MENAGE A TROIS
by Ken Strickland

It began around midnight with an incessant thunk, thunk, thunk . . . like the heartbeat of some strange nocturnal creature. It’s beginning to rain, he thought as the telltale rapping in the gutter’s downspout continued. He pulled the down comforter to his chin and listened as the wind bowed a plaintive aria across the limbs of the old tree just outside the bedroom window. Distant flashes of yellow backlighted the limbs’ dance of accordance before the darkness rumbled back in to inundate the scene. Spat, Spat . . . Spat . . . the wind heightened and hurled raindrops against the windowpane.

Like the uninterrupted flow of a river, her warmth coursed into his body as she rested beside him. He pulled her closer and thought of the years of bliss and harmony they had shared and how easy it had all been. Some would call this love, he thought as he twirled a soft tress in his fingertips. But he knew what they had was far more than one simple word could explain. Soul partners would be better, he reasoned, contentedly smiling to himself. A sudden burst of wind sent a wall of rain against the window. They cuddled ever deeper into the down and flannel until they merged in rapture and listened to the leaden sound of the rain upon the roof. The hypnotic drumming sent them far away into dreamland . . . .

Awakening later, he looked around the room. Five fifty softly glowed from the clock sitting atop the chest of drawers. He quietly arose from the bed and walked to the window where he gazed out into the darkness as if he had heard something--someone--calling him. A flash of lightning illuminated the broad pasture that stretched away from the house, imprinting the view of the landscape in his mind for a few lingering seconds. Fingerlike rills streamed from the ridge and converged in a small swag, springing a rivulet that ran pell-mell to the valley below. Its silver outline stood starkly against the brown winter grass. It takes four inches of rain to do that, he remembered.

“Why are you up?” she asked, catching a brief glimpse of his silhouette against the window.

“Nothing . . . just looking . . . listening to the rain. I’m coming back to bed.”

“Yes . . . that would be nice.”

Ringggg--

As if anticipating the call, he grabbed the receiver before the first ring had ended.

Yes . . . I’ll be there . . . see you,” he whispered.

“Who was that?”

“No one. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you . . . just like you always do.”

“Yes, but I’ll return . . . just like I always do. Please . . . go back to sleep.”

He kissed her forehead then quietly walked down the stairs in the darkness, clothing and shoes in hand. He grabbed a quick bite to eat, then made his way to the basement.

He always traveled light; the few things he needed were always packed into a small duffel bag that sat near the basement door. It was not as if he had anticipated the phone call and had stood ready to depart, he was just that way: always prepared to travel at the drop of a hat. He placed the bag into the back of his vehicle then walked around and slid into the front seat. Without turning on the headlights, he backed carefully from the driveway and onto the road that led to the highway. As he swung away from the house he pulled out the lightswitch and, like the lucent needle of a giant compass, the beams pointed northward.

The wet blacktop unfurled in the headlights as he drove alone through the darkness of early morning. The tires rumbled in protest as they ran across the gravel washes that had fanned from the side roads. He blindly fumbled at the dials of the radio as he steered into a sharp curve of the mountain road. From the corner of his eye he caught the flickering of numbers racing past as the scan control searched for wattage strength. Suddenly the numbers stopped low and the bombastic words from an evangelist heaved into his halcyon world. Passion and poetry come in many forms, he thought as he listened to the preacher’s fervent pitch. But the message became unsettling as the words expounding upon Leviticus echoed thorough the confines of his car: “. . . and it can take subtle guises and be committed with the heart and mind as surely as the flesh!” shouted the drawling preacher. It’s as if he were preaching directly at me, he thought as he quickly turned off the radio. But he knew what was really going on inside: Pangs of guilt had been resurrected and were again eating away at his very soul. He’d felt it before--all too often--this tug-of-war between conscience and enchantment. He wondered if guilt were the same for all men or was it shaded by their individual differences. He wondered if guilt could be reshaped by the mind over time in order to accommodate change in a kind of “emotional evolution.” As he drove along, his mind searched for shades of gray, but he saw only black and white as the centerline of the highway continued to be swallowed up by the shadows behind him.

He arrived at the rendezvous just as the first rays of the sun arrowed over the rim of a distant mountain. He sat in his car and watched as the sun ascended, sending distinct bands of light through the haze and small wispy clouds that always arose from the recesses of the mountains following a rain. One could climb to the very heavens on those rungs of dawn, he mused. He opened the door and as he quietly stepped from the car, the sweet smell of wet humus filled his nostrils. It’s always like this: the very breath of mother earth stirred up by the rain, he remembered. He walked a few paces then glanced at his watch. On time, he thought as he pulled down the sleeve of his jacket.

Then he saw her.

He’d been enslaved by her charm for more years than he could now remember. As he gazed at her beauty, he remembered the last time he had been here: It had been almost a year ago to the day. Since then he’d often thought about her and the magical times they’d had together, but she’d mysteriously vanished until now. He stood transfixed as he admired her symmetrical curves. He knew them well; he knew of their softness and what it felt like to caress--and to be caressed--by them. He saw her long hair flowing--swirling in ringlets disheveled by a hidden breeze. And, although he was not cognizant of it, the burning stabs of guilt were nowhere to be found; the moment was simply too full and her allure was too great.

His reverie was broken as he heard the unmistakable sound of gravel crunching beneath automobile tires. He turned to see a familiar vehicle making its way up the back road to where he stood. “Daniel!” he said.

Clunkkk . . . the car door closed and Daniel walked to him.

“Sorry I’m late. You look . . . distracted.”

“I’m okay . . . just admiring the view. Have any trouble getting away today?”

“Not really. She understands that runs like this one are gems and I’m . . . compelled . . . to be there when they make their rare appearances.

“You?”

“Much the same for me. I’d say that the both of us have other rare gems in our lives as well.

“We’d better get moving; you know how long this shuttle is.”

He lingered and took another look downstream. He looked to where the swirling water led and saw how it danced as if to celebrate his arrival. At that moment he was exactly where he wanted to be . . . and felt no guilt.

*******