An Elegy for September

Dear Mister ______," her initial fan letter had begun, almost three months ago. She claimed to love him because his books were mighty special. He had written back politely, urging caution. But that didn't stop her. Letters began rolling in, often twice a week. In them, she poured her heart out. At first, he had answered sparely, in subdued tones, intrigued but wary. She was only a junior in college, the same age as his daughter. Yet she was articulate, funny, sexy, obnoxious--mercurial. Furthermore, she had applied for, and received, a three-week writing residency at the Rhinehart Center, a local arts foundation. So they were destined to meet.

"D day is September fourth!" she had announced two months ago.

"September is my vacation," he wrote back, "and I desperately need the break."

"I'll give you a break," came her immediate answer. "I'll fuck your socks off! You'll never know what hit you. We can fly together!"

"Fly?" he scoffed, eager to avoid the trap. "I can hardly walk. I'm sick, I've got no energy, my heart is a mess, I'm in the middle of a divorce, I'm broke, I live in a two-room apartment the size of an orange crate, I've been working three years on a book that refuses to cooperate and I'm terrified of women."

She replied, "Obviously, you need me. I'm young and smart and sexy and funny and talented!"

Her enthusiasm made him sad, his response to it even more so. He typed, "I'm sorry, but I am about to divorce a woman who is young and smart and funny and talented. And I have no intention of jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. I'm tired."

So in today's mail, finally, had arrived a picture. Nothing fancy. She wore shorts, a baggy sweater and aerobics sneakers. The pose, on a porch railing, was mockingly cheesecake.

And it triggered an erection.

•

They sat down across from each other in a quiet café. She was slightly chubby, dark-haired, wore glasses. She was nervous and spoke too quickly, and he had a hard time following. She wore a striped jersey, shorts, white socks and aerobics sneakers. So as not to seem self-conscious or hypocritical, he wore his usual attire, a faded shirt and dirty pants and sloppy sneakers. What you see is what you get. Her eyes were very dark and bright. Her upper lip trembled because she was nervous. Of all the ways to describe her, this one struck him first: She's young. And immediately, her youth caused an ache all out of proportion.

About him, she said in awe, "This is unbelievable, it's totally weird."

"What is?"

"Well, for months I've had a yearning for you, we've exchanged bunches of raunchy letters, and then, well, here I am and there you are. Like, plop."

"I'm a disappointment?"

"I don't know. Your voice sounds funny. You, you're real."

"That's bad?"

"No. But real is weird. I can't control you like I did in my head. Every time you open your mouth, a different clown jumps out. It's like suddenly meeting a ... movie star!"

Her amazement was so completely without artifice that, instantly, he fell in love.

Of course, he fell right out again when she said, "You look old," and then immediately compounded her mistake by adding, "And you look like a bum, too."

He shrugged, "Fortunately, how I look is my own business."

"Are you trying to pretend that you're not rich and famous?"

"I am not rich and famous."

Her eyes flashed at the challenge. Suddenly, she was like a cat and he was the ball at the end of a swinging string. Insufferably brazen, she reached out and batted the ball.

"I despise hypocrites."

He sighed. Was all youth so black and white? He didn't have the energy anymore.

They talked about various things: her background, his background. He caught himself a couple of times beginning a sentence, "When I was your age----"

She cut that off pronto. "Don't pull rank on me."

"I am not pulling rank. I only----"

"You're a chauvinist," she said in triumph. "In your books you pretend not to be. But in reality you are. Are you racist also?"

He looked at his watch and said, "I'm sorry, but your twenty minutes of browbeating are up."

She smiled, vindictive, victorious. "Patronizing also. I knew it. What a disappointment. For your information, you don't interest me at all."

"You wrote all those letters."

"You answered them." Her eyes were positively glowing.

But soon enough, the wind changed. Obviously worried at this rocky start, she sought to make amends.

"I'm sorry, but I'm so nervous I could die. I mean, we wrote so much stuff to each other in those letters, and now it's like we're not even real people, or something. Would it be OK if I kiss you?"

Grateful for her impudence and valor, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against her mouth. Her body shivered. She poked her tongue tip against his two front teeth (which were false). He smiled; then she smiled and pulled back, her cheeks colored a bright crimson.

"Whew." She assessed him in astonishment. "I'm glad that's done. Boy, have I ever been jonesing for you."

Then she placed one palm against her chest and giggled nervously.

"I think I'm gonna have a cow."

But in the next minute, she asked if they could leave. "I can't talk anymore. I think we had better make love and get it over with."

He nodded. "Come to my apartment. It isn't very far." Trying to be lighthearted, he added, "If we both lie down sideways, there'll be enough room."

She'd rather that they went to her room. "It's neutral. Nobody we know ever made love in it with either of us before."

