THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY

PART TWENTY:

There was a gas station just a bit down the road from the restaurant and they went there, both into the side door to the men's room, locking the door behind them. Eden soaked paper towels in water and tried to sponge them off a bit, laughing and hiccupping all the while. Wadsworth barked and Marshall couldn't help but laugh as well.

A loud pounding sounded on the door and a male voice bellowed, "What in hell's going ON in there?"

The door swung inward, revealing a blind man, a large guide dog, and a hiccupping woman. "Um, nothing," Eden giggled. "Absolutely not a thing."  Then she grabbed Marshall's hand and the three of them walked rapidly toward where she'd parked her car by the restaurant.

They were both fairly wet and she spread clumps of paper towels across the front seat before they got in.

"We never had dinner," Marshall commented as she started the engine. His tummy growled.

Eden scanned down the street. There was a fast food place two blocks further with a drive-in window. "Want a burger?" she asked, smiling at his profile in the dim light.

"Anything," he grinned. "At this point, anything."

So, they sat there in the car and ate burgers, fries, and chocolate shakes, and Eden laughed and chewed and forgot how scared she'd been not long before.  There was something so companionable, so rather 'familiar' about eating burgers in a car at night.  And in the near darkness, as she talked with him, it didn't really even seem like he couldn't look back at her.

Martha was busy in her kitchen when they arrived at the inn, so they just hurried up the stairs. In the hallway outside his room, he kissed her again, then said, "I'd better wash off."  The odor from his pants was still rather rank despite her sponging attempts.

She wanted to say, "Need help?"...but didn't.  She wasn't sure why. Maybe she wanted him to suggest it?

He was thinking of it, but somehow with his shoulder the way it was, he...well...he wanted to be whole, be mobile completely when he first made love to her.  Now, any use of his left arm would be impossibly painful, and he wanted more than that for her sake.  Perhaps that was foolish of him? He thought it probably was somehow, but he'd settled his mind into it. It wouldn't be all that long. He was a patient man. He just hoped she was a patient woman.

So he cupped her cheek with his palm, kissed her gently. "I'll see you downstairs in about half an hour."

She stood there a moment in the hall after his door closed, then sighed. How plain the invitation in her eyes had been. But...then...he couldn't see that, now could he?  She knew he loved her, loved to touch her, yet he didn't go further than that. Was it her? Could it be his shoulder?

Was that it? She just wasn't sure. All she knew was that she ached with longing for him every moment she wasn't with him. Was it not the same for him?  She rested her hand lightly on
his closed door, then went to her own room, unzipping her skirt and letting it slide to the floor.

A bubble bath. Yes, if she must bathe alone, a bubble bath.

She went to the small bathroom and ran warm water in the claw-foot porcelain tub, pouring in more of the bubble crystals than she usually would. Disrobing, she snuggled down into the tub, leaning her neck against the back curve, letting her eyes close. After a few minutes, she drifted into a light doze.

Marshall washed very carefully. It was a more complicated process with his shoulder so useless, and as careful as he was, the bit of movement it required, had him clenching his teeth. No, bathing with Eden right now was not right. He wanted to be able to devote his attention to her, not have her have to nurse him through pain. But he wished that were not the case. He wished they were together and his wet hand tingled with the thought of stroking down her sudsy back.

Dressed again, he picked out a CD he'd brought, using his Braille labeling system, and carried it with him down to the parlor. Martha was there, arranging some dried seed heads in a small vase on the side table. "You two have a nice dinner?" she asked fondly.

"Very nice," he replied, then held out the CD. "All right if I put this on?"

"Fine by me," she smiled. "I like your taste in music. You go right ahead, Marshall dear. I've got cookies in the oven I need to tend to."

Eden woke with a start. She hadn't meant to nap. What time was it? He'd said he'd be waiting for her in the parlor. She finished her bath, dressed quickly and hurried down the stairs. The scent of warm cookies filled the air as she crossed to the parlor. Ah, there he was. He was alone, sitting on the couch, leaning back, his eyes closed, listening to music. She didn't recognize it as Puccini's 'O Mio Babbino Caro', she just knew she'd heard it before and that it was lovely.

(NOTE: Click HERE to go to the Marshall index page where there's a button you can click on to hear this piece of music.)

She'd paused at the doorway and stayed there now, just watching him. He had such a quiet, beautiful look on his face, and his right hand was moving.  The sight riveted her.  His hand was moving to the music, not exactly like a conductor's would, but somehow...more. She had no words for it. It moved not with the music but in the music, with an utterly graceful flow of motion. It seemed to her he was touching the notes as they filled the air.

