A Night with My Sister

A Night With My Sister

A Winter's Tale of Incest and Love

by Peter_Cleveland

* * * * *

Author's note:

This is a love story. A love story needs two people and an obstacle they must overcome before they can love fully.

Often the lovers' obstacle is a

concept

society dreamed up; which is to say, a

word

. Romeo and Juliet are

Montague

and

Capulet

(respectively). Launcelot and Queen Guinevere's love is

adultery

--not the sort of offense the king can turn a blind eye to forever. As for siblings Richard and Sandy, in the present story: doesn't

incest

sound like... something really

awful?

So: before they can love fully and have glorious sex, the lovers must struggle against

words

that are false to their experience, struggle to find new words that work. Writers do the same (usually without the glorious sex at the end). For their help in that struggle, this writer thanks his wife, Tennesseered, and JBEdwards. Apologies to Brian Wilson, Molly Bloom, and the state of Vermont.

* * * * * 1

For a moment, words failed me. "I'm sorry, Sandy," I tried. "It may all work out.... This probably happens to almost every couple at some point.... Not to downplay your experience.... I don't want to say 'It's perfectly normal,' but... "

Sandy gave me a look; then she drained her glass and poured in more of the

sauvignon blanc.

A gust of wind slammed rain loudly against the picture window. Then a fair-sized branch

flumped

onto the front yard, too close to the cars in the driveway for comfort. I should check the basement, I thought, pouring myself a second glass of wine.

I pontificated. "I don't think nature designed men to be sexually exclusive for any length of time. I'd bet women are built the same, but all their lives society trains them to suppress their sexuality. Keep sex scarce, then exchange exclusive sex rights for security. Maybe that made more sense in 1900.... Men don't get that lifetime of training that going against nature requires."

Okay, so maybe social anthropology isn't my strong suit.

Sandy looked me in the eye. "Women have changed, Richard. Times have changed."

"And for the better," I agreed. "But people are changing at different rates and in different directions. Why don't you ask Mom... if you ever succeed in getting to her place?"

Sandy looked incredulous. "Ask her what? If Dad ever cheated on her?"

"And how she handled it...."

"Are you crazy?"

"...

If

it happened. Maybe he didn't. Look, Mom was married for, what, 45 years? You're her daughter and a married woman. She loves you and cares about you--though don't expect her to make that obvious. Dad is gone. Why wouldn't she talk about it now if she thought it would help you?"

"I'll keep it in mind as a possibility. If I ever get to see Mom this winter. I guess driving up to Vermont in February wasn't that great an idea, huh?"

"No," I agreed.

"In my defense, they predicted a little rain and snow... nothing like this."

Sandy took another sip of wine. "I had to get away, Richard. Which sounds funny because we had just separated... Claude and I. Nobody knows that yet besides you. I just have to talk things through with someone I trust before things go any further. My best friend is off on a cruise. Somehow Mom seemed the best of the remaining options."

We sat side-by-side on the sofa. I pulled Sandy's shoulders to mine, hugged her, kissed the side of her head. "I'm glad you quit driving when you got to Hartford," I said. "The flooding around here is bad enough. Up in Massachusetts they're having a big snow, and Vermont is probably worse. I doubt you'd make it into Vermont today. Stay here and let Big Brother take care of you for a day or two."

"I'd like that," she said. We snuggled as rain pelted against the windows. The lights dimmed then recovered. Sandy brought her lips to my cheek and gave me a sisterly kiss.

Then she let out a long sigh. "But it's not just Claude's wandering eye, Richard. Or, more precisely, penis. That's not even the most important problem, if you can believe that--just the easiest to put a name to. Does that make any sense to you?"

I nodded. Been there, done that. She continued.

"It's true as far as it goes. The bigger problems aren't so easy to grasp, let alone explain. Our marriage is just so

not working,

on so many levels. I'm exhausted from all the effort I've been making, trying to make it work. Claude probably feels the same way. I'm not saying everything is his fault. I don't even blame him... much... for looking elsewhere. God knows, I wouldn't mind having some comfort like that myself."

"You've tried counseling?"

"Most recently, a year ago. We should probably give it one more try. I don't know if that would fix anything. Maybe it would help to clarify things."