•

It was a nice old room with a small adobe fireplace, a polished wooden floor and a high ceiling with massive vi-gas. A wide window looked out on cottonwoods framing a small hay field bordered by plum thickets. There was a floor lamp, a single wooden table, a single bed, a refrigerator, a sink and an antique gas stove. Her purple sleeping bag lay crumpled on the bed. Her typewriter and a ream of paper sat on the table. A music stand and a violin case occupied one corner. She had brought a few books and had arranged them along the windowsill. He inspected them, of course: Gabriel Garcia Marquez' Love in the Time of Cholera, Antonio Skármeta's Burning Patience, Pablo Neruda's Veinte Poemas de Amor. Also two of his own works: a brutal novel about violence in American culture and a lyrical nonfiction hosanna to life on the deserted mesa west of town. Then he stood there totally lost, with no idea how to begin.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I'm scared," he admitted.

"Me, too."

She cleared a Sony Walkman and some tapes off the sleeping bag. They kissed standing up. He held her tightly to stop the trembling. Then they were on the bed, fumbling, uncomfortable, pressing too hard, totally out of sync. He had no idea how to implement such sudden sex. This might qualify as the most self-conscious moment of his life.

Terrified of AIDS, he had brought a condom. But when the time came, she said, "I hate rubbers, don't you dare."

"It's crazy not to."

"Please...." She kissed hungrily. "Mellow out. Stop being an old fogy."

He knew it was foolish but complied.

Then all at once, they clicked. All at once, he pushed inside and she gave a little cry and her eyes glazed, and for a moment it seemed he would never stop sinking into her and he almost cried out in surprise, pain and relief. An incredible rush weakened his body.

He asked, "What do you use for birth control?"

"Nothing."

The excitement doubled.

At the last second, he withdrew and came against her thigh. She ordered him to go down on her so she could climax. He obeyed. She gripped his hair, guiding urgently. It was a strain for her and his jaws ached, but they made it happen. She coughed and flinched into a fetal position, whimpering.

When he touched her neck, she huddled up in a ball against him so that he could envelop her in his arms. They stayed that way without moving for a long time. From where his head lay, he could look out the window at prisms of light dancing in ripples of foliage.

He was amazed that this could happen. He was astonished by her audacity. It didn't seem real. At her age, he'd been a virgin, and a simple kiss would have sent him to seventh heaven.

She whispered, "I love you. I love you with all my heart. That was incredible."

(continued on page 147)September(continued from page 86)

He was so grateful that he almost said "I love you" back, but then caught himself just in the nick of time.

•

Next day, she was feeling cocky and obnoxious. "Teach me to hunt. I want to kill harmless little animals."

"Please, I hunt alone."

"I want to fuck you and then kill things and then fuck you again."

"Don't be so melodramatic."

She folded her arms, slumped forward and clammed up.

He relented. "Why do you really want to hunt?"

"Oh, for God's sake, don't be so dense. I'm being sarcastic."

He observed her while she stewed, perhaps the most erotic woman he'd ever met. Correction: The situation and the age difference made her so. A criminal liaison. Her sloppy blouse drifted off one shoulder and he was mesmerized by the soft line of her collarbone. She had full, pouty lips, always atremble from the intensity of her anger, nerves, insecurity--feelings.

"Hunting is sort of ..." he said, hesitating, but couldn't think of a better word, "sacred to me."

"Oh, cut the bullshit, man," she said, laughing, mocking him. "Sacred, no less. You're so totally bogus."

But even while speaking, she reached out to tweak his nose in a cheerfully seductive gesture.

That afternoon, as she came out toting her gear and approached the truck, he blurted, "What the hell is that?"

"What the hell does it look like?"

"It looks like your violin case."

She licked the top of her finger and poked it against his forehead. "Congratulations, you get a gold star."

He said, "You don't take a violin grouse hunting."

"I am not grouse hunting. You are."

After a perplexed beat, he said, "You're crazy."

She gave him a sly, challenging look. Then she reached for his right wrist and lifted his hand. She fitted his index finger in her mouth and formed an O around it with her lips. Her taunting eyes directly engaged him while she sucked lightly. Then she pushed back the wrist, freeing his finger. Her little smile gave him a surprisingly erotic start.

"No, I'm not," she said.

And he believed her.

•

To get there, they had to climb. At first, it was steep and moderately difficult. Young aspens and alders, head-high corn lilies and huge dying cow parsnips made the trail seem almost tropical. She held his hand for a minute while singing a Grateful Dead tune. Her voice, though young, had a faint and alluring rasp:

Driving that train

High on cocaine,

Casey Jones you'd better

Watch your speed.

Then she broke away, gamboling ahead, so ripe in tantalizing energy that he almost cried out in delight.

Later, they zigzagged between baby spruce trees no higher than their shoulders. He stopped once to point out blue gentians; again to expose the fruit on a thimbleberry; and a third time to ponder a flurry of baby bugs on the underside of an oshá leaf. When they paused, she hugged him like an affectionate puppy and nibbled on one ear or the other. Then she plucked the leaf or the flower and slipped it carefully between the pages of her yellow notebook after writing down its name.

