Isaac and Rachel: A Love Song



 

Isaac and Rachel: A Love Song

Analepsis/Prolepsis.

This is how his father was. Opportunity for prayer, which the old man couched in the secular giving thanks, lay open everywhere, a ubiquitous pressing together of fleshy palms, a collision of large-fingered hams pruning the air, centering the world. This is what the son noticed most, those meaty and majestic pink hands--and the worn patches of corduroy near the knees of his father's trousers. At dinner, over post roast and buttered rolls, a pleasantly distanced muttering would issue from his father's lips, the hum of a faultless fan whirring through words reduced to sounds reduced to pauses. The son would look into a spoon, flip it over, catch the curvature of his reflection--a mooning face spread like cream over the outer edges of the silver. This is how the son was. Quietly, his head bowed, he'd listen to his father's words--throaty, coarse consonants and curdled vowels funneled together into a mist of liquid supplication--which settled over the braised beef, over a bowl of kernelled corn. In the pauses he thought of Rachel, her nipples burnt and brown and rolling stiffly between his fingers. Sometimes he thought of nothing.

Prelude.

Sometimes, too, he thought of hillsides. As a child his father would take him up steep inclines, would motion to the sky, would tell him exactly where God lived. Now, most days after school he'd drive with friends to a sandwich shop, have a foot-long turkey sub on a whole wheat roll, gaze absently at freshly chopped fixings glistening in stainless steel buckets behind the sneeze guard. On these occasions he could imagine himself becoming his father; with watering mouth he'd given silent thanks for green pepper slices and fresh tomatoes, for the terrestrial wonder of black and green olive wedges, for rings of red onion. Mayonnaise and bits of moist bread collected in his molars, mortared in place by the plastered chew of potato chips, a paste of salt and dough. On Fridays, Rachel would meet him here after work, her lips stained a faint, sweet green from wheat grass juice, and they would drive to a sunny stretch of hill about seven miles out in the country. On a soft plaid blanket, she'd lay herself open to him, her legs taut, and he'd maneuver himself over her, rest between her on raw kneecaps, kiss honey or (when all else failed) Diet Dr. Pepper from her smallish breasts. Breathless after, she'd dart half-formed stories into the air; and he, for his part, would half-listen, would stroke her nipples, brown, braised, obliquely alive--large flat saucers glazed with his own saliva and hard with the ghost of his tongue. Home, he'd change his clothes and move languidly to the garage, watch his father mutter strange words over sandpaper and wood. It was his father's halting, breathy music that drew him here--his father's song. His father prayed so often, he told the boy once, because heaven is everywhere. God is everywhere.

First Movement.

In the fall he played football for his high school Rams, a one-hundred-and fifty-eight pound defensive lineman, a position traditionally held by much larger boys. His coach liked the boy's speed around the end, the length of his arms and stride, the enormity of his hands. He had his father's hands, meaty and pink--hands which when thrown into the air, fisted, must have looked to quarterbacks like the hairless heads of a pair of sinister darting cherubs. Extending his fingers, he'd gum the velocity of outlet passes, deflect quick slants over the middle--everything thrown near him fluttering wounded to the turf. His father would sit in the stands, his hands clasped into one large knot, muttering his songs. His mother sat mostly still, clapping politely when the situation seemed to call for it. After games, the three of them would head to Ruby Tuesday's, where they'd stuff themselves on salad, on meatless nachos. His father would drink wine, his mother and he iced-tea. Once, he watched his father kneel beside the table, still clutching his napkin, giving thanks. Two waiters in the corner whispered, nudged a third--a young woman who turned and blushed as her gaze collided with the boy's own. He wondered in passing if his father was grateful for the food, or for his family, or for his son's graceful heroics on the football field. When his mother bowed her head, the boy gently replaced the peppershaker and clasped his own hands dutifully together. He, too, had much to be thankful for. Dropping his eyes, he stared at his reflection--dull and oblong, and twisted ludicrously across the beveled edge of a ketchup bottle.

Second Movement.

The sky was unusually clear, the weather unusually mild. His father began spending more and more time in the garage, sawing, sanding, sawing some more. The boy would walk in, offer his father a Pepsi, ask if maybe he could help a little, maybe give a hand hoisting some of the heavier pieces of wood. His father would only smile, mumble something about "his project," shake his head no. The table the old man was building was quite beautiful, really--handcarved and polished, the legs and molding richly curved, intricately notched. This is the table of the lord, his father told him. The boy nodded yes, of course it is, offered his own lazy smile. His father wiped sweat from his forehead with a flannel sleeve, returned his attention to his work. The son would look around, would take in everything, would remark on nothing. Instead, he would blink. And blink. Then, suddenly restless, he'd think of Rachel, think of the warm and softly sanded curve of her thighs, think of that salty place he loved to visit inside her.

Third Movement.

The son lay in bed one evening, his hands on his belly, his fingers extended and buried beneath the elastic lip of his boxers. Outside his window he noticed a sudden flash of pink light, a light that hung, softening, like a pale veil fluttering just beyond his grasp. He thought about lifting his head from his pillow, but in an instant, his head too heavy, he decided against it, rolled instead onto his side. He listened to his father shuffling around outside the door, to the soft creak of wood under the old man's gently thudding feet. He could hear his father praying. The prayers, as always, seemed wordless, but they swelled, nonetheless--eventually and inevitably--into a rumbling of song, a collection of hums and trills that built steadily into an abrupt and prolonged silence. He took a deep breath. Turning his eyes to the ceiling, to the fresh dark, he noticed in one corner a scratch of moonlight, a tiny abrasion clinging awkwardly to the wall. An angel's scar, his mother used to say. As he closed his eyes he heard a second creak of wood, his father standing now, as he imagined it, spurred into motion by some invisible mental tick, footsteps bumping slowly away. The sound ushered him to sleep. He thought, what time is it anyway? He said, now I can rest.

