Hard Limits Page 6

  I had just finished a chapter of Sappho’s Revenge when a message from Skyler appeared in my email. The subject line was “Change in Plans”. I felt my stomach go hollow. Something had come up at the last minute, Skyler wrote, and would I mind terribly delaying my visit? She didn’t give a reason. She didn’t set another date. I wondered what had changed. I wondered who she’d be spending her birthday with. I wondered why it wouldn’t be me.

  I told her to enjoy her day and to let me know when she was free to see me again. I tried to work on my novel but I couldn’t concentrate. I looked through my wallet. There was a folded-up cocktail napkin in the liner. I opened it and saw a scribbled phone number next to an alcohol-smeared heart and a barely legible signature: Autumn. I crumpled and trash-tossed it. I found the other number.

  Wynonna was surprised to hear from me but sounded pleased. We made plans for Friday night. I suggested Les Deux Magots, my first-date restaurant, white linen but not pretentious. She countered with dinner at her house. I thought I knew what that meant. The Millennials say, ‘Netflix and chill.’ With Gen-X it’s ‘dinner at my house’.

  Fine. I hadn’t had sex with another woman since I’d met Skyler. Maybe Skyler had, maybe she hadn’t. I hadn’t asked. Maybe that was a mistake, not asking. Maybe it was a mistake getting involved with her. Maybe all of it had been a mistake.

  Wynonna. Like Judd. Friday.

  Friday evening, I checked my email before I left for the address Wynonna had given me over the phone. I hadn’t heard anything more from Skyler. Ghosting, they call it.

  Wynonna lived in her grandfather’s farmhouse at the northernmost edge of Hemphill County. She looked different outside of the shooting range, more mature, less wild. Or maybe it was the bib apron over her jeans and T-shirt. I’d brought a bottle of California Cabernet and a bouquet of summer flowers. She thanked me, smelled the daisies and carnations before putting them in a porcelain vase. Uncorking the wine, she started to pour us both a glass before I could tell her I didn’t drink. She offered me sweet tea. Lemonade? Coke? I asked for water, bottled if she had it. She didn’t.

  “Tap is okay,” I said, “with ice.”

  “It’s well water,” Wynonna told me.

  “That’s fine,” I said.

  “Dinner is just about ready. I’m fixin’ corn on the cob, collard greens, and barbecued ribs.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Vinegar or ketchup? Umm, you seem like a vinegar girl.”

  “Hell yeah,” she said. “It’s a sin to put ketchup on a pig.”

  “So,” I said, sipping my water. “Deputy Sheriff.”

  She gave me an amused look, as if she’d been expecting this.

  “Yep.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  She paused, suddenly more serious.

  “I thought I’d go into nursing,” she said. “My first semester at college I was a Nursing Major.”

  “Sensible,” I said.

  “I would have been a good nurse. But then something happened that changed my life.”

  She was silent.

  “What happened?” I asked, gently.

  “I got raped.”

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, it was date rape, at a frat house. One of those situations you get yourself into when you’re drinking and not being too smart.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault,” I told her. “Rape is never justified.”

  “Oh, I know that. Now. I know it now. At the time I thought I was to blame. At least partly.”

  “But you weren’t,” I assured her. “Did you press charges?”

  “No. I just wanted it to go away. I wanted to pretend it never happened.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, does it?”

  “No,” Wynonna said. “It doesn’t. So, I did what we tell rape victims to do, I got counseling.”

  “Did that help?”

  “It did. I took a semester off and when I came back I changed my major to Criminal Justice. The department’s motto was ‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.’ It sounds pretty corny but that’s what I came to believe.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “And the good that came out of it is that Hemphill County has got itself a kick-ass woman Deputy Sheriff now.”

  “That it has,” I said.

  She turned back to the pot of greens on the stove, removing the lid and stirring.

