Aama in America by Broughton Coburn

Author:Broughton Coburn [Coburn, Broughton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-78783-5
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2011-03-09T05:00:00+00:00

The next morning I awoke feeling bedraggled, but randy. Didi roused, and we gazed from the daylight basement at the warehouses that crowded the view of the San Francisco skyline. Aama would have arisen by now from her sleeping nook around the corner from us, I tried to think intelligibly, and she should be puttering about as usual. We heard nothing; the excitement of the night before must have pooped her out, and she was sleeping in. Didi and I lay on our backs enjoying the privacy and quiet and responsible feeling of being parents as much as lovers, during the few moments before the details of life would slap us more fully awake. Didi replayed Fred’s rubberized face as he imitated the antics of the villagers, foreign tourists, and government officials he had done character studies of, and Aama’s imitation of His Rotund Fredness attempting to mime a thin porter walking up the trail. Simply hunching lower and sucking in his cheeks wasn’t quite enough to elicit one.

I felt a surge of desire, heightened by accumulated frustration. Softly I bit Didi on the shoulder. She said that her back was hurting, then rolled to her side. Slipping the covers to our waists, I kneaded my knuckles into her lower back and methodically walked them up her spine. The dimples above both buttocks were open like the still eyes of a wild feline. She sighed quietly, tired and not yet ready for the day. I flared my hands and gently worked them around her shoulders before lightly brushing them across the bulk of a breast and downward over the exaggerated mound of her hips. Mornings, her muscles were tight, and I gave them time to loosen. Ponderously her figure, and her reticence, softened and warmed into fluidity the way modeling clay does with kneading. She turned toward me, and we fell like worn puzzle pieces into each other’s arms and legs. “Yoga means union,” I murmured to her obscurely in the accent of an Indian pundit.

“Aama is still asleep—can we do this quietly?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. Can you?”

The folding bed was still on the castors that I had meant to retract in order to anchor it. The bed began to shuttle back and forth, banging into the basement wall’s wood paneling. For lack of other tools, I used my hand as a bumper between the aluminum frame and the wall, which interfered annoyingly with an otherwise pleasant sensation. The springs squeaked and squawked, the frame groaned and the wheels rumbled. We were waking up.

Aama stirred. I tried to hurry up. Noiselessly she padded out from her nook wearing the attire she had slept in, her petticoat and the Tom and Jerry T-shirt that she selected herself from the clothes we had offered her.

“Kray-kray-kray,” she chanted softly, as if calling something. “Kray-kray-kray. Where are you? Come on out, you must be hungry.” Didi and I froze. Aama apparently didn’t see us beneath our mountain range of sheets and quilts and pillows, but she targeted the sound as coming from beneath us.

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