It was hard on his heart, however. Despite the medicines, he could barely breathe and had to proceed slowly to avoid fibrillations. Soon she began to forge ahead 30 or 40 yards, then wait impatiently for him to arrive. He grinned wistfully when he caught up. Sometimes she gave him a little peck on the cheek, other times she asked him, "How's the old ticker?"

Invariably, he replied, "Oh, I can't complain."

Teasing, she rubbed close against him and cupped his genitals. She breathed into his ear and licked the lobe--instantly, he went hard.

She laughed, "Uh, oh, trouble in River City," and pranced off, swinging around the aspens and hopping over dead logs.

"Wait up," he cried in mock agony. "Don't leave me."

"No way," she sang, performing impromptu dance steps that were fetchingly self-conscious, "I'm too young to be saddled and tamed."

Suddenly, she whirled around, hanging onto a sapling and balanced on tiptoes, laughing. A butterfly flip-flapped between them. She stuck out her tongue and gave a tantalizing wiggle of her hips. When he reached her, they kissed, but only for an instant: ping--then gone.

"I'm tired," he said. "And I need a little break."

So they sat in the grass eating apples. A red squirrel chattered. A tall tree was creaking like a mast under the weight of old-fashioned rigging.

"I didn't believe you would ever write me back," she said. "I figured it wasn't even a one-in-a-billion chance. And then, when the letter arrived and I saw the return address--wow! I almost fainted, I really did. What a coup! I must've read that letter a hundred times. I was walking around on air, in a daze, really. You know what I kept doing? Every night, I made up scenarios of us together and I masturbated. It wasn't what you might think, though--my fantasies. We never made love. We would be walking some place hand in hand, wearing old sweaters and kicking up autumn leaves. I had this, like, totally psycho happiness I can't explain. We never took our clothes off, but Jesus, my feeling for you was tremendous. I was levitating above the bed, it was so powerful."

"That's pretty hard to live up to," he said with a rueful smile. "Reality must be a letdown."

"When you walked into the café, I almost died. I don't know how the words came out of my mouth. Inside, I was paralyzed."

"You didn't seem that way."

"I've never been that shaken in my life."

He admitted, "Me, too."

She revealed, "When I'm scared, I act pretty obnoxious. I'm sorry."

"It's OK."

They squeezed each other. It popped into his head: I could have a child with this woman.

Then it popped out of his head at the speed of light.

•

"Jesus!"

A grouse flushed out of the spruce tree with a shocking clatter of wings. It headed downhill past them through aspens at what seemed like a hundred miles an hour. His first shot kicked loose tail feathers; the second shot disemboweled the bird and it crumpled, bouncing off the white tree trunks on its way to the ground.

She had dropped to all fours and was now squatting, hands over her ears, astonished and mortified. She did not move while he went over and picked up the bloody bundle. The bird was ruined because he had shot it at such close range.

"God, that happened so fast," she said.

"It always does."

"It scared the living daylights out of me."

"Me, too. Never fails."

"That was an incredible shot. I'm impressed. I don't believe your quick reactions."

"Usually, I miss. I'm not very good."

Her eyes changed in a wink, going frosty. "If there's one thing I hate, it's false humility. Phony modesty."

He laughed and told her, "You'll see."

"Of course. Now, just to prove that you're always right, you'll deliberately miss on purpose."

He faced away from her and bit his tongue. Her abrupt swings in mood were disconcerting. Given half a chance, most of his life, he walked a mile out of his way to avoid any confrontations.

A confused deer wandered into the clearing, stopped, pricked its enormous ears, took their measure, then skipped sideways and vanished.

"Have you ever killed a deer?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Too big, maybe."

"You kill fish and doves and grouse--why not deer?"

"Not deer, not bear, not bobcats, not mountain lion, not elk."

"Do you get off on being so righteous about that moral position? Choosing what to kill, what not to? I bet you don't screw married women, either. What makes a grouse less sacred than a deer? Do you get off on playing God?"

"Not at all."

"A fish is no different from a mountain lion," she said. "It's a living thing."

In a gesture of truce, he placed his hand across her breasts. With a toss of her head, she shook him off. Then she finally realized, "Yuk, what did you do to that bird?"

"It was too close. The pattern hadn't begun to spread."

She lifted her shirt and ordered him to paint her tits with his bloody fingers. Afterward, when he washed his hands in a nearby spring, the water was so cold it made his wrists hurt. They tingled for almost 15 minutes.

•

She nuzzled under his chin and slipped her hand into his trousers. "Actually, that was pretty groovy, dude. It happened so fast and noisy. You killed it without thinking, death was so quick. I hate to admit this, but it's kind of a turn-on. You're a coldhearted bastard, aren't you?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh, damn you." She pulled away. "Don't you have even one honest response in your body? Tell me the truth."

He cast his eyes to the ground, frustrated, sad and fatigued. The truth? Which truth?

