18
Day 33 – Tack
Crouching by the grill over the fire pit, I flipped the steak Garvey had brought me.
“You survived one month. Treat it as a celebration, make it a feast.” He explained to me on his last visit how food was more than a necessity. He told me about one time he divided a hot dog into two halves for a previous student. The former ate his portion in two bites, and Garvey asked him how it tasted. The student commented that the hot dog was food, perfunctory. It tasted like the layer of ketchup he dumped over his section.
“He wanted it, so he ate it,” Garvey explained. With hand motions, he pantomimed how he sprinkled his with celery salt and added onions. He exaggerated the motions of swirling mustard on top and pressing a slice of tomato between the bun and delicacy. Then Garvey opened wide and pretended to bite. He moaned.
“I explained to him that my portion was a celebration. I seasoned the hot dog to my liking, taking pleasure in the preparation. I thanked the Creator for providing such good offerings and savored the treat. I made it a feast, and I shared it with him. You need to learn to do the same thing.”
I’d thought about what he said, knowing this was one more of Garvey’s roundabout lessons. I drank and I ate and I fucked. I’d made them all something I wanted instead of something I appreciated. The motions had become automatic, and I did them because that’s what I did.
But tonight, I hoped to change all that, starting with this steak. I flipped it again, attempting not to burn it. The flames were hot in the heat of the evening, and sweat trickled down the side of my face. I’d found a very wrinkled, white linen shirt and some semi-clean army-green shorts to wear. Rolling the sleeves past my elbows, the shirt was still too warm for the tropical heat, but I wanted to look decent in the foolish hope she’d join me. I stared at the flames, praying to whoever might listen that she would appear.
Movement to the right caught my attention, and I glanced in that direction. I turned back to the steak and then took a second look. Standing just outside the tree line stood a vision in white. Her hair hung in waves, tucked behind each ear. I’d never seen it down, other than saturated by the pond. The dress she wore was strapless, puckered in a way that accentuated the straight cut across her breasts. The remainder flowed loosely to her ankles. The material was filmy, and I could see through it, noting that she wore bikini underwear underneath. I blinked as I stood, willing her to not be a mirage, but rather some island goddess come to enlighten me.
As she stepped closer, I saw her fists clench at her sides. She was nervous, and suddenly so was I.
“You look beautiful,” I said, exhaling a breath. She’d taken mine away again when she bit the corner of her lip fighting that smile I desperately wanted to see. Her hands clutched the side of her dress and she pulled it out a little, fanning the material to flutter in the breeze.
“It seemed silly to pack a dress, but my mother taught me at an early age never to go anywhere without at least one.” She let the material fall and looked up at me. Violet eyes took my breath again and I sucked in air. I couldn’t speak.
“It smells delicious,” she said, nodding toward the steak and I noticed the extreme flame.
“Shit.” I knelt immediately and slid the steak to the side of the grill grate. I wanted everything to be perfect and suddenly I was messing this up like an amateur. I wanted wine and flowers, damning Garvey for his feast lecture. And then realized, I didn’t need them. I only wanted her company. We’d make do.
I lived in a luscious wilderness of flowers and noting a white bloom on the tree next to my tent, I walked over to the bush. Plucking the flower, I returned to Juliet holding it out to her.
“I should have gathered more.” We both looked at the star-shaped petals before gazing up at each other. Her smile broke, and the brilliance was greater than the sun. In that moment, I decided I could live off that smile.
“It’s perfect.”
You are, I wanted to tell her again, but I’d already been enough of a sap. Instead, I tucked the flower behind her ear. Her lips curled and I longed to kiss her, but one thing at a time.
“I think this is almost ready,” I said, stepping back to the steak and squatting to flip the meat one last time. “I’m sorry they only brought me one.”
“I don’t want to take your food,” she said, her expression dropping.
“No,” I said, standing. “No, I don’t mean that way. I want to share it with you.” I rubbed up her bare arm, taking the risk to touch her without asking. My body hummed with the simplest connection to her. Motioning for her to take a seat, I set to work removing the steak, cutting it in half and offering her a portion. I’d made rice in a pot, but it didn’t look quite right, the consistency runny.
“I think I messed this up.” Stretching from her log seat to look at the mushy mess, she giggled. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s quite right. It’s okay. I had a bad maggot experience the first week here and I don’t think I could stomach rice.” I grimaced in response.
“No rice then.”
I handed her a cup of water and raised mine.
“To one month on the island.”
“To one month on the island,” she replied before bringing the cup to her lips. We sat in silence a few minutes, slowly eating the rich food that had become an anomaly to both of us. I assumed her diet was similar to mine—canned goods and fruit.
“I feel like I want to ask you everything and don’t know where to start,” I chuckled, feeling awkward in a way I never had before.
