The Last Lightning Bug Of Summer

"I'm sorry to bother, you, Freddie, but do you have a moment? Frank's laid up with his back again."

Joan was at the back door, standing sideways to me and holding a hand over her eyes as she squinted in the afternoon sun. It was an odd pose to take up having already knocked at the door, as if she'd had second thoughts about disturbing me and was about to leave.

"No bother, Joan," I said. "I'm not doing anything. Let me put on some shoes."

"Thank you, Freddie."

She walked just ahead of me across our adjoining backyards to their house, her feet slapping in flip-flops, grass clippings sticking to her bare toes and heels. She was wearing a loose flower-print skirt and a cream tank-top. Her shoulders were a little rounded, as though she might be developing a slight stoop. Her arms were tan after the long summer. I noticed the triceps area was carrying a little extra weight and sagging a little with age. No woman escapes this fate, it seems, no matter what she tries. The male equivalent is old-man ass, the relentless wasting away of the glutes. It's so insidious (I'm told) that your best-fitting pants might drop to your ankles in the middle of the grocery store without a hint of warning. Old age will be hilarious, provided I remember to take along my sense of humor.

Speaking of glutes, I also happened to notice that Joan's rear was in particularly fine shape for her age. (This was three summers ago, and Joan must have been 64, maybe 65 at the time.) Her wide hips and long stride had set up a rhythmic jostling beneath her skirt, her cheeks colliding and rebounding good-naturedly, and with a remarkably youthful resilience. Not for the first time in my life I thanked God for skirts and dresses. Women don't wear them enough these days. There ought to be legislation.

"How are the grandkids?" I said to the back of her head.

"Doing great, thanks."

"How many is it now?"

"Three, with number four on the way."

"Congratulations. Thanksgiving's going to be a houseful."

"It gets more hectic every year." She slowed up slightly until we were walking side by side. "And how about you, Freddie, how are

you

doing?"

Her question was full of implied concern, the news having spread (and how could it not, considering the painfully public screaming matches) that Kelly and I had separated and were now in the early stages of divorce proceedings. Kelly had moved out about six months earlier, taking Chris with her.

"I'm okay, considering," I said. "I'm trying to keep things as amicable as possible."

"I'm sure that's for the best. Do you get to see Christopher at all?"

On average, I have conversations with my neighbors maybe once or twice per year, rarely more often than that. I understand how a family break-up and divorce quickly becomes a hot topic, but it's not like talking about the weather, and I wasn't about to start throwing tinder onto the brushfires of gossip. These were my neighbors, not my friends. Among the households in our development we all (well, most of us) maintain polite distance, valuing the sanctity of privacy above anything else.

"Not as much as I'd like," I said, and left it at that.

Joan surprised me then by reaching out and gripping my forearm. "I feel for you Freddie, I really do. I can't help picturing my own kids in that situation and how devastated they'd be.

I'd

be. If there's anything Frank or I can do for you, just let us know, okay?" She looked at me, and I saw such genuine concern in her green eyes that for a moment my cold marble heart softened.

So, who the hell knows? Perhaps neighbors can become friends.

"I appreciate that, Joan," I said. "That's very kind of you."

She gave me a shy smile, pleased with my reaction. It was a lovely sight, and it took thirty years off her. I smiled back at her with simple pleasure at seeing something so earnest and unadorned.

"It's a hot day to be working," I said, returning to neutral so as not to sour the moment.

"Oh, I'm all done outside," she said, "yardwork's strictly a morning affair this time of year. The basement door's locked, we'll have to go in through the porch."

She began up the steps to their first-floor all-season porch. Again I let her lead, timing my ascent so my face would be on a level with her ass all the way up. To do otherwise would have been a wasted opportunity.

"I do envy you this porch," I said, when she opened the door. On the threshold I turned to look back across the yards at my own house with its builder's-grade standard pine deck and faded sun umbrella: two-season, tops. "Something like this would be perfect for me."

"Maybe when things have, you know, settled down? It would be a nice distraction."

"Maybe so. We'll see how much money's left when it's all over. Ha."

As we entered the porch Frank came through the door from the house. He walked stiffly, as though wearing an invisible suit of armor and not the baggy shorts and T-shirt I could see.