The truth was that he did not think of himself as cold-blooded. The truth was that he felt compassion toward almost everybody and everything. The truth was that he hunted carefully and had spent most of his life working on behalf of the environment, wildlife habitat, the wretched of the earth. He had contradictions, certainly, but never thought of himself as cruel. Of course, anyone can make a case for anything against anybody. Defending yourself is usually taken as an admission of guilt. So he let her comments ride.

•

Toward evening, he rested on a log and had a sip of water, then bit into an apple. She clicked open the violin case and removed her instrument and a bow. She twisted the adjusting nut to tighten the horsehair, then rubbed a piece of rosin against the filaments.

Walking off a ways, she said, "At least one of us should apologize to the forest gods for killing that poor critter." Then she began to play. The blues tune caught him completely by surprise. It had never occurred to him that she might be good. The violin had never been mentioned in any of her letters. And yet the notes she produced were absolutely clean and controlled and they bent off the strings with a heartrending emotional clairvoyance.

She dipped and weaved a little, but nothing flamboyant, nothing to call attention. The moment her bow had started to shape that first note, she became a professional.

She played a melody not of this world. It was haunting, imbued with a melancholy ache, a bit slurred, like the voice of Billie Holiday. He shook his head, unable to comprehend how this girl in glasses, a sloppy sweat shirt, nondescript shorts and fancy aerobics sneakers could produce such an incongruous yet wonderful moment.

When she stopped, he asked, "What was that?"

She came over, squatted in front of him, gave a daffy and self-conscious smile, then leaned forward and licked the tip of his nose.

"I just call it Blues for a Decent Guy."

He said, "Oh."

Almost plaintively, she wondered, "Do you think I'll be able to love the real you as much as I love the paper person?"

•

Halfway down the mountain, they stopped, puzzled by an angrily chattering red squirrel on a branch beside the road. Its complaint was aimed toward a spot deeper into the forest.

"Oh, look----" She caught her breath.

A large hunchbacked bird hopped onto a dead log, giving an awkward flap of its wings to maintain balance. The head stared at them, flared like a cobra. The red squirrel scolded at a shrill pitch, but the bird seemed oblivious. Both humans confronted its eyes and the hawk returned their attention, unblinking. A goshawk, he realized, only the third one he'd ever seen.

When it shifted higher onto the log, they spotted a clump of red in its talons. Three minutes passed in a standstill, until the raptor lifted its wings, flapped once and was airborne, headed directly at them. It flew out of the trees and crossed the road about ten feet away, clutching a dead squirrel whose tail whisked against grasses in passing. In silence, the hawk reentered the closely bunched aspen saplings and alders near the creek. It threaded between all those impediments despite a wingspan that must have been four feet. Gliding as if inessential--a ghost--it disappeared into thicker timber ... gone.

•

A few days later, they went fishing. She was in a chipper mood, forging ahead on the path, sashaying back to him, giving little shoulder punches, sticking her tongue into his ear, whispering naughty propositions. It was about two miles from the rim of the gorge down to the river. Large pinecones littered the trail; juniper trees were heavy with blue berries. They stopped at his favorite giant ponderosa and got a whiff of the bark. It smelled strong, like vanilla.

The air was warm and languid after the rains. She rubbed against him. He fondled her in all the appropriate places. She laughed and danced away. "Let's build it up to a fever pitch, and then go crazy."

A moment later, he pointed: "There's a buzzard." Then he told her that the birds singing in piñon trees below them were Townsend's solitaires.

She hooked her hand through his arm and laid her head against his shoulder. "Do you love me?" she asked.

"Yes ... I love you," he answered.

She squeezed him a little, gently.

For almost 20 years he had fished the river and knew it well. He used only a few simple flies, tied by a friend, and moved quickly among the boulders heading upstream. Casting only to trout in eddies or to holding spots behind rocks in midstream, he passed up most of the water that was either too deep or too fast for his style. He used a tail fly and one dropper, fished almost on the surface, sometimes with a natural drift, or else skittered across the water. He danced easily across the massive basalt boulders, which were often more than ten feet high and shiny slick from the pummelings of previous springtime runoffs. She was more uncertain of her balance and fell behind. "Hey," she cried, "you're supposed to be sick and dizzy! Wait up!" But on the river, he was in a familiar element and the rhythm and momentum were important to his joy.

"What happens if you fall?" she asked, catching up, breathless and a trifle shaken.

"I never think of that," he said. "I'm not afraid of anything down here."

The water was tinged a faintly green hue. It moved fast, splashing against the numerous boulders, roaring loudly, so they had to shout to hear each other. But once into it, he became all concentration and quit talking. He always checked out pockets on the near shore first, flicking his small badger flies across the eddies and onto any quiet and shallow water behind a rock, or into crevices where foam had gathered. He missed the first two hits, but hooked a brown trout on the third. It went into the air once and then swooped downriver in fast, splashing water. He doubled back downstream past the girl and worked the fish quickly into a quieter pool, then guided it to his net. She came over as he removed the hook, then held the foot-long trout beneath the surface, moving it forward and back, running water through the gills. When he let go, the fish slipped sideways, caught by the current, and was sucked into turbulent darkness.

