| Jennifer Blackheath danced naked in a forest of towering evergreens.Around her, tiny multihued butterflies darted, spun, and floated intremulous circles like all the flowers of the earth come to life. Athousand, ten thousand diaphanous, powdered wings brushed lightlyagainst her flesh. Entranced, she opened her eyes, laughed, and said,"Oh! Pretty!" And then nothing. Sewal Blackheath placed his wife s slim, fragile hand beneath thesheet and brushed the tips of his index and middle fingers across hereyelids. When he straightened, the black horsehair upholsterypricked through his white shirt. Face bland, he ran still callousedfingers through his iron-gray hair. "Goddamn it, Jenny," he said, trying to divest himself of the una-voidable guilt stemming from his relief that her six months dyinghad at last ended. He was angry with himself and with her and withhimself all the more, and repeated, "Goddamn it, Jennifer. Goddamnit!" The words helped alleviate the terrible ache in his throat, but notby much. He told himself that Blacldaeath men were not given tocrying. Guilt. Enough of guilt, he admonished himself. Unable to bring hislips to her thin, pale ones, he leaned forward and lightly kissed herforehead. Seventeen years and three months earlier he had kissed herfor the first time. This would be the last. That she had not yetreached her thirty-fifth birthday-Jennifer had been so full of life andlaughter-was a sorrow Sewal held at arm s length. |
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