  I didn’t know what else to say. Too much emotion makes me uncomfortable. I wandered into the dining room where a wood-and-glass display case hung on the wall, filled with antique memorabilia. She watched me.

  “Granddad’s,” she said.

  “Son of the Confederacy,” I said, referring to the blazer patch with the Confederate flag.

  “Yeah, granddad was a proud Son. A lot of folks stayed out of the War entirely but the Fletchers served. Where are you from?”

  “California, originally. Los Angeles. Born, bred, and fled. I spent a lot of years in the Bay Area.”

  “I thought you didn’t sound like you were from around here,” Wynonna commented.

  “My people are. On my mother’s side. I never knew my father.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No need. Probably just as well, from what I heard. My mother wasn’t much of a fan.”

  Wynonna considered this, started to say something, then said something else.

  “What was she like?”

  “My mother? I don’t really know. I only saw her occasionally, for visitation. I grew up in foster care.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It was.”

  “Is that why you moved to North Carolina? To take care of your mother in her old age?”

  “Oh God, no. She died before I moved here. She disowned me when I was twelve. Her lawyer had a hard time finding me, in fact, but he finally did. Thanks to the Internet you can find anybody anymore.”

  “Her lawyer?”

  “Yeah, the estate lawyer. She’d actually made a little money in B-movies while she was in Hollywood. I inherited her estate because she died without a will. That included a condo in ‘trendy downtown Altamont.’ When I flew out to sign the papers, I had a look around the area and decided I liked what I saw. I hadn’t known that Altamont was the lesbian capital of the South.”

  “Is it?” she asked.

  “Per capita, yeah that’s what they say. More lesbians per square mile than anyplace else in Dixie.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Now you do.”

  She cocked her head to look at me.

  “I don’t see you as a ‘trendy downtown Altamont’ type.”

  “Oh, I’m not. I sold the condo and bought a cabin in the mountains.”

  Wynonna reflected for a moment.

  “So, are you telling me that you’re filthy rich?”

  “Not rich. Just comfortable,” I commented.

  She considered this.

  “Good for you,” she said finally. She seemed to mean it.

  “Although it was an adjustment, being comfortable. I wasn’t used to the money.”

  “Not a bad problem to have, though.”

  “Oh, not a problem at all. I had another adjustment to make. I had seriously underestimated the cultural differences here. It took me awhile to get used to being in the South.”

  “I’m sure,” she said.

  “For instance, when I was looking for land I told my realtor I’d seen some bargain prices in Jefferson County.”

  She laughed.

  “Oh, you get it, huh? I didn’t. He laughed, too. He said, ‘You don’t want to live in Jefferson County.’”

  “No, you don’t,” Wynonna agreed.

  “Yeah, I hear it’s a big racist stronghold. And you know how those boys feel about queers.”

  “I do. And you heard right. The White Resistance’s got 125 acres up there. They call it The Compound. Officially it’s owned by CS
A Imports, a shell company to cover their illegal goings-on. They’ve been at it for a while. The White Resistance got started back in the 1960s in the California prison system as a way to protect white inmates from other gangs of African-Americans and Hispanics. It took The Resistance leadership about a decade to figure out that they could benefit by cooperating with their incarcerated brown brothers. That’s how they got in with the Mexican drug cartels. Then it was weed, speed and smack, and firearms came along for the ride, and then the rest just followed. Murder-for-hire, armed robbery, sex trafficking, prostitution, identity theft, counterfeiting: pretty much you name it, they did it. They do it.”

  “Wow,” I said. “You really know your crime. I guess that’s why my realtor wouldn’t show me those properties. How I ended up in Hemphill County.”

  “Smart man,” she said.

  Looking again at the display case, I changed the subject.

  “Speaking of white power,” I said, “So. Here we have a Son of the Confederacy patch, a ten-dollar Dixie issued by the Confederate State of North Carolina, a certificate of baptism from First Baptist Church, and a Robeson Shuredge razor.”