She said, "You're good at this, aren't you?"

"If the conditions are right for my style, yes, I'm good at it. If conditions are bad, I'm a total flop. I hate to add weight for nymphing."

In the next 45 minutes, he landed and released over a dozen fish: The largest was about 15 inches. His rhythm was fast and precise and fanatical. In almost the same motion that he released a fish, he would straighten up and be casting again. He laughed each time he failed and moved on to the next position.

He felt absolutely comfortable, happy, on top of the world. And he had no idea if the girl was still behind him.

•

With darkness, sagebrushes became hulking shapes. He took down his rod and slipped the reel into his knapsack. They reached a path above the river and started hiking out of the gorge on a carpet of pine needles. At the arsenic spring, they drank fresh water and shared a chocolate bar. She kissed him lightly and said, "Thank you."

It was a long way to the top and he climbed slowly. She reined in her energy and stayed beside him. A bright half moon blotted out most of the individual stars except those in the Big Dipper. And they could faintly discern a gauze of twinkles running north and south above the gorge--the Milky Way. In the west, a bank of popcorn-shaped clouds had an eerie fluorescent sheen.

Now that the adrenaline had subsided, he was exhausted; they halted often. Several times she asked, "Are you OK?"

"Fit as a fiddle."

But even taking small steps and resting at regular intervals, he had trouble. The heart was bouncing around. His fatigued legs trembled, his calves came near to cramping. At each descanso, he leaned on his rod case and either gazed down at the river or up at the sky.

She said, "Let's sit down here and take a long breather."

"No, no, I can make it fine. We're almost there."

At the top, they sat on the Dodge tailgate eating cucumber, Swiss cheese and turkey sandwiches on dark German rye bread. They washed down the food with ice-cold beer. His hands were frozen, probably because of the blood-thinner pills, but he said nothing. His legs ached, but the food and beer tasted so good that he would have sat there as long as the flavor lasted.

She said, "Do you think you could live with a person like me? Could you move to a college town? Would you follow me if I went to graduate school at Chapel Hill or Iowa?"

He knew how, but did not know how, to answer the question.

•

That night, they made love like this:

He entered her and then hardly moved. They were kissing almost without touching lips. Her fingers puttered against his shoulders as if reading braille, as if a faint electricity that only she could detect was wriggling off his skin. He pressed his mouth against her neck just below an ear and licked, tasting a fragrance not quite there. They were careful to be unsudden and thoughtful. When they shifted, the sheet rippled, cool and passive, stroking with clean white folds. After a while, his tongue traced narrow paths across her body, in no hurry, avoiding all the obvious places. Still, wherever he went hurt like blessed needles. Her fingers rested in his hair, not guiding, merely touching. She felt frail as a mouse pressed down upon by weightless boulders, blissfully violated by an instrument of loving torture. The time to gloat was later. Quietly, he wrapped her hair around his fists, taking his own sweet time. Then slowly he bent her head backward, almost underneath her body, straining to snap the neck. She arched her torso to the breaking point without a murmur or complaint. In her heart, and in her cunt, a singing reached crescendo....

"God, I love you," she gasped.

"I love you, too," she thought she heard him answer.

•

Later, she was on top of him.

"What is this all about?" he asked.

"Risk."

"I think it might be evil."

"Evil is exciting, you'll have to admit."

She poked her sharp fingernail into the exact center of his left nipple and pressed down until it hurt, but of course, he did not flinch. Then she placed her finger parallel between his teeth and said, "Bite me."

He bit down along the length of her finger but not very hard.

"Harder."

He increased the pressure a little.

She said, "Mephistopheles was the most intelligent angel. That's why he was banished. Any brilliant person over the centuries would rather have lived in hell. Heaven is boring. The moral universe is a dull universe. Who wants to be good? Harder."

"I said, I don't want to hurt you."

"And I said harder."

He obliged. She put her left hand around his throat and squeezed, not too tightly, but enough to cause some discomfort. His right hand grasped her wrist but made no effort yet to remove the hand at his throat.

"I'm going to have an exciting life. I like everything full tilt. I don't care if I burn out early. You and me are two of a kind. Harder."

"No."

"Obey me, you fuck."

As his teeth clamped down more tightly, the fingers of her left hand dug into his throat, almost making him choke. He grasped her wrist more securely. Her eyes glittered.

She said, "I saw this Japanese film once, called In the Realm of the Senses."

"I saw it, too."

"What did you think of it?"

"I liked it."

"Why?"

"I guess I felt that, in a way, I understood."

"I envied them. I envied the dude when she strangled him. I envied her when she was sawing off his cock. I envied their obsession and their passion and their willingness to follow it right straight down into hell."

"Yes."

"You're not hurting me enough, you wimp."

Her fingers tightened, he gagged a little and said, "If I break the skin, you'll get an infection. Also, I could fracture the bone."

