Home is the Sailor by Day Keene

left shoulder his foot would depress the gas pedal. I tried it a couple of times, making the motor roar, so I could be sure it would work.
    My back ached by the time I was set. I wanted a cigarette. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was. But I had to go through with it now. I pushed the left front door open until the catch held it. Then, standing on the sliver of running board on my left foot, my right foot depressing the clutch pedal, I switched on the lights, shifted the car into second gear, took my foot off the clutch, and pushed hard on Wolkowysk’s shoulder.
    The car darted forward like a startled dolphin sighting a shark, me helping Wolkowysk steer with my left hand. When I saw Corliss I jumped backward, pushing myself away from the car — and almost didn’t make it.
    As the front wheels went over the edge the pan dropped down on the rock with a scream of tortured metal, teetering the car and springing the left rear door. The door swung forward like a flat pile driver, hitting me in the back as I jumped, slamming me down on the rock at the very lip of the cliff, my legs dangling in space, the big car beside me grinding desperately for life. On the edge of nothing.
    There was a screaming in my ears. Hands clawed at me. I realized it was Corliss, tugging me back to safety as the Buick fell end over end, its headlights sweeping the sky as it plunged three hundred feet into jagged rock and white water, carrying Jerry Wolkowysk with it.
    I lay on the lip of the cliff, exhausted, fighting for breath. Corliss lay a few feet away. In her struggle to keep me from going over the cliff, the low neckline of her dress had slipped down over one shoulder, half exposing her breast. As I watched her she wriggled across the rock toward me. Corliss pulled the dress still farther down on her shoulder, and her upper lip curled away from her teeth. She looked the way she had in the cabin right after I’d killed Wolkowysk.
    She hooked the fingers of my hand in her bodice. “Take it off, Swede,” she pleaded. “Help me. Please.”
    Her dress ripped easily and then she was wriggling out of what was left of the cloth. I felt her eager fingers fumbling at my shirt, my tie. Then her searching mouth found mine as we both lay in the moonlight, her body a fever, a fire, burning wherever her flesh touched me.
    Corliss cupped the back of my head in her hands. “They won’t ever find him, will they, Swede?”
    I kissed her eyes. “I hope not.”
    She pressed herself against me. “They can’t. Not now. It wouldn’t be fair.” Her hands caressed my shoulders, my back. “I’m safe with you, aren’t I, Swede?”
    I kissed her hair, her cheeks, her lips. “Of course.”
    “You love me?”
    I lifted my head to look at her. “I do.”
    Corliss’ eyes burned into mine. “I love you, Swede. Say you love me.”
    “I love you.”
    She bit my chest. “Then prove it,” she screamed at me. “Prove it.”
    I did, the hard rock ripping our flesh. We were mad. We had reason to be. We were Adam and Eve dressed in fog, escaping from fear into each other’s arms. And to hell with the fiery angel with the flaming sword. It was brutal. Elemental. Good. There was no right. There was no wrong. There was only Corliss and Swede.
    When at last I rolled on my elbow and lay breathless, looking at her, Corliss lay still on her back in the moonlight, her hair a golden pillow, fog eddying over her like a transparent blanket. Her upper lip covered her teeth again. Her half-closed eyes were sullen. The future Mrs. Nelson, I thought, and I wished she had some clothes on.
    The wind off the sea was suddenly cold. I could taste salt on my lips. The pound of the waves where the Buick was dying was like the booming of a great drum.
    My breath caught in my chest. It was a funny feeling. I tried to brush it aside. I couldn’t. It was ridiculous, but I had a feeling that this time, I was the one who had been forced.

Chapter Eight
    Neither Corliss nor I spoke on our