  “I know it’s hard for a Yankee to understand. This is something to remember him by. My grandfather was not a racist. He was a good man.”

  “My ancestors were Rebels,” I said. “I probably understand more than you think.”

  Wandering back into the kitchen, I turned my attention to the photographs on her refrigerator of four redheads with green eyes.

  “And these are?”

  “That’s me, my sister Ellen, my brother Luke, and mama,” Wynonna said proudly.

  “And where’s daddy?”

  “Out of the picture,”’ she said.

  “Literally?”

  “They’re divorced. Mama’s living in Dallas with her new husband. Ellen’s married with two little girls. They’re in Charlotte. And Luke is stationed in Afghanistan.”

  “Are you close to any of them?”

  “I’m close to all of them. Even daddy. He’s got a new wife. They’re in Sarasota.”

  “You’re lucky,” I said.

  There was a photo of Wynonna on her red Sportster, another with a group of Levi and Leathered women riders.

  “My club,” she said. “Tar Heels on Wheels.”

  “Wow,” I said. “The girl of my dreams.”

  I hadn’t meant to say this last part; it just came out. I watched her blush.

  She was a good cook, too. I ate everything and asked for a second helping. After dinner, I helped her clear the table. She didn’t have a dishwasher, never put one in, so she filled both sinks with hot water, one soapy, one clear. I grabbed a towel and dried. We talked about our ancestors landing in Philadelphia, fresh off the boat from Europe, and how they made their way down the Great Wagon Trail to the mountains of North Carolina. It took the Blue Ridge to stop them, the Fletchers and the Thompsons and the rest of the Scots-Irish who emigrated in the eighteenth century. It took a mountain range as old as the earth itself.

  While I was putting up the last of the clean dishes, she poured another glassful of wine. She watched me, sipping, looking me and up down.

  “You’re very sexy,” Wynonna said casually.

  “Thank you.”

  “Not to be rude but, how old are you?”

  I had to suppress a smile.

  “I turned sixty-two last April.”

  This stopped her short. I watched her expression change.

  “Sixty-two,” she repeated. “You look younger.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “Sixty-two. Damn.”

  “How old are you? Not to be rude.”

  “Forty-two,” she answered. “And sixty-two. That’s two decades.”

  “It is,” I said.

  “Twenty years.”

  “Do you want me to leave now?”

  “No, no, it’s just that, well, two decades.” She studied me.

  “Listen, if my age is a problem for you, we can stop right now.”

  She looked at me, her eyes a mess of conflicted emotions. Then they settled on one I recognized. She stepped forward and took my hand, leading me to the bedroom. It had been awhile since I allowed a woman to undress me. She pulled my shirt over my head, ripped my belt out of its loops, unbuttoned my 501s. I was thinking it’s true what they say - age is just a number. At least sometimes, when the lights are low and desire has entered the room. As she was pulling off my jeans, she noticed the nine-millimeter crater of mottled skin on my left calf.

  “What happened here?”

  “Yeah that,” I said. “That is why I carry a revolver now and not a semi-automatic. I shot myself while I was cleaning my gun.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did. The bullet in the chamber. Famous last words.”

  Wynonna’s fingers traced my other scar, the one that’s more obvious, the one below my right cheekbone.

  “And this?”

  “That,” I said. “Reformatory. You’d be surprised what those girls can do with a shanked-out toothbrush.”

  “Reformatory, huh. Do I want to know what you did?”

  “No,” I said. “You don’t. Kelly Thompson did it, not me.”

  “Who’s Kelly Thompson?” she asked.

  “Nobody you need to know.”

  She looked puzzled for a moment, then she let it go.

  “Poor baby,” she said.

  She pushed me down on the bed and was suddenly on top of me, leaning in for a kiss. I did a quick half sit-up and grabbed her shoulders, flipped her over onto her back. I climbed on top, straddled her and just sat there for a moment. Then I leaned down, took her arms and pinned them over her head, wrist on wrist. I looked into her eyes.