"I hope so. Something to remember you by. Our time is flying."

"No." His voice rasped out against the pressure of her thumb on his windpipe. Tears squeezed from her eyes.

She said, "You're a coward, a wuss, I despise you. Everything you do is playacting, nothing is real, you have courage only in your books. You pretend to be bad, but you're just a little boy in short pants. Your passion isn't real, it's make-believe. You're hopelessly old-fashioned. You always play it safe. You ditch women before the going gets tough. You're afraid to be evil. You're like a devil in Triple-A ball who will never make it to the majors."

He yanked her hand from his throat and spit out her finger. She held the crippled hand against her chest, whimpering, grinning maliciously through her tears.

He said, "That was stupid. It had nothing to do with love."

"Wanna bet?"

•

Toward the end of her stay, they drove up north to hunt doves on flatlands near the Colorado border.

They followed a line along the old cottonwoods, she on the eastern edge in shadow, he on the west with a gun. Small birds darted among the willow thickets--juncos, sparrows, some migrating warblers. They flushed a Cooper's hawk, nothing else. The hawk circled and landed in the same place behind them, unafraid.

The cottonwoods met a stand of willows in a V at the point of a triangle. Within the triangle were several acres of chest-high flowering rabbit brush. They turned, heading southwest toward the sun. The sky was magnificent. A complete rainbow arced over the nearby mountains. Enormous gray and white clouds were bursting in vibrant explosions of vapor behind the sierra. Between clouds, the sky was a periwinkle blue.

He'd never seen a rainbow like this one, which held its colors even against patches of blue. Not a single break flawed the arc, even where no moisture was visible. Lightning flickered over the mountains. The bright wet-sulfur-yellow of rabbit-brush flowers was gaudy and sensational in the sunset light. High above, against the rainbow, several dozen nighthawks were soaring. Closer by, first a red-tailed hawk passed overhead, then a Cooper's, then a sharp-shinned, eyeing them lazily, unafraid.

He said, "Jesus, this is gorgeous."

"I think gaudy is a more appropriate adjective."

Eagerly, he said, "Let's go over to that grass and make love."

She snorted. "Surely you jest."

He opened his side-by-side, removed the shells, set down the gun and raised both hands in a gesture that encompassed the universe.

"You never saw a sky like this!"

"In every cornball National Geographic special, I see a sky like this."

"I feel sorry for your generation," he said, not unkindly. "I grew up in an age where it was a thrill to be awed."

"There you go again: Mr. Superior."

"But doesn't this"--and he waved his hand at everything--"touch you in any way at all?"

"Like a Walt Disney movie, sure. We ought to play a little Barry Manilow in the background."

Putting an arm around her shoulders, he bent his head and nuzzled at the nape of her neck. She smelled fuzzy, of dust and of sunshine. Also slightly medicinal--sage. He licked, tasting salt. She squirmed. "That tickles."

On the other side of the cottonwoods, a hawk shrieked. Sparrows in nearby branches froze for about five seconds, then recommenced their twittering.

•

When the rainbow evaporated, dark clouds massed together and lightning flashed even more emphatically. Out in the open, he was terrified of electrical storms, and here they were totally exposed.

"Let's take a powder." He shuffled forward at a quicker pace. The truck was parked near an arroyo about half a mile away.

"What's the hurry?" she called gaily, deliberately lagging behind.

"I don't want to be fried alive."

"I love lightning." She reached up to touch it with eager fingers.

"Hey, come on. Don't be stupid."

He knew that from the rear, his gait must look farcical, but it was as fast as he could travel. He could not push the heart any harder. Hunched over to make himself less of a target, he heard her peals of laughter.

"You look like a lobster!" she called.

"Move it or lose it," he cried, humiliated by the growing distance between them. He knew it was OK to be afraid but that didn't help. The truck was still a good hundred yards distant. The lolly-gagger was strolling with her head held high, a perfect target. As he glanced back, jagged streaks of electricity danced behind her and his neck hair frizzed in terror. The explosions seemed to ignite her, but she never twitched. He could love her so much it broke his heart. No, not love, he corrected, scrambling as fast as he dared toward safety. Excitement. That's all it was, excitement.

"Now I want to fuck!" she yelled. "Right here, right now. If you refuse, we'll never screw again."

By the time he reached the truck, the landscape was black, brooding, ominous. A few raindrops spattered. He shed the pack, dropped his gun behind the seat, then grabbed it again and removed the shells. He placed the gunnysack with eight doves in it into the bed and hopped behind the wheel--safe!

She came along walking deliberately, apparently out for a stroll, obnoxiously unafraid. More lightning cavorted jaggedly behind her. Oh, Jesus, he prayed, don't let her die. Another part of him wished for her fiery doom. He wondered, How long can she keep it up before her spirit is broken?

He remembered being 20 and dancing through blizzards wearing only a T-shirt.

At the truck, while she took her own sweet time climbing inside the cab, he couldn't help himself: "Thank God you made it. I hate lightning. It terrifies me."