"Freddie, how you doing?"

"My God, Frank, you're a state. I'm sorry to hear you're not well."

I noticed there was a translucent plastic collar around his neck, tight up against his chin.

"Goddamn back again. They trussed me up like a hog."

"Frank," Joan said, "that's not what trussed means."

"Whatever. It's like medieval torture back here."

He turned around to show me the collar extending down the back of his neck and inside his shirt, a brace of some kind that terminated at his lower back. When he completed his rotation I saw the shape of a buckle or clasp around his waist.

"They want him to move his spine as little as possible for the next three weeks."

"And it'll feel like three months."

"No bending forward or sideways, although he can sit down, thank goodness."

"I'm sleeping on a board, too, as if all this wasn't bad enough."

"That's really rough, Frank," I said, "I hope this takes care of it."

"He's getting another MRI in three weeks," Joan said. "If there's no improvement we could be looking at surgery."

"Ugh, back surgery scares the hell out of me."

"You and me both, buddy," Frank said. "But anyway, thanks for coming over to help. Joan's got a bee in her bonnet about some dishes in the basement. She was on at me for weeks."

"No problem. It's probably a good thing you put it off, considering."

Joan pursed her lips, and I wondered if she might be partially responsible for Frank's condition. Perhaps Frank had tried already to move the dishes, and...

"It's just a couple of boxes I need brought up," she said, her tone uncharacteristically flat.

"Well," I said, sensing some tension, "I'm happy to help out if I can. Down in the basement, you said?"

"Yes, through the kitchen," Joan said, and started towards the house door.

"Listen," Frank said, "thanks again, buddy. It's a big help."

"Anytime, Frank, anytime."

Frank and Joan's basement consisted of a den with two puffy sofas, a large TV on the wall, and a pool table overhung by a low canopy of spotlights. Beyond a set of double doors was an area twice as large as the finished room, with much of the floor space occupied by what I assumed was a full marriage's worth of accumulated junk.

"It's my mother's dinner service," Joan said. "Actually, my grandmother's. I can't bear the thought of it sitting there when it could be put to good use."

"Marcy's getting married?"

"Not yet. She and her boyfriend are getting a place together. I think they might be able to use it."

Joan stepped to the right, where two large cardboard boxes had already been dragged away from the wall into the middle of the bare concrete floor.

"Here we are," she said. "This is as far as we've gotten."

And to my surprise, she hitched up her skirt, squatted down before one of the boxes, and attempted to reach her arms around it as though about to hoist it from the floor all by herself.

"Whoa, Joan. Hold it. Wait!"

I rushed over and positioned myself on the opposite side of the box, a cube of about two feet on side. I squatted and placed my hands on top of the box.

"What are you doing? Isn't this why you asked me over? We don't need both of you in traction at the same time, do we?"

"No, you're right. I don't know what I was thinking."

I was alarmed at the look on her face, which had suddenly contorted into an expression of pure misery.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, it's just, this has gotten all out of hand. We've already fought about it, more than once. And then Frank threw his back out and, well, it's just so silly and it's causing all this grief. And now I've dragged you into it and Frank thinks Marcy won't even want this stuff."

She lowered her head to her arms on top of the box. I thought she was about to cry. Things had turned strange in a hurry and I was feeling bewildered.

"Joan, hey, listen. Joan."

I reached across the box and placed my hand on her arm. It must have been because she'd done the same to me just a few minutes earlier, otherwise I wouldn't have dreamed of touching her.

"Listen, whatever's going on it sounds like there's been a big fuss made over some pretty small potatoes. Little stuff like that doesn't stay a problem long."

"No, you're right." She looked up at me then and I was relieved to see she wasn't crying. She just looked weary. "You're right. It's just I feel so bad for Frank."

"You can't blame yourself for that. He'll be just fine in a couple of weeks, I'm sure. You just have to put up with two or three weeks of his bitching, is all. That's your punishment."

She smiled at that.

"Besides," I said, "a man ought to know what he's capable of taking on, and decline when it's above his fighting weight."

I don't know where I come up with this bullshit sometimes, but it was having the intended effect on Joan, whose smile broadened and eyes brightened.

