Under Autumn Moonlight
by J. Elis Morgan
Paul sits across from me, his hand a bit unsteady as he moves the bishop on the chessboard. Fir trees flank the verandah, brushing the sky like black shadows. It’s autumn and behind him, falling leaves stalk the evening air. Secretly, I enjoy watching the intense look on his face as he contemplates his next move.
“Check.” He smiles, satisfied, eyes as stunningly azure as the day he and his wife Karen baptized their first boy. As godmother, I’d held their son that day, the sweet, baby warmth of him swelling my chest.
So long ago.
I lean forward. He doesn’t notice how my hands have shrunk, or perhaps he’s too polite to observe. My fingers hover over the queen, skin pocked here and there, scored by lines that speak of age. I study the board although I’m really listening to Paul breathe. Raspy, from decades of smoking.
“Is that the move you really want to make?” he teases. The chair creaks as he sits back, watching with interest.
We have met every Sunday for months now. Karen died five years ago. Cancer. I’d lost my husband, David, in a car accident just over a year ago. Minus those whom we’d loved, Paul and I gravitated toward each other. Friends. Companions. I’d come to understand, with a certain pang, how he was beginning to fill the empty void David left the day he passed away.
“Of course,” I reply smoothly. “I’m closer to check mate, and another win.” Satisfied, I move my queen.
He winks and leans in for another look at the strategy playing out before us.
~
I still miss David. Profoundly. Not a day goes by I don’t hear him: his step on the porch, the faint waft of his cigarette on an errant breeze. Sometimes, come midnight, I catch him breathing. I turn, eager for his touch. But there’s only emptiness, growing wider with each passing day.
Paul arrives early the following Sunday. We tramp through the fields and woods like we’re school children again.
“Cameron,” Paul halts suddenly beneath an old elm tree. He puts a hand on its thick trunk. “I’ve been wondering –“
I turn slowly. Leaves shower from above, settling like whispers at our feet. “Wondering what?”
“Silly really,” he laughs, looking away. “You wouldn’t be interested.”
I stare at him, exasperated. “Why don’t you ask and we’ll see.”
“You’ll say yes out of pity now.”
“Well then,” I slip an arm through his. “The answer’s no.”
We walk. A brisk wind from the north brings a nip to the air. Far off, the sun grazes the mountains in a haze of gold, trees forming a canopy of brilliant copper.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?”
“I’d like that.” He looks to the distance. “I’d like that very much.”
~
Just past midnight, the call comes. I tense. It’s never good news at this time of night. Immediately, I know it’s Paul.
“What’s wrong?” Panic beats hard in my chest. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine, Cammy.” His voice is sure and strong. I relax. “Sorry to call so late. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Rough night?” I murmur, remembering my own sleepless hours this past year.
“You could say. The question I wanted to ask -– the one I couldn’t find the words for --”
“You’ve found them?”
“I think so.”
The emptiness inside begins to fill. “Then let’s hear it.”
“I need to ask you in person,” he hesitates. “Now.”
I imagine I don’t hear him right. “Now?” I glance at the clock.
“Actually,” He takes a deep breath. “I’m outside your door.”
I bolt straight up in bed. “Paul Barrett, you are not.”
“Ask me in, Cammy,” he says.
I pull on a robe. I run my fingers through the wreck that is my hair, slap a little lipstick on and hurry out.
He stands under autumn moonlight, a wry grin on his face. The gunmetal gray of his hair is slicked to careful smoothness. There is a fire in me when I step forward.
I know exactly what I’m doing when I take his face in my hands, these hands I’d thought just a week ago to be so frail. He smells of cigar and wind. Pine and the heady scent of a man. His arms open. My eyes close.
I’d forgotten just how beautiful a kiss could be.
“What were you going to ask?”
He tilts my chin up. “You already answered.”
Trees bend, loosening leaves to ride in the wind. Midnight, and the hour is beautiful.