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything you want to tell me.” And so, our conversation began. A real conversation, where she told me about where she grew up and how it all changed when her parents died. She only gave me bits and pieces of her trailer park days, skipping ahead to meeting Chellie Brightson and attending college in Baltimore.
“It’s how I ended up at The Front Door. The pay was good, and I needed the income to supplement my scholarship.”
Suddenly self-conscious of my upbringing, I hesitated, but her eyes encouraged me to speak. Mentioning The Front Door closed the door on her history, so I began.
“I went to Georgetown. I thought I’d major in political science, but my father wanted me to join the family business. Corbin Industries owns a shipping yard in Virginia. We’ve begun to merge with other modes of transportation—trucking and railway. That’s my job. Buying up smaller companies and adding them to our dynasty.” The words took a sarcastic twist, and my lips followed the bitterness of my tone.
“And you like doing those things?” she questioned, interrupting my thoughts of the latest acquisition. I’d come to Baltimore and decided to hang with Rick. I’d heard of his club and wanted exclusive rights. He’d told me I could have what was his, but I knew Rick. I had to prove myself to him. Enter Juliet.
“I can be a bad man when I go into business mode. I tend to dominate until I get what I want. I want what I want, and that means taking companies, making them mine, and stripping them of what I need. My father always believed in survival of the fittest. He demands Corbin Industries be at the top.”
“Have you ever considered doing something different? Building something up instead of tearing those companies down? Making something that’s for the good of others?”
“No,” I replied too sharply.
She smiled weakly, and I didn’t like the turn of our conversation. My father was a ruthless man and I wouldn’t have all that I had if he hadn’t been. I wouldn’t be who I was, ruthless myself, without his instruction. But then again, I wouldn’t have done what I did, without thinking I could get away with it, because of who I was—Terrence Jackson Corbin the fourth.
“So why anthropology?” I questioned, deflecting the conversation from my father and the company.
“I’ve always been curious about people. People who are different from me. People who think like me but outside of my upbringing.” She shrugged. “It’s hard to explain.”
“So why aren’t you a shrink?” I chuckled, but her violet eyes pinned me.
“Because I don’t want to dissect one person; I want to understand a whole culture.” The comment made me pause.
“What culture?” The question caused her to open her mouth and then pause. Somehow, I felt we’d circled back to The Front Door, and my curiosity was piqued.
“Did you want to know more about what happened on the third floor?” I asked, hesitantly.
“Not so much that particular floor but a culture of people, a lifestyle. I didn’t understand the desire to be dominated or submissive, for that fact. I want to be in control of my own life and decisions, but in some ways, I’m intrigued. Are submissives really subservient or do they have the dominating power? Aren’t they in control after all—safe words and that sort of thing?”
“Uh…” Fuck. How did this conversation get to this? “Did you want to be a part of that?”
“I want to understand the mentality behind it.” I stared at her. This waif of a woman, who had more strength than I’d witnessed in some men, and she was curious about this.
“Why?”
“Because I—” She stopped.
“Tell me. I want to understand.” I’d set down my plate and leaned back against the stump at my back. I’d chosen the sand for a seat. Feeling satisfied with my feast and her company, this conversation was the most stimulating I’d had in months, even before the isolation of the island.
“I’m curious if the woman really is satisfied. Does the dominant actually care for her, or does he care about her? And how can he keep his emotions separate? How does she? I don’t see how it’s possible. I want to be in control of my life at all times but I’d love for someone to—” She stopped again, her eyes opening wide as she realized she was about to reveal too much. I sat on the edge of my proverbial seat, anxiously awaiting more. My palms dampened, and my mouth dried. Did she want to be controlled?
“You’d love what?” My voice harshly barked.
“I’d love someone to care for me. About me.” She sighed as she shrugged, letting her eyes drop to her plate. My heart did a strange flip of relief. I didn’t want her to be dominated by another. I wanted her to feel safe, confident, capable. She could do these things for herself, but I sensed her hesitation. She didn’t believe in herself, and somehow, I felt I was to fault.
I noticed she hadn’t eaten all of her steak, and I was concerned I’d burnt it too much. But more than the taste of the food, I worried we’d crossed a line that took her too deep into sharing with me. The air felt heavy between us, and I needed to change the subject.
“There’s something I’d like to ask you.”
Her head shot up in surprise, and as much as I wanted to beg her to submit to me so I could show her all the ways she could be cared for, I had other plans.
“Could you give me a haircut and shave?”
“What?” She laughed.
“I can’t stand all this.” I grabbed the hair on the top of my head. “And I’m certain I look like I have mange.” I didn’t own a mirror but tried to use the water to reflect my image. I had splotchy pieces of hair here and there that I could feel but never quite cut.
“I guess,” she giggled again. I stood, went to my tent, and returned with a sharp, straight-edged razor and a shaving mug with soap. She eyed the razor held out to her, aware of the pain she could inflict with it. She’d wanted to kill me one night. I jostled the blade to break her attention.
“I trust you.”