"So I noticed."

"On the other hand," he said, hoping to sound jocular, "only a pretty dumb cunt would expose herself like you just did."

He expected her to lash back. But, as always, she outfoxed him, impossible to predict. "Actually, I was terrified," she admitted. "I just wanted to see if I could do it. I wanted to make you feel small. But look, I peed in my pants."

•

He twisted the cap off a beer. Yes, he was taking verapamil and Quinaglute and Coumadin to control the heart arrhythmia and keep his blood thin, and the doctors had forbidden alcohol. But he loved to drink, especially an ice-cold beer after the hunt, and a long time ago had decided to hell with it. Sometimes, reacting to the Quinaglute, alcohol gave him a terrible headache. But for a while beforehand, the treat would be exquisite.

She put ice, vodka and diet cola into a Styrofoam cup. They touched cups.

"To September."

She grinned broadly. "To your corny rainbow."

A gusting wind rocked the truck in its blustery gales. Rain, quickening into a noisy deluge, clattered against the metal roof. It all happened so quickly and contained the violence of a nasty blow. Lightning lit up everything, slashing to earth in many places at once. The truck shivered. Thunder ruptured heaven directly overhead, then all hell broke loose, hailstones slamming down.

"Christ almighty!" he yelled, but he couldn't even hear himself. Lightning flashed almost continually on every side, white hot and electric, flung earthward by the booming. Visibility ceased entirely except for those electric shocks quivering inside the massive pounding of hail. The noise was unbearable. His heart thundered, terrified. Ice balls big as his thumb pummeled the front hood, bouncing in all directions. All he could think to wonder was, Do rubber tires protect you in a car? He made sure not to touch the door or the steering wheel, which might conduct electricity. He was so afraid he wanted to burst out crying.

When she grabbed the cooler that sat between them and banged open her door to tumble it out, dozens of icy white bullets ricocheted inside, stinging his thighs. She hauled shut the door, then pulled off her T-shirt and wriggled out of her shorts and panties. Deliriously happy, yelling at him who was deaf from the battering noise, she pointed at her crotch, then reached out, leaning back, and pulled him between her thighs.

"You're crazy!" he bellowed, still unable to hear himself.

Her lips moved as she screamed back inaudibly. The truck was shaking frantically as if the next mighty gust would tumble it over. They were reflected against each other in cascades of brilliantly sizzling light.

She was so wet he almost fell inside. God, he was scared! She screamed at full decibels, unhearable, and the thunderstruck world rocked as they made love.

•

It stopped on a dime. The wind quit, the clatter abated, the lightning receded. Thunder rumbled from a distance, saying goodbye. As if in mockery, streaks of sunshine lighted up a different planet: All around them lay the white of winter--at least two inches of hail. And a silence that seemed devoid of noise. The temperature had dropped remarkably.

He said, "I don't believe it."

Naked, she opened the door and got out, standing beside the truck for a moment. Then she leaned inside, reaching behind the seat and lifted out his gun case. She unzipped it, removed the L.C. Smith and laid the case on the seat. She broke open the gun and inserted two shells, then stood a while longer beside the truck, scanning the countryside now so radically altered. Several doves flew quickly down the arroyo. The sky boasted a thousand cloud formations. In spots, sunshine glittered blindingly off white ice.

She meandered about 30 yards in front of the truck and hesitated. Her young body was firm, slightly chunky, powerful. The world exists only for 20-year-olds, he thought. He realized he would never forget this naked girl holding a gun in all that empty space, silhouetted against the sky. He had a camera, but dared not risk a photograph.

She raised the gun and pointed skyward, sighting. He followed her line: A large hawk was circling. He was thinking Of course she won't pull the trigger when she fired. Feathers puffed around the raptor and it flapped its enormous wings heavily, holding in place until her second blast took its life. The wings went lax and the redtail fell to earth like a rock trailing feathers against the radiant sky. White beads of hail splashed in all directions when it smashed to earth.

His heart had dived with the hawk.

She sauntered over and took an arrogant stance above it, looking down. Then she broke open the gun and settled it in the crook of her arm as she stooped, lifting her prize. She faced him, spreading the wings, displaying the enormous sagging hawk in an irreverent posing attitude: Look at my macho trophy.

He was too stunned to react. She grinned and held the painful grin for a long time. A huge black rain cloud was forming behind her. Finally, he heard her voice:

"Hey, look at me. I got it!"

As slowly, mischievously, she walked back under his dazed eye, he could think only that he hated her. And had a question to ask: Why? She dumped the corpse into the pickup bed, then leaned into the cab to retrieve her clothes and dressed slowly, pausing often to regard the ever-changing weather conditions. Her skin was blue and goose-pimply, but she refused to acknowledge the discomfort. She was enjoying his confusion. At least a half dozen other hawks circled above the fields of stubble, seeking prey.

After she had entered the truck, shut the door and started mixing another vodka, he said quietly, "Get rid of it."

