ship.
I could still see him in my mind's eye, carelessly balancing a crate or bundle on one shoulder, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Sitting cross-legged in the sand with a quiet, pensive expression on his face, opening a pearl shell. Scratching his knee unconsciously, as he often did. Teaching me to dance.
I swallowed hard as I surveyed the long scar across the stump that had already begun to fade to a pale pink line, while another, newer, shorter incision that ran parallel to it was still quite red. That must be from the second surgery he had briefly mentioned back at my hotel room in Cleveland.
It had come as a bit of a shock after all to actually see it, but I did not avert my eyes nor said a word while I was taking in this painful souvenir of a battle I knew nothing about.
He had never elaborated on how it had happened. Some grenade or mine exploding too close to him, I supposed, ripping skin and bones and muscle to irreparable shreds so that the surgeon at the field hospital or wherever they had taken him would have had no choice but to make a clean cut and remove it all to maintain a chance at survival.
The thought of my beloved beautiful man lying helpless, torn and bleeding in the dust of some foreign battlefield made me almost sick, and I guess I must have cringed in spite of myself, for he said quietly, "You don't need to stare at it forever. I know it takes some getting used to. Sometimes I doubt I ever will."
I reached out and laid my hand on his bare thigh with cautious determination, watching his face, somewhat guardedly.
He appeared quite calm and a little resigned. His usual defensive posture was gone.
I went on to run my fingertip along the bigger scar, very lightly.
His smile was a tad shaky as I searched his face again, but when I asked wordlessly for permission, he let me cup my fingers around the scarred flesh and put his large hand over mine in affirmation.
"Will you tell me now how you … got that?"
He gave me a matter-of-fact, laconic account of how he had stopped an enemy bullet as he tried to carry a wounded comrade to safety and how things had appeared rather harmless at first.
"Doc said I'd been lucky. It went cleanly through the muscle just above the knee, didn't even wreck the joint. Should have healed without leaving much of a trace, nothing worse than a little limp at first and later just a bit of an ache when the weather changed. And then I got that stupid infection." He gave a little weary shrug. "It began to hurt like hell again when I'd been in the hospital for a couple of weeks, and it started swelling up real bad. At some point it all became too much and I simply passed out. When I woke up, they told me they were awfully sorry but they'd had to … take it off when my fever wouldn't go down for too long, otherwise I'd have kicked the bucket." He shrugged again. "Most of the time, I couldn't help thinking I'd have preferred the latter option."
I shuddered at the notion, but of course it was what he would have felt.
How utterly ironic to get away with minor wounding in combat only to lose the leg to an infection contracted at the hospital.
What a nightmarish awakening, coming around to the shattering realization that his life would never, never be the same again.
"I'm glad you didn't … kick the bucket", I said in a quavering tone.
"Me too … now." He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "I may still be missing that leg, but at least I'm not missing you any more."
I smiled, leaning my head against his shoulder for a silent minute before I slowly said, "This may be an awkward question, and I'm sorry if it is a dumb thing to ask, but why didn't they give you a … a wooden leg or something to … compensate the … the loss?"
"Oh, they did. I was just getting good with it when I started having this horrible pain whenever I put a bit of weight on the … on it. They found a small bone splinter was the culprit and removed it – that was the additional operation I told you about. I was supposed to take up rehab measures again after it had healed, at some specialized amputee centre they'd set up stateside, somewhere close to the army base where I was scheduled to work. You know I should have shipped out soon after your lecture, but of course I asked to be discharged instead. They didn't quite get why I should pass up the chance at excellent treatment and a secure job, but I told them I had my reasons and I could always see some specialist over here privately. After you'd insisted so much on having me stay with you, I wasn't gonna go away again, and to hell with the army."
"Did you?" I asked curiously.
"What?"
"See someone. You never said anything …"
"While I was still at Mrs. Cunningham's, I got an appointment with some specialist in Brisbane who was allegedly the best in his field, but he really did nothing to help me. He didn't give me any hope, said that I'd better make my peace with the crutches, for I was going to need them for the rest of my life. I don't remember the reasons he gave in his fancy doctor speak, but I did get the message that apparently no more than twenty-five per cent of people who lose a leg above the knee ever learn to walk properly with an artificial limb at all, and only if they begin training very quickly after surgery, not as late as I did. He basically told me it wasn't even worth trying in my case. That's why I never mentioned it."
"Why do you heed such pessimist crap?" I demanded heatedly. "Why didn't he just tell you to give it a go? I'm sure there must be a way to …"
"I don't know. Maybe. But let's not discuss that now, love." He squeezed my shoulder and suppressed a yawn. "I'm really dog tired, and I'd rather turn in now."
I wanted to protest but thought better of it. He had already shared a lot more with me tonight than I would have hoped for.
When I returned from a trip to the bathroom, he had gone to bed and switched off the light, but a belated flash of lightning illuminated the room as I slipped between the sheets.