I held Sandy tighter, stroked her long brown hair. At first she stiffened at the touch of her head, but soon she relaxed and gave herself to it, even placing a hand on my leg in response. In our childhood home, affection was seldom expressed verbally, even less often physically. Sandy and I might have hugged each other ten times in our entire lives--usually as congratulations for something or other; probably at each other's wedding. And once, memorably, when she was home from college for Christmas. It took years for me to learn that it's not enough just to feel affection. You have to communicate it, and to do that well you have to touch.

"I should call Mom," she said, after a minute. "Tell her I'm safe.... Tell her not to wait up for me." She sighed. "Tell her she was right about driving to Vermont this weekend.... She'll want to speak to you too."

"That's fine."

But first we spent five minutes in silence, just snuggling on the sofa, listening to the wind and the rain, listening to each other's breathing, feeling the warmth of each other's bodies. Getting in touch again with how much we cared about each other. She lived only a couple of hours away, but we hardly ever saw each other.

It's funny: I had always thought of her as

my sister,

never quite thought of her as a woman. But today somehow I could see more of her. She was physically attractive, smart, complicated, warm, hurting, stressed. Needing a little understanding, sympathy; needing love. She was not only a sister but fully an adult human being in her own right. Amazing, the obvious things one can be oblivious to.

Sandy turned, smiled, squeezed my hand briefly. "I'd better call Mom," she said. "How 'bout if I take you out to dinner afterwards?"

I looked out the window again. In weather like this, there should be plenty of tables available. We shouldn't have any trouble with the roads if we stayed local.

"Sounds good," I said. "Thai?"

Sandy smiled and nodded, rose, and headed towards the dining room to retrieve her phone. I admired her pretty, slim bottom as she walked away.

* * * * * 2

Bangkok Delight

sounds like a massage parlor, but it is actually a nice little restaurant on Main Street. Sandy looked much more relaxed, almost happy, as we worked our way through our

pad thai

and

pad see ew

. We drank water, as we had decided to go out for a drink after dinner.

Sandy wanted to reminisce, not dwell on current problems. Naturally, she eventually came to The Night of the Neanderthal Big Brother. At least that put a smile on her face.

It was Christmas vacation, about 20 years ago. Sandy had come home from her freshman year at college; I had come home from graduate school. That night Mom and Dad were out late at a Rotary Club function or something. While I was enjoying some solitude in my old bedroom, Sandy was in the living room entertaining a guy named Ben, a former boyfriend from high school. I tried not to imagine the entertainment in detail as, in T-shirt and undershorts, I caught up on some back issues of

Aviation Week

.

From downstairs, the word "No" kept reaching my ears... with increasing volume and increasing frequency of repetition. "No, Ben... I said no!... Not tonight!... Get your... Ben, NO!"

I thought, Please, Ben, don't make me get dressed, come downstairs, and cause a scene. Don't make me act out a role every guy has learned from the movies and TV: Defender of the Maiden Sister's Virtue. But Sandy's protests kept getting more emphatic and louder, so I put on some trousers and Dockers and descended the stairs to the living room. Okay, here goes.

"Enough!" I shouted then dramatically pointed to the door. "Get out!" Ben, who was on the sofa, lying on top of my sister, turned his head and gave me a look, as if to say, "Who the hell let the Goon Squad into the house?" That ticked me off--probably because I half agreed with him. Fortunately, he was smaller and lighter than me. I managed to drag him over to the front door then gave him the best imitation of the bum's rush I could manage. I scanned the room. All Ben's clothes must have been connected to his body, however loosely, except his overcoat. I reopened the front door, tossed the coat after him, and closed and locked the door.

By now Sandy was sitting up on the sofa, pants still unbuttoned and unzipped, naked above the waist. This was the first good look I had ever had of her breasts. They were close to perfect--neither big nor small but just right for her frame, with a lovely complex shape. B-cup, maybe? Areolas brownish pink, the size of quarters; nipples thick and poking out invitingly. My sister looked both beautiful and amazingly sexy--in that sweet way that only the "girl next door" type can look when her clothes come off. No wonder Ben had trouble taking no for an answer.

"My hero," she said, ambiguously. But then she stood, jiggling a little in the process. She approached, hugged me tight, chest-to-chest, and said, "Thank you." I breathed easier as we hugged, stroking her hair, caressing her back. She gave every indication of enjoying our intimate though arguably innocent contact. Maybe more arguably than actually: she felt wonderful in my arms. Our embrace continued for a couple of minutes. Then we heard Dad's car enter the driveway, and she quickly redressed.

