Margreete's Harbor by Eleanor Morse

Author:Eleanor Morse
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

37

Liddie looked out the kitchen window as Harry was shoveling dirt into the hole and felt a wave of affection for him. Her last student had left, and she wanted to join him out there, but if she went, Gretchen might get involved, and she was already too focused on death as it was. In the twilight, Liddie could just make out his outline with the spade. Harry was squeamish about dead things, and he would have had to force himself to pick up Romeo. He hadn’t ever wanted a cat, and he hadn’t wanted to live here. She worried that he didn’t complain enough. Sometimes she wished he’d swear more, maybe even throw a cup of coffee across the room. She felt things simmering in him. People got cancer like that. And heart attacks. Or both.

She remembered when they’d first known each other. An evening in Boston. A sudden rainstorm. She was wearing a light summer dress; Harry was wearing his basketball sneakers. Black high-tops. One of his shoes was coming apart at the sole, and with every step it made a flapping sound. And then Harry’s other shoe started flapping. When the deluge came, they made a run for a movie theater, and Harry flapped furiously, and Liddie laughed so hard, she wet herself and had to wash her legs in a puddle and step out of her underwear and throw it into a bin on the street. They held hands and ran like crazy, laughing, splashing through the streets. Water dropped from the end of Harry’s nose, from his eyelashes. He picked her up and twirled her around under a streetlight and the rain whirled off her hair into her eyes. They never made it to the theater, and by the time they turned the key in the door to her apartment, she was so wet, her dress clung to her like the skin of a seal. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her nipples pointed through the thin cotton. Her roommates weren’t home, and she slammed the door shut with her foot at the same time that she peeled off her dress and flung her sandals from her. And then she helped Harry rid himself of his floppy shoes and his wet socks, which she wrung out into a houseplant, and, hardly breathing, she unbuttoned his shirt and unzipped his pants and pulled them from his legs. She was shaking with lust, her teeth chattering, and her knees trembled all the way to her chest and into her throat. She was a virgin when the rain began, and when it stopped, she wasn’t. There was wind that night, a howling summer wind, and the lights went out. Up and down the street, every house was dark, and things went quiet with the darkness. She took it as a sign of something, an electricity between them so potent that they blew fuses all over the neighborhood.

Virginity had never mattered all that much to her; what mattered was

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