The music changed to a different piece, also one she knew she'd heard before but could put no name to. It had a definite waltz beat to it...one two three...one two three...and with her hand on the doorframe, she closed her eyes. There he was, dressed in an Austrian cavalryman's uniform from the early 1800's, form-fitting white pants tucked into tall black boots, his jacket hung with golden epaulets and roping.  He held out his hand to her, looking her in the eye, inviting her
to dance. She offered her fingers and he swept her out onto a ballroom floor, her long, full gown billowing out as they moved.

Opening her eyes, she watched him again. Suddenly she felt like a voyeur. It wasn't right, watching him so intently when he wasn't aware of her presence. But that was part of being blind, wasn't it? That must happen all the time. You didn't know someone was there until they made
some noise, until they decided to let you know. Her throat constricted. It wasn't right, it just wasn't right, that someone like him was closed into a dark box. 

She realized again with a great piercing that he lived in a differently-perceived world from hers. Even the music. The music was was, for her, a visual thing. Listening to it had led her into the ballroom scenario, a place of color and brightness, a place made alive visually. But not for him. He sat there, listening to the same sounds, but it was all different for him. She couldn't grasp what it was like for him and he wouldn't be able at all to understand what it was like for her.  Tears wet her cheeks and she reached a hand out toward him, though he was completely across the room.

Martha found her standing there like that. "Eden, sweetheart," she whispered. "What's the matter?"

"I can't touch him, Martha. I simply can't touch him."

"Well, not if you stay in this doorway, dear heart."

"That's not what I mean," she sighed heavily. "He's somewhere I can't go. I can't be where he is while he's listening to the music. I'm locked off from it, Martha. Completely."

"Does that mean you can't love him?"

Eden smiled wryly. "There's no way I cannot love him, Martha. But I can't go where he is."

"Not if you stay in the doorway," Martha repeated. "There's trying and then there's watching from the door."

"Trying?"

"Yes, trying. Even if you can't make it all the way, there's still trying. And trying can be a wonderful thing. Trying is a way of saying 'I love you'. Much better than watching and feeling shut out. Much better."  She headed back to the kitchen.

"Trying," Eden said to herself. He'd made the rain as real for her as he could, hadn't he? Maybe he could take her with him into his experience of music?"

She walked into the room, saying his name as she came. He stood, smiling, extending his hand much in the same way she'd imagined in her ballroom fantasy.  She gulped.  It was her own desire that he could see, her own wish that he know color and light the way she did, that made her feel this sense of anger and frustration and sadness for his sake. But he never felt that for himself. He'd said plainly that he couldn't yearn for things he couldn't even imagine. He was

fine and happy as he was. She was the one who suffered for him.  Could she stop that? Could she get to some place where she was as content with his blindness as he was? She knew she needed to.

"Eden," he said happily, "I was hoping you'd come while 'Va' Pensiero' was still on. It's one of my favorites." 

(NOTE: Again, click HERE to go to the index where you can listen to this piece, too.)

She took his hand. "Is that the one that's just ending?"

"It is," he grinned, moving to the table beside the couch where the CD player was. "Let me play it again from the beginning."

She sat beside him on the couch. "It sounds like it would be lovely to dance to," she ventured.

"It's wonderful," he agreed. "But I generally need a large and very empty place to dance. For the safety of others," he added with a chuckle. "Once my mother took me to a gym when it was closed. She brought a tape player and put on music and for the first time I got to lead a woman wherever I wanted without fear of ramming into other couples." His face lit up at the memory.

"Your mother was a wonderful woman," she said quietly.

"She was," he nodded. "But this is what I do in places like we're in now."  He took her hand and placed it crossways atop his own. "Listen," he urged. "Really listen." 

She closed her eyes and he began to move his hand. She had no idea how he managed, but he took her whole soul with him into the music. Forgetting about the ballroom, she let go of preconceptions and found herself in some far reach of space where her spirit lay atop his and the two of them flowed as one through utter limitlessness. And for the first time she understood
that he was not in a box but in this place without boundaries and she was there with him.  There was nothing visual about it, nor any need for it. It was all feeling and awareness and movement and riding on the sound of music. She had never felt so together with another person.

The music ended and still she was there with him, her eyes closed. "I don't want to take my hand off yours," she breathed.

He lifted her hand to his cheek, rubbing it gently back and forth.  "You don't have to."  The next piece began and he took her with him into it.  His presence, his understanding, his grasp of the music radiated somehow into her and she knew they were dancing, that he had taken her, dancing, into the music in some profound, inexpressible way.

When the CD ended, he let his hand settle into her lap, her hand still resting atop his. She just sat there silently, needing to let the waves of the music slide slowly away as though a series of thin veils floated gently, one by one, down to her feet. Opening her eyes, she looked down at his hand. "Marshall Sinclair," she whispered, "I think I love you almost more than I can bear."

ON TO PART 21

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