Sandy swallowed a stir-fried snow pea, smiled, and brought the story to an end. "An evening we'll always remember. The first time I showed my tits to my brother. And the last time anyone made an effort to save my virginity." She giggled. "Even me."

"'Showed'?"

"I could have put my bra and blouse back on while you were seeing Ben to the door. I

wanted

to show you my body, Richard, wanted to share it with you. More than I wanted to share it with Ben. I know this sounds crazy and really warped--you being my brother and all. Look, I was a crazy mixed-up kid, like most 18-year-olds. I had just gone away to college, which makes you crazy enough, and I had just started taking the pill, just in case, and my hormones were going crazy from that too. In the dorm, I'm on this all-female floor, so I'm breathing estrogen with maybe a whiff of oxytocin for like nine hours a day for a whole semester....

"Plus I was in the final days of my virginity, and I knew it, and you know how stressful transitions are, even happy ones. And also I couldn't decide who the lucky guy would be.... Actually, the first guy wasn't so lucky. I think I had the most obstinate hymen in New England. That son-of-a-gun wouldn't budge! It yielded at last, but first it put up one helluva fight. Straight out of

The Old Man and the Sea

--without the fishy smell, though, trust me. Even then, I stood for good personal hygiene, if little else.... It hurt, too!... Anyway, you actually did Ben a favor. My second guy had a much more pleasant experience having sex with me than the first guy did. The second guy was Ben."

I couldn't help smiling.

"I guess I shouldn't be talking like this in public," she reflected, "even if the place

is

named

Bangkok Delight

. But what do I care: I'm from out of town. Next time you take a girl out to dinner, though, you might want to go to that Mexican place down the street."

"You're my sister, and I love you, and you'd have to do a lot more than just talk ribald to make me embarrassed to be with you in public. Next time you're in town I'm bringing you right back here and saying, "We'll have our usual."

Sandy smiled and took my hand. "I think I heard you say, 'I love you.' Aloud. In public."

"So sue me."

"I love you too, Richard. Lots."

Had either of us ever said that before to each other? It's possible, but I don't remember it. Something important just happened. I smiled and squeezed Sandy's hand.

"But on that fateful night...

did

you want me to intervene?"

"I wish I could answer that for you," she said. "Look, today when I say no, I mean it. If I want it, I say yes. Very clearly. Back then, though, I was so confused and so--what's the word?--mercurial. And my hormones were so out of whack, and I was jumping from one role I was playing to another. Probably that night I had no idea what I really wanted. Maybe I wanted someone else to take all the responsibility for my deflowering. At the moment I said no to Ben, I probably really did mean no... though possibly ten minutes later I would have voted yes. I'm

not

offering my earlier self as a role model for girls today, believe me....

"Look, you did absolutely the right thing, Richard, based on every bit of information you had. You were gallant and loving, and I love you for it... among other reasons. And no harm was done. Ben was uninjured apart from his dignity; his dream came true soon afterwards; he's now entirely out of my life; and you and I have a wonderful story that we can chuckle over together forever.

"Plus," she concluded, "despite our puritanical upbringing, I got a wonderfully sensuous hug, and you got to see my tits. In fact, if Dad and Mom hadn't come home at that instant..."

Perhaps fortunately, the sentence was never completed. The waitress came to inquire about dessert, Sandy gave me a wink, and the moment passed. We decided to skip dessert, settle our bill, and move on.

* * * * * 3

My town still has a functioning, old-fashioned Main Street--not as prosperous or as crowded as it had been 50 or 100 years ago but still among the living. The Mulberry Bush Tavern was three blocks down Main from Bangkok Delight. The rain was lighter now though still coming down, turning to sleet in fact, but Sandy was in a good mood and wanted to walk. I put my arm around her waist as we went; she did the same and also leaned her head on my shoulder. With my outer arm I did my best with our umbrella. Everyone seeing us would think we were lovers.

"This is so

simple,"

Sandy said, as we passed the lingerie boutique. "With Claude, every word one of us speaks gets sifted for hidden meanings. Every remark feels like a dig. A random gesture or a look on your face can set off some deep-buried hurt in your mate that you didn't even know existed--like a landmine.... Every ambiguous word or act gets interpreted in the most negative way--nobody gets or gives 'benefit of the doubt.'... Was it like that with you and Wendy too?"