  “I don’t do that,” I explained. “I’m always on top.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

  I released her arms and let my fingertips slide down her neck, circle one breast then the other, down to her belly button, and into her nest of pubic hair.

  “And while we’re talking about sex, I don’t do oral unless you shave.”

  “Oh,” she said again.

  I stopped.

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  In the dining room, I opened the glass door of her grandfather’s case and removed the Robeson. It was heavier than I would have expected. The piece felt solid in my hand, unlike the razors today. In Wyn’s bathroom I found everything I needed: manicure scissors, rubbing alcohol, shaving gel, a washcloth, and a big, soft towel. I noticed an electric shaver in the cabinet, for her legs and underarms. Just in case, I thought. I returned to her with the scissors in my hand.

  “Oh lordy,” she said.

  “You trust me, don’t you?”

  “I don’t really know you,” she replied.

  “Wrong answer. You trust me, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “Wrong again! Third time, you know what they say about charm. You trust me, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I trust you,” Wynonna said.

  “Good. Now lift up.”

  I slipped the towel under her hips and pulled it up as high as her waist. She settled back down.

  “Good girl,” I said.

  “I may regret this,” she said, but her green eyes were smiling.

  “Shush now.”

  The manicure scissors were barely adequate to the task, but I managed to trim her pubic hair until it was short enough for the razor. In the bathroom, I opened her grandfather’s straight-edge to a four-inch silver steel blade. The handle was bone, off-white in color, and looked like twisted rope. I sanitized the blade with rubbing alcohol. While the straight-edge was air drying, I let the washcloth warm under hot running water, then I wrung it out and took it to bed, where she lay waiting.

  “This will feel good,” I said.

  I untwisted the washcloth and spread it over her mound.

  “Ummm,” she said.

  “Told ya. Now you’re going to re
lax and let that do its work.”

  I looked around. There was a CD player on a worn, oak dresser across from the bed.

  “Would you like music?”

  “Sure,” she said. “You pick.”

  I looked through her collection and settled on Claire Mann and Aaron Jones.

  “Oh,” she murmured as a Celtic tune begins. “How appropriate.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Our kinfolk’s music. A fiddle, a flute, and a tin whistle.”

  I let an instrumental play all the way through before I removed the washcloth, setting it on the nightstand. I pressed the flat of my hand over her pussy. Her hair felt soft and moist.

  “Better,” I said.

  I sprayed a ben wa sized ball of shaving gel onto the tips of my fingers and rubbed it over the remaining pubic hair, into a whipped-cream-like lather. Her breathing quickened. Then

  I spread her legs.

  “Don’t move.”

  I retrieved her grandfather’s straight-edge. Her eyes widened when she saw it. I lay the blade lightly at the top of her pubes. I eased it down slowly, gently, snowplowing a line until I saw perfect, clear skin. I stopped dangerously close to her hooded clit. She was holding her breath.

  “Breathe,” I said, and she did.

  I lifted the blade, wiped it clean on a section of the towel beneath her, and began again. I moved the blade over slightly, beginning at the top of her pubic hair and down; repeating, then repositioning and repeating; repositioning and repeating until her skin was shaved clean. I wiped her with the washcloth. There were no bumps, no cuts, not even a nick. I set the straight-edge aside and picked up the electric razor. It started with a buzz.

  “This is for your vulva,” I said.

  When I was finished with the electric razor, I turned it off, admiring my work.

  “Pretty,” I said. “That’s the front. Now I need you to turn over for me.”

  “Oh my—”

  “Over,” I said, more firmly.

  Wynonna flipped over, leaning on her elbows. I slipped my hand between her legs and spread her thighs. I used the electric shaver to remove the last of her pubes around her perineum and anus, then wiped her clean with the washcloth.

  “Good girl,” I said. “Now come with me.”