Nether Regions (11 page)

Sophie nodded and slid into her car, shutting the door carefully so she wouldn’t disturb the neighbors.

Chapter Fourteen

“Hey, lover boy.” The voice on the phone was low and husky and undeniably desirable. Stephen felt ridiculously happy to hear from his partner.

“Right? Is that you?” Stephen hated the chirpy sound of his voice. “Where are you?”

“Just getting up. How’s your day going?” He yawned as if presenting evidence of sleeping in.

Stephen glanced about the littered office of Backslant Publishing and wondered how his day
was
going. Kind of pointless, really. “It’s all right, honey. Going on as usual. Are you getting ready for work?”

“No, not yet. I still have a couple hours. Listen, I was thinking. What would you say to us moving? Going somewhere else to live?”

Stephen sat up straighter in his chair, his eyes fixating on a washed-out print of the Rhine River in Germany. “What do you mean?”

“You and me. Moving. I was thinking I would love to go on down to Key West like we used to talk about. Didn’t you love it there when we visited?”

“Yeah, I did.” Stephen swallowed and surprising tears blurred his gaze. He thought of his job, leaving it and looking for a new one. He thought about changing insurance, taking lower pay and losing seniority.

“Yes, let’s do it,” he answered firmly.

Righteous was silent a long time. “You mean it, Stephen?”

“Home is where you are, Righteous.” Stephen had buried his face in his free hand.

Righteous sighed as if he’d been holding his breath a long time. “I’ll put my notice in today. Do we have enough in the bank to do this? Put money down on a new place and all?”

Stephen laughed gently. It was so like Righteous not to know. “We’ll be okay. Things may be tight for a while, but it’ll be okay. At least we’ll be together.”

“I love you, Stephen, you know I do.”

“I know.” Stephen was going to cry outright. He glanced around the office to see who would see even as tears escaped and moistened his cheeks.

“Okay.” Righteous seemed to sense Stephen’s emotional fragility and seemed at a loss for words himself. “I guess I’ll see you tonight then. I’ll come home as early as I can.”

“Yes, tonight,” Stephen said softly.

“All right. Be safe.”

Stephen replaced the handset into the cradle of the telephone and cupped his face in both hands as a silent sob slipped from him. He was touched because he knew that Righteous was trying. He did want to be with Stephen and was making his choice. Leaving Redstar and Goshen would get him away from the profligate life he’d fallen into. Maybe if he could escape that life he could find his way back to faithfulness with Stephen and that was all Stephen wanted.

Filled with a new joy and a feeling of new perspective, Stephen mopped his cheek with his shirtsleeve and straightened his desk.

“So, how’s the Whitley piece coming?”

Conrad Ramsey stood in the doorway, his body spread wide, a palm pressed to each doorjamb. The body beneath his oxford shirt and tight khakis appeared to be a work of Michelangelo perfection.

“Done,” Stephen responded, looking away. “It’s in your queue.”

Conrad moved into the room and lifted a letter opener that was resting on Stephen’s desk. He moved it back and forth slowly, from one hand to the next. “Are you okay? You look like you might be upset.”

Stephen knew Conrad wanted him to meet his gaze, but his emotions were too raw. “I’m fine, Conrad. Thanks.”

“We’re moving,” he finally said. “Away. Down south.”

Conrad drew back to study Stephen’s face. “What do you mean?”

“He just called me. As soon as we can get everything set up, we’re out of here.”

“Damn.” Conrad stood and moved to the door. “Well, what do you know.”

He moved through the door into the hallway, then turned back to give Stephen an encouraging smile. “Good. That’s good, Stephen. Good.”

Chapter Fifteen

Morning brought routine into Sophie’s day. She preferred this to the restless nights that had been bothering her lately. Usually her sleep was beneficial, but lately the grinding loneliness she’d been feeling had crept into the netherworld of her slumber.

She rose from her tangled bed and drank coffee at the kitchen door as the sun meandered slowly into Bayou Lisse. Swarms of insects greeted the sun’s warmth by busying themselves with their own daily chores. Papa Gator growled about a half mile away. It was late in the season for him to be looking for a girlfriend so he was probably warning off a trespassing male.