"And the same goes for you," I said, tapping the top of the box. No heavy lifting for you, either."

"You're right, Freddie, I'm sorry. I'm being silly."

She placed her hands on the edge of the box as if to push herself upright, but instead of rising from a squat to a crouch and then standing, she rocked backwards from her squatting position and tumbled onto the floor.

Joan's skirt, already up at her knees, slid back along her thighs as she fell, and at the same time her legs opened wide in an automatic bodily response to the imbalance. She stopped herself with her forearms against the concrete (she didn't hit her head, thank God) and a moment later she had propped herself up on her elbows.

I can't say for sure how long that 'moment' was, however, since I was completely distracted by the pale fleshy femscape in the foreground, rich with details that my eyes raced to transmit to my brain on an urgent, high-priority basis.

Joan's thighs were long and robust, solid hams proportioned to support the wide hips above. The skin was slightly puckered and almost completely without pigment from lack of natural light, implying a lifelong modesty that made this sudden disclosure all the more compelling. Her underwear had ridden up her butt crease and the gusset stretched tight to reveal the outlines of labia. A patch of perspiration darkened the fabric where the body heat was greatest. Below the knees her slack calves curved gracefully and tapered to narrow ankles. I noticed her big toes were huge and misshapen, almost sitting on top of their immediate neighbors.

When I did finally glance up I saw Joan had been watching me look at her.

"How embarrassing," she said, without a hint of embarrassment. She wasn't smiling, exactly, but there was an expectancy, a kind of amused curiosity in her expression, as though she was waiting to hear my verdict. She still hadn't closed her legs.

"Are you all right?" I said finally. I was having trouble swallowing.

"Oh, I'm fine," she said, rolling to one side and drawing her knees up beneath her. I stood and stretched out a hand to help her to her feet. "When you get to my age, sometimes your limbs don't do what you tell them to do."

She slapped at her skirt with her hands then reached up to check her hair. In all the time I've known her, I've never seen Joan's hair be anything but perfectly set. It was cut relatively short, away from her face and falling not quite to her shoulders at the back. It was styled and curled--big open curls--in a way that looked as if it took an hour plus half a can of spray to fix every morning. Even after the tumble, it was still perfect.

"No harm done," she said, and gave a little laugh.

"I didn't mean to stare."

"That's all right, Freddie. I'm flattered by how long you took. What's the saying? The only thing a woman hates more than men checking her out is when they stop checking her out."

She'd stepped away from the box and was standing to one side against the wall to make way for me to get the job done.

"It was time well spent," I said.

I positioned myself in front of the box and began to crouch, thought better of it, then straightened up and walked over to Joan. I put my hand on her waist and kissed her lips.

Her mouth was tight, her lips firmly closed. I persisted for a few seconds, no more than three or four, then relented. I pulled back a few inches from her face. She drew in a sharp breath and her eyes darted about my face. As I was about to withdraw, she quickly lunged forward and kissed me on the mouth. She pulled back again and a nervous smile flickered on her lips before a look of alarm crossed her face.

Sensing a moment that would otherwise vanish forever, I lowered my hand to the top of her hip then down to the outside of her upper thigh, squeezing a handful of her through her skirt. At the same time, I resumed the kiss, this time finding her lips loose and her mouth open. Her body was tense but I could feel her give way as our mouths properly connected and the communication of desire began to flow like electric current.

My left arm slid around her waist to the small of her back and pulled her towards me. She responded by putting her hands behind her butt and bracing herself against the wall, pushing her hips forward so her belly was against my crotch. My right hand rubbed her thigh, working from the side to the front, caressing harder as I went. Inevitably I arrived at the apex of her legs--her primal gateway--and felt an involuntary surrender of her thigh muscles as my hand worked in, all this time with the clenched fabric of her skirt in my bunched fingers as they opened and closed, opened and closed.

A moment later she tensed again, withdrew her mouth from mine, and put her hands flat against my chest.

"Freddie, Freddie, stop. Stop," she said with a sharp exhalation. "We can't do this. Frank will be wondering what's taking so long."

I released her immediately and stepped back, raising my hands, but saying nothing. She was breathing heavily, looking everywhere but at me and once again smoothing out her skirt with the backs of her hands.

