The Hills Of The Poconoís.

Its legs stuck straight up like a heads up tin soldier. "That's the seventh road kill
in as many miles," She idly commented.

He didn't answer her right away because he was still angry. They had exited the
freeway a short while ago onto a secondary road that wound up into the Poconoís
mountains. From the moment they had exited the freeway, she had complained about
how fast he had been going, and at this a heat grew under his collar at her words until he
exploded. An argument had quickly ensured. She: Dear, you are going to fast. He: It's just
a few miles over the speed limit. She: Dear, we have already seen six animals along the
side of the road. And you know Dear, it is getting dark and in the shadows the animals
are difficult to make out. He: There is still enough light. She: Dear, please slow down.
He: Oh...hell...all...RIGHT! Are you satisfied now? She: Sitting in sullen silence for the
last few miles

As he thought about it now he tiredly shook his head. The thought that she might
be playing the worn out long ago 'I told you so game,' and that he was perfectly willing to
react to it as always and carry it along to its scripted long brooding silent conclusion
between the both of them by playing the jerk suddenly seemed all to familiar to him. He
was surprised by the feeling and momentarily wondered why he hadn't seen the stupidity
of the game long before now. But of course he had, he thought tiredly. But then he had
cared enough to fight for his point of view no matter how trivial; right now he didn't. He
just wanted to be left alone.

"Yes," he acquiesced.

He expected to feel some sort of anger at giving in so readily. A flare up of

stomach acid. A slight throbbing of the temples. But there was just the tiredness of it all.
The years. The lies. All to overwhelming to think about right now. So to divert his
attention from himself he glanced in the rear view mirror at the Possum. Although the
day was coming to a close and although the forest was very thick, a single stream of sun
light knifed through the trees and shined on the Possum. The pure grandness of the light
startled him and a part of him half expected the Possum to get up and follow the beam to
the mountain peaks far beyond the trees. Run run run, he silently urged, run to freedom.
But he instantly knew this was silly. The possum was dead. He returned his attention to
the road.

"I guess because of the forest and the deep underbrush, they come out more
frequently here than on the freeway." He paused for a second and then added as an
afterthought, "Probably just foraging for sustenance."

"Sustenance," she intoned as if the word was unfamiliar.

"Food," he replied tiredly, knowing the tone in her voice.

"Yes. I suppose you are right."

 There was no need to say anything more on the matter, and to show as much he
allowed his eyes to follow the upward curve of the road. But he did glance at her out of
the corner of his right eye; just to see. Although she now stared blankly out the
windshield, she smiled a little; just enough for the corners of her mouth to fold upward.
He thought now that she had proven her point she was no longer mad at him. Hip hip
hooray. He tasted the bitterness in his thoughts and expunged the bitterness by turning his
full attention to the road.

After a while she said, "You look tired."

"Long drive," he murmured without taking his eyes off the road.

"Yes," she answered, "Well, we will be at the Chalet soon."

To keep from hurting her or causing another argument, he had to suppress cynical
laughter at the mention of the 'Chalet.' He had had to do more then that when she had first
mentioned the 'Chalet' to him. The full name was 'The Mending Hearts Chalet.' She had
secured the brochure on the 'Chalet' from a friend and had waited until they lay in bed
watching the ten o'clock news to present it to him. She was very sincere too. The front
cover of the brochure showed a glossy picture of a Swiss Chalet nestled high in the
Poconoís. The brochure went on to explain, and explain proudly he thought, that the
'Chalet' was nestled within shouting distance of the highest peak of the Poconoís.
Elevation twenty-two hundred feet. The brochure went on to boast that in this grand
setting couples could rekindle their long ago lost romance. Hold hands while gazing at
the entire valley below from any room. Lounge toe to toe in a hot tub while feasting on
the many magnificent distant mountain peaks. Procreate in the king sized heart shaped
beds.