Sophie sighed and stepped outside. Her bare feet recoiled from the roughness of the wooden floorboards of the porch, but she moved on, coffee mug warming her cupped palms. Just off the porch, on the right, stretched the ancient herb garden Grandam had nurtured since Sophie’s mother was a child. One of Sophie’s greatest pleasures was the garden, and she walked toward it through the dry, prickly grass. She loved to stroll through the herbs, her hands caressing the various plants and releasing each unique fragrance. Even after all these years, it never failed to delight her.

Today she noted the seven-year love was coming along, almost a foot high, just now showing the growth of the heavy head that would bob at her in the late summer weeks. There was five-finger grass, low and lush green, garderobe, filling the air with spice, and a huge bush of herba Louisa already scenting her hands with lemon oil. The elf leaf encircled the entire garden, truly the only formal touch, but Sophie never trimmed them into shrub shape, just letting the little purple flowers trail where they may. She liked it better that way, portraying nature more precisely.

Her eyes took in the enormous bayou on her left and the endless flow of the Root River on her right. Root River was known as Cofe Creek by most of the locals because her family had lived here on this water as long as anyone could remember. Mints, lady, brandy and catmint grew along the banks there, and several large, old willows, called trees of enchantment by Grandam, shaded it.

Sophie liked living here. She liked the call of the swamp and the slow pace of life, as slow as the Root River in deep summer. Some of the friends she’d gone to school with had talked about moving to Goshen or Mobile, some even as far north as New York. And they had. She still got the occasional postcard from Kinsey, who had moved to Atlanta. She said there were gay women everywhere there, and she was planning to have a commitment ceremony with her girlfriend, Gerri. In a church and everything. Sophie had to shake her head over that one. The idea wasn’t even thinkable here in Redstar. Lesbianism, gayness, was okay as long as you didn’t talk openly about it. Sophie knew a handful of gay couples in Redstar and they were well tolerated. If one of them acted differently, however, or tried to be acknowledged publicly as gay, Sophie knew that would change.

Being a lesbian in a small southern town wasn’t the best situation, Sophie realized, but leaving Redstar and Bayou Lisse never even entered into the equation. Everything that really meant anything to her was here—here in the three hundred square miles that was her life.

She walked toward the bayou, empty coffee mug trailing from one hand. A nettle stabbed at one foot, and she hopped, cursing, then limped onward. Sometimes she wondered why she stayed, really. She knew it was a sense of loyalty to Grandam and to her family. Sophie’s mother, Faye, had moved away to Port Saint Joe, Florida, when Sophie was young. She had left Sophie with Grandam when it became evident how strongly the girl felt about leaving the bayou.

“You two are of a kind,” Faye told them, her new man sitting outside in his shiny Chevrolet pickup truck. Her hug had been fierce and long, and Sophie would always remember the smell of her—White Shoulders perfume combined with Juicy Fruit gum.

There had been only five visits during Sophie’s trek toward womanhood, visits filled with presents and tales of life among Florida’s elite. Sophie had her mother’s wild, tawny hair, though, and her mother’s mother and that was just about enough. And the swamp. All gifts she was grateful for.

The water of the bayou was still this morning, lush with duckweed. A frog scurried at her approach and overhanging wild roses bobbed a slow good morning. The stillness was palpable, stealing across her and immersing her in another language. This was why she stayed. The bayou talked to her, made her one of its own.

The family told her she was a sensitive, that she had the gift of the wild. All the Cofe women had it, or so it was told. Grandam certainly did. Sophie knew Faye possessed the gift but hated it. Some did turn away; Sophie had always known she could if she wanted to. If she wanted to move off the water, move farther into Redstar, no one would hold her to task. Life would go on.

In her heart, though, Sophie knew that the gift was not to be ignored. There was a rightness to it. To turn away and not do what she was able to do was a sacrilege, a wrong turn in the universal order. Faye had gone against it and her life was fine. On the surface. Sophie knew, as did Grandam, that it could come back around, and they were prepared to be nearby if Faye needed them. The gift was a simple thing really. Sophie could heal. She could use the way of the wild to bring anything back to wholeness.

She looked off into the bayou, her blond eyelashes and brows glowing golden in the morning sunlight. The light was penetrating into the water as well, bringing a teeming life-force to the surface. Sophie watched the Lisse waken as she paced gently back and forth along the shoreline. She thought about her day, listing patients in her mind, planning the best routes to each house, chaining them together in the most efficient way.