Fourth Movement.

The next morning he was awakened by his father, who stood dumbly over the boy's bed smiling. The son rubbed his eyes, said, everything ok? What's up? He was hungry. Pray with me, his father said--and the old man kneeled suddenly, clasping the boy's hands. The boy thought, what time is it? He remembered the song of the night before, the strange, strained warble outside his bedroom door. It was just past dawn now, and the early morning light poured through the room, framing his kneeling father in a golden halo, a poetically appropriate shroud, the boy thought, of dust-honeyed air. Obediently, the boy closed his eyes. But no words came. No words ever came. No words, no sounds. It was Sunday, and he and Rachel would head to the hillside today, where they'd give themselves to each other again and again--no longer awkwardly (they'd begun to share cadences, the invisible music of familiarity), no longer ashamed (he was a man now; and she, for all intents and purposes, a woman). The truth be told, he'd been ashamed for some time, though she never seemed uncomfortable at all--ashamed, that is, of those things his father'd taught him could be quelled with words, with the simple performative of faith. But words never came, and faith, he knew, was just another word, just another spurt of sound forced from teeth and lips and blown plaintively through the nose. His mind, he always fancied, worked in images, in fleshy and silent streaks of color thickened by light and shadow and shaped beyond the reach of conventions. Real things, he thought. My things. Or our things. He pictured himself with Rachel, the two together a tangle of limbs and oils and breathless flicking tongues, slack, searching, warm. This was the thing he savored, a thing more powerful than mere belief, a scented presence more powerful than the words he could muster to describe it. I made breakfast, his father said suddenly, still holding his son's hands. Eggs and bacon and buttermilk biscuits. The boy sat up, rubbed his eyes. What's the occasion? he asked. His father's eyes darted toward the open window. Thought you might be hungry, is all, he said.

Fifth Movement.

They loaded the table from the garage into the back of the pick-up, fastening it down with heavy rubber cords and rope. His father's eyes looked bloodshot still, and as they climbed into the cab, the boy asked him if he'd like some more coffee. I can fill a thermos, he said. Not a problem. The old man shook his head. From the highway, his father turned the truck off onto a dirt road, a rural climb leading to the hill where he and Rachel spent those afternoons. The boy gazed through the side window, watched weeds bend past, bowing to the wind and the gentle upward slope, soft and feathery as a woman's hair. He felt a throb in his groin, the guilty stalk of an unwarranted erection. What are doing here? he asked. His father didn't answer right off, rather kept his eyes fixed on the road. Dust sprang from the tires, whirled around the rush of hood, a cloud of soft brown. Dad? the boy said. Without looking over, his father dropped a meaty paw on his son's leg. Got a man who's interested in the table, he told him. Needed your help lifting the damned thing. He threw the boy a quick glance. You don't mind, do you? The boy scratched his head, said nothing, and his father laughed. From the top of the hill, he and Rachel had watched the sun set, had looked below into fields of nothing, grass, wildflowers, patches of earth. There was no man to meet, he knew, no table for sale--but he said nothing. Instead, he pictured Rachel fumbling for her blouse, blushingly pulling it over her head while he kneeled obediently, still kissing her naked thighs, her knees, her calves. At the top of the hill, his father rolled the truck to a stop and fumbled it into park.

Climax.

The table teetered on the uneven curve of the grassy hillside, as so his father turned it several times, finally setting it down at a slight tilt. Rocking it, he frowned, put his hands on his hips, stared at the cut of the wood, at the strength of the polished legs. Secure enough I guess, he said. The lacquered top, the boy noticed, looked like a slice of water miraculously framed--holding the sun easily in a barely rippled stillness. Where's the man supposed to meet you? he asked. Up here? He made a show of looking around, of squinting solicitously. He feigned innocence. Odd place to pick up a table, he said. Guy didn't say anything about his living in a cave, did he? His father remained quiet, pulled a toolbox from the cab and dropped it heavily beside the table. Stooping, he unclasped the two locks with two quick metallic clinks. He pulled out the top tray, set it down gently on the grass. The boy thought of Rachel, imagined her stretched over the table top, imagined himself making love to her on the ornately carved altar spread before him. He thought, here is where I'd like to fuck her, above the ground but beneath the sky, almost like floating. Floating, but still heavy. Still grounded. He thought of God, imagined for an instant God as a song, a string of mysterious words he knew he'd never be able to summon as his father did, words he knew he'd never comprehend. God is everywhere, he thought. He watched the old man fumble through the toolbox, listened to the clank of shifting metal, the spill of loose nuts and screws and hinges. The boy looked to the sky, muttered a quick, inarticulate prayer. His words were false. He couldn't pray this way, in words. This is how the boy was. Words to him meant nothing. When he saw his father finally unsheathe the large knife--the old man's eyes a limpid puddle of what the boy supposed were holy tears--he smiled, having already spread himself resolutely over the slick slab of stained wood.

Coda.

The sky glowed soft and white. He squinted dreamily into the light, his eyes moving from cloud to cloud, gatherings of celestial wool. He imagined Rachel, imagined her tears, imagined her dragging the plaid blanket to a dumpster somewhere, imagined her cursing that blanket, cursing him, pounding her fists against the steel. He thought, if only she were here to stop the blow. He thought, if only she knew how much I loved her, how deep was my faith. He thought, if only I could find the words to say those things. But no. Those belonged to him. It was this he hoped she understood. Then, then, he was certain, she wouldn't cry. Then, he thought, she'd learn to forgive him.

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