Union

Paul O. Jenkins

On a pleasant day in late April as a Kentucky wind crooned in his ear, Michael Morgan examined his ledger. Among credits he recorded the facts that Laura was tall and pretty, and that he was full of the dazzling poetry of youth. Laura, he felt, could re-dew the grass for him, make it sparkle under her gaze through some authority granted only to the blessed. Yet it was this very bliss, this consecration, he considered, that constituted the damning entry in the debit column. Laura struck him as entirely natural, someone who flawlessly navigated the very waters which for him held unseen eddies and whirlpools. As he cataloged his thoughts, Michael heard the wind gather again and watched the grasses bend and straighten, bend and straighten in a pattern so apt both to life and his own predicament.

Bent at the waist, Laura was studying a tiny wildflower, a timid harbinger of spring. He watched her guide a strand of hair around her ear, then wet her lips unconsciously. Suddenly he wanted to leave her alone in the field, grant her sole dominion over the ground to which she so clearly belonged. And as he held the thought he wondered where he might belong. Michael staggered a bit, having lost his balance as the blood rushed to his head, and with a sickening realization, he defined his quandary as unalterable. For he had tried, and could not believe.

Still, it was part of his nature to try and make the best of things, counterattack when the battle seemed lost. He strode up behind her, daintily fondled a lock of her hair and planted a warm kiss on her elegant neck. He felt her rise up and lean into him, willingly forcing him to draw his arms around her waist to maintain their balance. For the moment, they were purely one and depended on the other in equal terms. Michael’s mind was deliciously blank. For a moment, he only felt. He heard nothing, spoke nothing. And yet too soon he was again alone. She had never said that she loved him.

Michael Morgan believed in words, and perhaps only in words. Words on paper were best, for they could always be revised. Next best were words once heard, then recorded forever in the mind for playback. But this physical sharing, torso on torso, so apparently real, escaped him even as he knew he was experiencing it. If only she would say those few words to him! He waited and listened to the joyous song of far-off birds. He wanted to sing her a song of his own now, but felt his voice would break before he might finish. The wind blew back in short fits and starts, as if in pert answer to his longing.

Michael Morgan believed in words, and perhaps only in words. Words on paper were best, for they could always be revised. Next best were words once heard, then recorded forever in the mind for playback. But this physical sharing, torso on torso, so apparently real, escaped him even as he knew he was experiencing it. If only she would say those few words to him! He waited and listened to the joyous song of far-off birds. He wanted to sing her a song of his own now, but felt his voice would break before he might finish. The wind blew back in short fits and starts, as if in pert answer to his longing.

Michael turned Laura in his arms now and saw her smiling at him. There was something eternal about her face. Everyone must love it. He was certain she had been put on earth for the sole purpose of being loved, and how could anything, anyone so simply beautiful ever find satisfaction with what little he had to offer? Overcome by the beauty before him, he swallowed, choking down the thought that he must rise above himself to retain her attention.

Her eyes held him. In their kiss, slow and gentle, wonderfully ever-changing, he was a willing and bewildered participant. It was her world with which she might delight him, her world to enjoy as it should be enjoyed. He wanted her to initiate every kiss, for he preferred following the delicious trails she led him down rather than charting a course himself. Better he should momentarily breathe the air of her world than ask her to enter his.

Yes, he wanted to sing her a song, any song that might make her smile. But before he could draw breathe to begin, she unknowingly cut him off. “You know, Mike, I think I will buy that hummingbird feeder,” she said, apropos of nothing, and shattering the idyll he had created in his mind. “Might as well help one of God’s creatures that’s hungry.”

“A bird-feeder, yes,” he said, thinking all the while that hope was indeed a thing with feathers. So far, they’d avoided a serious conversation about the topic, this gulf of faith, but he’d known right from the start that it would define their relationship. Her conviction was part of what attracted him, of course. How reassuring it must be to know that such a pillar existed. His little world featured no such buttressing. The wind might toss him wherever it would, for he had no anchor. Yet he knew just as clearly that tethering himself to a believer would be no true substitute for real faith. He’d simply be a freeloader, a parasite, leeching from her whatever convictions he lacked and was unable to conceive on his own.

He gave her a final peck of admiration and backed away. He walked down to the small stream, pleased by the gurgling sounds it spread. As he neared the banks he found the ground uneven and strove to maintain his balance. He carefully picked his way around the emerging wildflowers until he found a rock on which he could rest. The warmth it had absorbed from the sun was a comfort to him.

Laura stood for a moment and regarded her friend. He was such a dear, but always that little bit stiff. They were both tall, well-matched, a bit wide in the hips. Musing, she followed him down to the water in a leisurely fashion. She mistrusted the fact that he often seemed to find it difficult to look her squarely in the eye. And then there was that element she’d told herself not yet to dwell on, his pride. More troubling still was the fact that while he seemed to place undue trust merely in himself, she suspected this very self-regard held no firm foundation. He was still so young.

And so unlike Vance. Coloring unconsciously, she remembered what a tremendously good kisser Vance had been. Vance never asked her anything. In fact, he said next to nothing, but his breathe seemed naturally sweet. She recalled the little burn marks that decorated his hands, the result of welding, the job he’d already known would be his vocation. She liked to touch those little ridges whenever they held hands. And, oh, how she had collapsed inside herself every time he brushed his lips against hers. It was something she nearly refused to believe in, so wonderful was the effect. When they held hands after church on Sundays the surge inside her always felt more heavenly than sinful.

Then, one day Vance had simply left town. He had never said a word of good-bye, and Laura had often wondered what she might have done to have lost his affections. She knew that he had found something lacking in her, and she was yet full of doubt. Callous as she knew it would sound if spoken aloud to anyone, she suspected that if she were to state God’s truth, she would admit that Mike was an experiment, a reappraisal of sorts.

As she reached the river now she slipped off her shoes and gave a quick gasp as her feet penetrated the surface. Though the spring day was warm, this wild stream retained an elemental chill. Still, it was pure and lovely, and once you got over the shock of the transition, felt entirely natural. She sought Michael’s eyes and beckoned him with a wave to join her in the water.

“It’s a bit cold still, isn’t it?” he answered. He recalled how much he disliked having to put his socks back on after toweling off his wet feet.

“It’s wonderful,” she replied. “You should try it.” Then, after a pause, she added, “it’s the most natural thing in the world.” She gestured to him again now, willing him to join her.

The wind was tossing her hair about. Everything around him was newly verdant, aroused from slumber. The sounds of bird calls lingered, and the gusts of wind provided a primal accompaniment to the scene. He reached down to untie his shoes, but then checked himself, taking sensible inventory. Motionless, Michael wilted as a surge of jealousy overcame him. He felt powerless, a bystander to a world that so willingly embraced her but that he might only observe. Scorned, excluded, he retied the two bows of his shoes in a tighter knot.

Now Laura was raising her feet with little kicks every few steps, welcomed by the water, delighted to find herself immersed in this river of redeeming love. She would keep covenant with the call she felt rising within her. For a moment she remembered Michael as sat crouched on the opposing bank. One final time she tried to summon his voice within her, but failed. All she heard now was the breeze, and as she felt her toes find union with the riverbed, she longed only to follow an eternal song, one sung graciously by the wind, blowing wherever it pleased, summoned by the force of righteousness.

Published in Issue No. 6, Scriba Vita, March 1st, 2025.

Paul O. Jenkins lives in New Hampshire and often in the past. His stories and poems have appeared in various American, European, and Asian publications.