Windsong was the fortress.
It stood at the edge of the woods and a mile from the main road, down a narrow dirt corridor, tortured
by palmettos and dwarf palms, that was more path than lane; a stately, two-story frame house, ghostwhite in the moonlight, surrounded by sweeping porches, with a cap of cedar shingles and dark
oblong shutters framing its windows. Before it, a manicured lawn spread a hundred yards down to the
ocean‟s edge. Beyond it, past the south point of Skidaway Island, a mile or so away was the Atlantic
Ocean. The gazebo, where bands had once played on summer nights, stood near the water like a pawn
on an empty chessboard.
Memories stirred.
A lamp burned feebly in a corner room on the second floor and another spilled light from the main
room to a corner of the porch. Otherwise the place was dark.
I stopped near a dark blue Mercedes sedan that was parked haphazardly on the grass near the end of
the driveway, got out, and stood for a minute or two, letting my eyes deal with the darkness. Moon
shadows were everywhere. A south wind drifted idly across the ocean and rattled the tree branches.
Out beyond the house, a night bird sang a mournful love song and waited for an answer that never
came. It was obvious why Chief had called it Windsong; no other name could possibly have fit.
I remembered Chief and Stonewall Titan, ending each day sipping whiskey on that porch. I opened
the trunk and put my pistol under the spare tire and pressed the lid shut as quietly as I could. This was
no place for sudden noises.
The boathouse was a dark square, jutting out into the ocean to the east of the house. I walked down
toward it. The night bird started singing again and then, suddenly, flew off in a rustle of leaves. Then
there was only the wind.
I knew what I was going to say; I had been rehearsing it in my head ever since I saw her.
Hang tough, Jake, don‟t let soft memories shake you. Get it said and get out.
I was ready.
She was standing in the boathouse, haloed by the moon, swinging on a twenty-five-foot Mako bow
line clamped to a hook above her head. She didn‟t see me at first. Eyes closed, she was lost in the
moonlight, stirring her own memories.
A small Sony tape deck was whispering on the dock beside her. And that summer came back, a riptide
that erased whatever scenario I had planned. I recognized Phil Spector‟s breakaway guitar on the old
Drifters version of “On Broadway.” Twenty years ago I could whistle every note and break, right
along with him. I didn‟t even think, I just started whistling softly between my teeth, amazed that I
could still keep up with all the riffs and pauses.
She turned, startled, her fawnlike eyes fluttering as they tried to adjust to the darkness. The ocean was
slapping the pilings beneath us and the Mako bumped easily against the rubber tires in the side of the
dock.
Nothing else but the wind.
“Jake?” she said, a decibel above the night sounds.
“Yeah.”
She moved away from the line.
“You can still do it,” she said, and laughed.
“I‟m a little rusty,” I said.
“No. Not rusty at all.”
There was an awkward pause, where you feel you should say something just to fill the silence. She
did it for me.
“I‟m so glad you came. I wanted it so bad it hurt.”
“You haven‟t changed at all,” I said huskily. “Time has passed you by.‟,
“You always say the perfect thing, you always did.” Another pause, then, “I didn‟t even hear you. I
was lost for a minute.”
“I can‟t think of a better place to be lost.”
She eased toward me, a shimmering vision, still moving slightly with the music.
“Remember the night party? Dewey Simpson got drunk and tried to swim to the channel marker in his
tuxedo. .
I remembered it and said so.
“...and you kept egging him on...
The moon silhouetted her, trim legs etched behind a white cotton skirt.
and we kept playing that song, o‟er and over, while Teddy swam out to pull him in..
The brief triangle of her bikini panties, the swell of one of her breasts, tinted by a moonbeam.
“And my eighteenth birthday, where we took the dune buggy and left Teddy and that girl on the
beach. .
Her blond hair was swirling in the wind, whipping the shadow of her face.
“We were at the very end, remember? Down at the point.., the breakers were running so high.”
She whisked her fingertips down her neck.
“It was so hot that night. Remember how hot it was?”
I began t feel the same heat, rising round my neck. She was some piece of work, make no mistake.
“It was just like tonight. . . the moon was full. .
She was close enough to smell.
“. . . that was the first time I ever saw you naked.. .“ And now she was close enough to feel my heat.
“We were lying there in the dunes and you let the buggy roll down the hill. .
“Oh yes, I remember. .
“You were gorgeous..
“You still are,” I heard myself say. My voice was as shaky as a spinster‟s dream.
“I feel the same way now, Jake. I feel like I‟m on fire inside. .
She moved against me, her breasts exploring my chest as tentatively as a butterfly exploring a
blossom.
But it was not 1963 and we were not on the beach; it was now and here and she stepped back from
.me, her dress already unbuttoned, her breasts pushing out past the white bodice, and she lifted her
shoulders so gracefully that s he hardly moved, and the dress slipped away, hovering down to the
dock at her feet, and she leaned forward, her hands sweeping swiftly down her thighs, and suddenly
she was naked before me again.
If anything, time had improved her body.
She moved against me and I ran my hands slowly across the swell of her buttocks, pressing her haul
against me. She began to rock back and forth, urging me to rise to her, I let the flat of my hand slip
down along her thigh and then back up, and she urged herself against it. She was warm and moist and
she clamped her legs together, trapping my hand, and began to rock harder. Her fingers moved nimbly
to my belt, unfastening it, and then she slid her hand down and began to caress me and then we were
moving together.
“Oh, God, Jake,” she moaned, “where have you been?”
I lowered her slowly to the cushions in the boat and she stretched out before me, her hands over her
head as I teased her, my hand barely touching her soft down, until suddenly she thrust up against my
hand. She began to tremble under my touch, took my hand and pressed it harder, and began to move
my hand with hers, showing me where to touch, what to explore, orchestrating her pleasure. Her
hands groped for something to hang on to, found the edge of the seat and clutched it. Every muscle in
her body seemed to be responding. She was moving back and forth as my fingers sought all her secret
places.
She started to whimper and the whimper became a growl, deep in her throat, and she stiffened
suddenly, wrapped her arms around me, buried her head in my shoulder, and her cries were muffled
against my flesh. She reached down, searching with desperate fingers, and turning slightly, guided me
into her. Then there was only the feel of her, her soft muscles engulfing me, urging me to come with
her, and the rush of her mouth against mine.
There was nothing else.
No Ciscos, no Taglianis, no hooligans, no wounds or screams of grief. There were only our own cries
of joy and relief, whisked to sea on the wind.
34
LATE CALL
The tape recorder had run its course and turned itself off and I had pulled my Windbreaker over us,