"We'd better get on," she said.

"Right."

Joan had me place the boxes to one side of the front door of the house.

"Thank you, Freddie."

"My pleasure, Joan. I guess I'll go back the way I came," I said, indicating the back of the house with my thumb.

On the porch I found Frank sitting, uncomfortably, on a recliner. Or rather, he was perched on the edge of the recliner, presumably longing to slouch again.

"All done," I said.

"You're the man, Freddie. And you probably just saved my marriage into the bargain."

"Anything to help out a neighbor," I said, "though I don't think it was ever in any danger. I hope you feel better soon."

"Stop over for a beer one night."

"I'll do that, Frank, thanks."

*

I never did stop over for a beer with Frank. We weren't the type of neighbors who stop over for much of anything; that's just how it was with us and we were all fine with that. But last summer, this happened.

It was late July, around eight o'clock with dusk incoming, and I was out on my deck in shorts and a T-shirt, sipping a beer and reminding myself to take the garbage out to the street later. I had just lit a cigarette when I glanced across the green sweep of the back yards and noticed Joan standing in the open doorway of their back porch, waving to me. She was in her standard summer wear: loose flowing skirt and tank-top.

I waved back, thinking how unusual it was for us backyard neighbors--four houses in a tight cluster on the inside curve of a sharp bend in the road--to acknowledge each other when out back. Unless there's a specific reason to make contact, we pretend the other guy's not there.

Assuming that would be the end of it, I continued to sit and smoke and sip, so I was surprised to see Joan reappear in the doorway, this time holding up what was clearly a wine bottle. She waggled it from side to side then made a beckoning motion with her other hand.

As I say, it was more than two years since Joan and I had our basement encounter. It had never been mentioned again between us (on those rare occasions we actually spoke), and I'd assumed it was a moment in time that would remain unexamined--inert and crystallized, a remnant from an alternate timeline that had briefly intruded on this one. I certainly hadn't forgotten it (I tend to remember the times I grope my neighbors' wives) but I was certain it would never again be spoken into existence.

I gave Joan an exaggerated shrug (our houses are too far apart to speak, and yelling seemed rude), then raised my beer bottle as if to toast her. She responded by shaking her head and again waving me over, with a more exaggerated, insistent motion involving her whole arm.

I shrugged again and stood up, raising my thumb in acceptance. I stepped down from my deck to the yard and walked across the grass to Frank and Joan's house, then up the stairway to the porch.

Joan had disappeared inside when she saw I was on my way, and as I reached the door she was entering the porch from the house, holding two wine glasses by their stems in one hand and a full bottle of red in the other.

"Hi, Joan."

"Hi, Freddie. It's such a lovely evening I thought it might be nice to have a drink on the porch and watch the lightning bugs."

"Nice of you to ask me over."

"Well, I saw you had the same idea and thought, why not share?"

"Frank's not joining us?"

"He has a school-board meeting tonight." She handed me the wine bottle, which had a corkscrew sticking out of the neck. "Could you do the honors?"

"Ah-hah, so this is why you asked me over. You can't get the bottle open by yourself."

"I admit I was struggling a bit. But I also don't like to drink alone. I don't drink much at all, matter of fact, but I used some wine in a steak recipe earlier and thought what the heck and drank the leftovers. Seems I got a little taste for it."

"No explanation needed. I drink alone all the time. It's no one else's business."

I opened the bottle and poured two glasses, then took a seat facing out into the evening, on a wicker sofa with plump cushions.

"Cheers."

"Your good health," she said, and sat down beside me.

"I love this porch," I said. "As good as being outside but with none of the mosquitoes and other irritations. Also, a comfy place to sit."

"I like to watch the lightning bugs. We've had so many this year."

She reached to one side to turn off a standing lamp, and the thickening dusk outside came through the screens to join us on the porch. The window openings were deep, almost reaching the floor.

"Perfect," I said.

"There they are already," she said, and I could hear the delight in her voice.

There was still some ambient light on the porch, mostly dull reflections of secondhand light bouncing off the white-painted walls. I could make out shapes and movement, but no details. The golden pulses of the lightning bugs were suddenly all around.