"No."

"You don't know how against the law it is to kill one of those. We'd be fined a million dollars."

"You're not telling me anything I don't know."

"It would be awful. Front-page news in all the papers."

"So what?"

"For starters, they'd crucify me."

"Do you ever think of anyone except yourself?"

"Why did you do it?" he finally managed to ask. "To ridicule me?"

"I like the risk."

"It's a protected species."

"Precisely. I wanted to see if you'd hate me."

"It worked. I hate you."

"Good. Now you know how I feel. I was getting tired of your goody-two-shoes act. A hawk is no better or worse, or deserving of life, than a dove or a grouse or a trout."

It wasn't hatred, actually; it was more like a profound despair. He had a strong urge to cry. He also had an erection.

"You really can't take it home with us."

"Says who?"

He stepped outside, retrieved the hawk and carried it over to a cluster of willow saplings. The bird weighed less than he would have expected. All its bones were hollow, most of its bulk was feathers. Sick at heart, he tossed it unceremoniously into the thicket. A smaller hawk, circling overhead, screeched. A few teal flew by quickly, heading north toward the reservoir. He hoped never to kill anything again.

•

As they headed away on a dirt road, she said, "Nothing really affects you, does it? You're dead inside. You're a complacent old fart. You're like a zombie. You're afraid to stand up for what you believe in. You're afraid to hit me. You're so fucking polite you make me puke."

Then she leaned over and opened his fly and began to suck him. Moments later, he pulled over and they made love. It was rough and spectacular. He was lost and helpless in a place he'd always wanted to visit but never had the guts to try. He raped her in hatred and she clawed him back.

Fear made the orgasms wonderful.

But as soon as it was over, she began to cry. Tears poured out of her, and though she put on a sweat shirt and a down jacket, she couldn't keep from shivering, and her teeth chattered. When they returned to the road, he put the heater on full blast, but it did no good. Finally, he glided onto the shoulder and braked.

"Are you OK?"

"Do I look OK?"

He reached for her, but she pushed his hand away. "Leave me alone. I don't want to touch you ever again."

He said, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, I bet you are."

•

On September 23rd, the genie returned to her bottle, and the bottle disappeared on a shuttle headed south to the airport. All she left behind was a short piece of writing faintly scented by her perfume. At first, he could not read it. Then he would not read it. He thought of tearing it up but resisted that temptation. Forget his personal emotions, he still possessed a professional curiosity. But he delayed the reading for a while, trying to sort through what had happened. Finally, after dark, he opened the envelope and read her story.

"X loves a man older than her father. The problem is, he's dying. He used to be young and an athlete, but of course that's all over now. None of this matters to her, however. But with him it's a great weight he cannot slide off his shoulders. He is ashamed of his own weaknesses and intimidated by her youth. Even at this late date, he still thinks it's his obligation to be immortal. She could care less and would gladly have put school, career, even her sexuality, on a back burner in order to be with him if only he had the guts to untether his passion, whatever the cost. But he fears the price will be his life and cannot muster. Almost from the start, she sees in him this reticence and realizes her heart will soon be broken. No matter, she decides to take a risk and then live with the pain forever. True love is rare enough in this day and age, and for whatever odd reasons, she feels true love for his crippled being. He fights her every step of the way, yet shares with her some of the beauty that moves him. Nevertheless, his fluttering heart is in a cage and she cannot reach it. To his credit he does not ask for pity and she has none to give. In the end, he is an empty promise and she never opens the gift of herself for him to savor. All the same, when it's over, she feels a terrible pain inside, a stab of fire and ice at the center of her being, which may never go away. Yes, X is still young and foolish, but in spite of that, she has the wisdom to realize that only rarely in her life will her own heart be touched as vividly by another person. Too bad, however--the moment is over. They made a choice, life goes on, why be bitter?"

He read the piece over several times. It made him angry--she didn't understand. Then it flustered him and made him sad. "No," he said aloud. And then, "Yes." Then he didn't know what to think about it or how to reply. He was ashamed. If only he could explain.

That night, he lay in bed unable to sleep, writing her a long letter in his mind. He apologized, then retracted the apology. Well, she was just too young, that's all. Around three A.M., he finally took a pill and fell asleep.

Next day, he wrote a long letter to the girl. He typed for almost an hour, speaking of small daily tribulations, an odd comment overheard at a café, a flock of geese that had passed high overhead while he was on his bike near the bank. He wanted to say other things but was oddly off-balance, reluctant. Of course, he asked about her health; he worried. It seemed tacky to end with great protestations of love, and so, though that was how he felt, he never mentioned it. Then he typed her address on an envelope, inserted the letter and sealed it, and pedaled over to the post office.

After the letter was gone, he wanted it back. Well, he could write another. No, it was better just to let sleeping dogs lie.

In the distance, thunder rumbled. Confused, he wondered if it might snow.

" 'No way,' she sang, performing impromptu dance steps, 'I'm too young to be saddled and tamed.' "