Her mind settled and refreshed, Sophie walked up the slope toward the house, absently sidestepping the nettle. The air had heated while she’d been at the water, and the sun was now heavy on her face and shoulders as she moved toward the porch.

Humming from the kitchen alerted her to Clary’s presence. As did the harsh smell of grits.

“Hey, baby,” Clary called as the screen door slapped shut behind Sophie. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

“Sure is,” admitted Sophie. She studied Clary, gauging her mood and found her to be particularly blissful. “So, Salty give you a little last night?”

Clary blushed and tucked her head. “Get on in that shower and leave me be, Sophia Cofe. What’s my business is my business.”

Sophie laughed and moved on toward Beulah’s room. “Hey, Grandam, get up. Clary got a little piece of that good thing last night.”

Beulah, curled on her side, laughed even before she was fully awake. “No kidding. Good for her.”

Sophie moved into the bathroom and switched on the shower. “I wonder who’s smiling the biggest, her or Salty,” she called loud enough for Clary to hear.

“Y’all just stop now,” Clary said, slamming the spoon against the edge of the pan to shake off the grits clinging to it. The sound reverberated through the house like a gunshot.

“Sheesh. I didn’t mean nothing,” Sophie muttered to herself as she stripped and slipped into the shower stall.

Grandam moved clumsily into the bathroom, her slippers shuffling against the tiles. “You got a lot of stops today?”

“Yeah, six. You gettin’ on okay?” She peeked around the curtain, watching as Grandam carefully lowered herself onto the toilet.

“Feeling strong,” she replied as she emptied her bladder.

Sophie decided against washing her hair because she was running late, so she stepped out almost as soon as Grandam hobbled from the bathroom.

“You need a shower, Grandam?”

“No, not yet. I’ll get Clary to help me later.”

Sophie turned off the water and dried off, imagining a lover’s hands moving across her flesh. She missed having a lover; the occurrences had been too few and too far apart. She sighed and brought her thoughts back to reality. She had work to do.

After dressing and sharing buttery garlic grits and more coffee with Grandam, Sophie traveled north on Route 46.

The Larsens, Samell and Pyree, lived on Root River in the shadow of a defunct fish factory. Their five kids were always getting into something and Pyree had called yesterday to say that her youngest had developed a rash on his bottom. It was probably poison ivy, but Pyree seemed to think it was something else. Pulling into the bare dirt parking area in front of the small clapboard house, Sophie laughed as two children and three dogs crowded around to greet her.

“You here to see Nab?” asked seven-year-old Ada, her braided hair poking out in all directions and framing two huge brown eyes in a tan face.

“Yes, and why aren’t you ready for school, young lady? It’s not summer yet,” Sophie said as she fetched her bag from the car.

“Going in late, all of us are,” she answered, running alongside Sophie as she walked to the porch. “Teachers day, or something like that. Bus is gonna be two hours late.”

“Well, that’s nice,” Sophie said. “I hope you’re using the time to help your mama with the babies.”

“We are,” said Mary, the quiet nine-year-old. “But Nab’s been crying all night. Says it itches him something fierce.”

Pyree looked as though she’d had little sleep. Puffy skin surrounded her large brown eyes and her smile was fragile. She still wore her faded nightgown. The baby, two-year-old Nab, was standing in the playpen, rubbing his own eyes. He wore nothing but a diaper.

“Hey, Pyree. Hear you had a rough night.”

“He’s been crying,” she explained. “I think it must hurt him.”

Sophie nodded and moved to lift the child. He clung to her neck and allowed Sophie to carry him to the kitchen table. “Any idea what he got into?”

“No, maybe something outside but nothing I saw.” She shrugged her shoulders and scratched at her mussed, home-straightened hair.

“You girls clean this off,” Sophie directed, indicating the table laden with breakfast dishes. Ada and Mary began clearing and Sophie, with her one free hand, rinsed a paper towel in hot water and wiped the surface clean. “Get me a clean towel, will you?” she asked Mary.

After spreading the towel, she carefully placed Nab on the table and looked into his eyes. “You got a boo-boo, honey? Show Sophie where it hurts.”