"The last year or two, yes."

Sandy kept going. "Claude and I are absolutely unable to take anything that is said just at face value.... Communicating is Byzantine. It's exhausting.... Living together was exhausting." She took a deep breath of moist, cold air. "Tonight, with you, feels so simple, so

clean

... so

normal.

"

I gave her waist a squeeze. "There's the Mulberry Bush," I said.

"Richard, will you do me a favor?" she asked. "When we go inside, let's be a couple... please?"

"You want to act like a couple?" I said. "Fine. Why not. I'm game."

"I said 'be.' You said 'act like.' Claude and I can argue for hours about shades of meaning--but let's not. Whatever verb you're comfortable with I'll accept."

I collapsed the umbrella. "Let's be a couple," I said, holding the door open for her. She kissed me as she went through.

The Mulberry Bush was more crowded than I expected, and the music louder. We did manage to find a small, round table and two chairs to pull up to it. As I was hanging up our coats, the waitress came by, and Sandy ordered for us. I liked her choice: two mugs of a decent IPA they had on tap. We pulled our chairs close enough that we could talk over the music and the noise. Half the time Sandy's hand rested on my lower thigh. From time to time I'd put my arm around her shoulders. We were both feeling comfortable being "a couple."

After a while, when some uptempo song she liked started playing, Sandy stood and tried to coax me onto the dance floor. This was a problem: I dance poorly, and I know it, and I'm extremely self-conscious about it. An unattached young man nearby saw an opportunity and approached. I soon realized that neither of us guys knew what the proper protocol here was. I decided to make his life easier. "You'll have to ask the lady," I volunteered. "I don't object." He asked, and Sandy said yes.

They both danced well, especially Sandy. She moved her body to the music with gusto but also with grace. She looked like a lady, not a dervish--like a lady perfectly capable of glorious abandonment when she wanted but choosing not to go

quite

that far at the moment. She was wearing a bra; even so, her breasts jiggled and swayed beautifully in her clingy dress. She knew how to move her bottom, too--not crudely but still fetchingly. Several improper thoughts crossed my mind.

The song was followed by another fast number, and they danced again. Sandy's cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled, and again her body moved enticingly, both top half and bottom. Minutes later, when a slow song began, she squeezed her partner's hand, kissed his cheek, ran back to our table and grabbed my hand.

"You can dance to a slow song with me, Richard. Up with you!" She was right, and I went with her to the dance floor.

It was a moony love song in 6/8 time, probably from back in Mom and Dad's day. The lyrics were lame enough. The singer loves the surfer girl and wants to ride the waves with her forever and travel around with her in his "woody." He keeps asking if she loves him too. Lyrics aside, the melody was nice enough, and the complex vocal harmonies kind of got to you. As I shuffled about the floor, I found in my arms just what the surfer dude desired: a woman I loved and who also loved me. My sister and I certainly had told each other that enough times tonight, possibly for the first time ever.

And as she had said out on Main Street, it all seemed so simple, so

clean,

so

normal.

No Byzantine effort required, no minefields to be crossed. We'll just ride the surf together, Sandy, while our love would grow. Maybe the lyrics weren't actually that bad. Maybe they spoke not to your intellect but to some irrational, subconscious level of longing and yearning.

As we danced, Sandy held me tight, clasping her chest against mine, caressing my back, a hand occasionally drifting down to my bottom. I did the same, my hand lingering longer below her waist. By the time the song changed key near the end, I was fighting back a tear or two. The world of the song--like the world of that sweet pretend-couple, Richard and Sandy--was so clean. So simple. So uncomplicated. So unlike the other world, of Sandy and Claude, or the vanished world of Richard and Wendy. If only life would stay so clean and simple. If only love would.

As the music ended, we stood and looked at each other for a moment, still embracing. Sandy's eyes were slightly moist. She gave me a sweet kiss on the lips. Then she said, "Take me home with you, surfer boy."

* * * * * 4

My street was black. Not demographically: black as in no streetlights, no porch lights, no ceiling fixtures shining through kitchen windows. Farther down the street a gasoline-powered generator whined. "Shit," I said, eloquently.