With an affectionate glance at his beautiful profile, I lay down to curl up into my usual sleeping position. I knew he was not sleeping yet despite his closed eyes and regular breathing, but I sensed he wouldn't want to talk any more tonight. It must have been an immense effort for him to speak so frankly of so many things we had never touched upon before.
All the bigger was my surprise when I felt him stir and, for the first time, reach out to pull me over to his side of the bed.
I fell asleep with his arm around me, moulded against his body, and when I awoke in the hazy morning light, he was still lying right beside me, propped up on one elbow to bend over me, stroking my bare shoulder.
I smiled lazily and gave a little purr of pleasure, turning my face up towards him with my eyes still closed.
"Oh, someone's awake there", he whispered in a gravelly voice that sent a delightful shiver down my back. His long eyelashes tickled my cheek as he leaned in for a good-morning peck on the cheek and laid a path of fluttery little kisses down my chin and throat, stopping at the lace-trimmed neckline of my nightie.
Warm excitement prickled through me. I ran my fingers through his thick hair, playfully tilted his face back up to mine and wrapped my arms around his neck, our mouths melting in a long fervent kiss.
Shifting his weight to get even closer, he lost his balance and tumbled on top of me, apologizing self-consciously.
I laughed his concern away. "Don't worry. I don't get crushed that easily. Actually, I quite like this." I followed the curves of his pectorals with my index finger, circled his nipples, my teeth playfully nipping at one of them.
The particular scent of him was still there, unchanged, and I inhaled it deeply.
And could there really be a faint taste of salt on my lips or was that an illusion?
He plucked at a strap of my ivory chemise, wanting to get me out of it, and chuckled to himself when he realized he'd have to roll off me first, which did the next instant. Unhurriedly, he peeled the thin garment away from me, tossed it aside, then lay back on his elbow to study me.
His hand made its tender way from my shoulder to my wrist and back up along the sensitive inside of my arm before it settled on my breast, a thumb flicking lightly at the nipple.
"You're so incredibly beautiful", he said in a low husky voice.
"So are you, Mick. My love. So are you."
The look in his eyes told me that, for once, he believed me. There was nothing of the wariness that so often crept into his gaze, always ready to detect a well-meant lie or a hollowly cheery phrase, or of the regretful poignancy his eyes had never entirely lost since that day on the platform.
There was only love, and something I had not seen in him since the one night of passion we had shared in the radio hut.
Desire.
His mouth came down on mine for another hungry kiss, and as he pressed himself tightly against me, I felt the push of something solid further down. I knew even before he paused to take off his pajama bottoms that, this time, the signals his body was sending were not false.
We took our sweet time to explore and rediscover each other's bodies fully, dropping out of measurable time, gladly pushing life's cares and woes aside to live in this very moment.
I could not have said if it was minutes or hours or half a day we spent between the sheets, or sometimes on top of them.
All there was for me, all that counted, was Mick.
His eyes of ever-changing green, the straight long ridge of his nose, his smooth bronzed skin, the drift of fine dark hair on his chest.
The sensual curve of his mouth, his lips on mine, now soft and subtle, now demanding and greedy.
His beautiful hands, strong yet sensitive, long slender fingers that knew precisely where to touch, to tease, to tickle and caress, wandering deftly, tenderly all over my body until I squirmed with pent-up craving.
My nails clawing into his firmly rounded backside as the tension mounted and I guided him into my innermost core, his excited breath in my ear as we settled into a rhythm, moving in harmonious unison towards a climax that rippled through me from head to toe in sweeping waves and made me cry out inarticulately.
His head of unruly black wavelets, heavy on my chest after he, too, had reached the peak of passion with a small blissful moan and a tremendous shudder running through his body.
Now he lay very still beside me, chest heaving, heart pounding, a languorous smile setting his face aglow.
"So I guess I was wrong", he said after a while.
I frowned at him questioningly.
"When I said I couldn't do this any more." He placed a lazy kiss on my forehead. "You've just proved me wrong in the most amazing way."
"My pleasure, Mister." I smiled gleefully to myself. "I'd be only too happy to prove you wrong again."
"I'm afraid you'll have to", he said with a wicked little-boy grin. "Later, that is. For now, you've quite worn me out, weak old cripple that I am."
Normally, I'd have protested against his choice of words, but for the first time, I didn't mind his sarcastic brand of self-deprecation – because, for the first time, there was no bitterness in his words, only a hint of his wry dark humour.
"I'd rather say you've worn me out, Mr. Carpenter", I said instead, snuggling up to him, my head coming to rest in the crook of his arm, just the way we had lain what seemed like half a life ago, in a rough palm-leaf hut in a tropical island, a crackling radio in the corner and the vague menace of Japanese ships in the distance.
Finally, against all odds, we had come full circle from there.