To say that he had found the brochure rather amusing would be an

understatement, but it was at the word 'procreate' instead of fuck, or make love, or any
one of a hundred idioms for human coupling that had been to much for him. He had had
to go into the bathroom adjoining their bedroom and turn on the shower, the faucet and
flush the toilet to muffle his laughter. He wasn't laughing at her. She was not a prude
about sex. But the word seemed at the time just too perfect. Too perfect.

"Can I help," She asked, mistaking his silence as something other than what it
was.

"Thanks. But the drive. I am too tense," he replied.

Anger mixed with hurt and confusion spread across her face, and he instantly
wanted the words back. But there was nothing to be done about that now. Nothing except
go to the 'Mending Hearts Chalet.'
 "Don't be hurt."

"Why shouldn't I be," she retorted.

"Because I was just being honest. The therapist said that we should be honest with
each other. Especially when taking this vacation together. It's supposed to be part of the
healing process."

"Honesty is one thing. But rejection is another. It makes me feel so cheap. You
reject a hooker not your wife."

He resisted an urge to tell that a hooker is the one person you didn't need to reject.
You just fucked her and left her. A wife you rejected because it was the only line of
defense against sure insanity.

"Don't do this," he said instead.

"Why. You are. You have been doing it for years."

"Let's not be mean. Not now."

"Why? Because you don't want to touch me. Or me you."

To answer her back meant to prolong the argument. He knew this from
experience. So he let it be and instead played the road while she stared out the window.
But she was right he thought as the road ground out from under them, he didn't want to
touch her. Or her him. Especially her him. The mere thought of it made him want to
cringe. Of course he couldn't tell her this. He had wanted to. The want, the need to
confess was the sole reason he had consented to marriage therapy. He had hoped the
presence of a third party would ease the guilt. But it hadn't. He felt guiltier then ever,
even more so when lying to her about not wanting sex.

He glanced at his wife for a second and supposed he did so out of guilt. If she
noticed him looking at her she refused to acknowledge him and just stared out the
window. He began to wish she would say something, anything, even accuse him of being
a sexless creature. But as the miles unfolded, she just stared out the window. Willing the
miles to go swiftly, he increased the speed to a few miles over the limit. At some point
the day vanished; just like that, and darkness echoed out at him from the forest. He liked
the darkness shadowing deep within the forest. There was the comfort there of
anonymity. He gripped the wheel and wondered to the darkness how many lies disguised
as excuses he had used over the years. How many times had he lain in bed pretending to
be asleep while listening to her in the bathroom getting ready for bed? How he loathed
lying there waiting for the toilet to flush. Dreading the soft thud of her feet across the
carpet. Lying very still as she asked if he was awake. Sighing inwardly as the lights went
out. "James Garner," she said.

The name completely shattered his thoughts and the confusion of his right hand
flying up to his temple showed as much.

"I got you."

Despite his confusion he had to smile.

"You remember."

"Sure."

"I wasn't sure. I mean it's been years since we used that old trick to defuse an
argument."

"Yeah," he laughed. "The old Rockford Files television show. James Gardner
starred in it. We loved lying in bed and watching the show together."

"We had just gotten married. Those were happy times, weren't they?"

He caught himself from saying, "No they weren't. They were not happy at all. I
married you because I wanted a wife. You married me because you wanted a husband.
Your mother and father were happy. My mother and father were happy. You see a wife
goes along nicely with a career. A husband goes along nicely with a family."

Right than his thoughts sputtered and he had a what his wife would call a crude
thought. "You see dear, in truth a prick goes along nicely with a pussy."

He said, "The happiest."

"Remember the apartment we rented. The landlord was a racist old bastard. How
he used to sit on the stoop and spill out racist hate. Nigger this and nigger that."

"And the police special he had named 'Colt' and how he was dying to catch a
nigger breaking into the building so he could proudly say, "Well nigger, my friend mister
Colt has a few words he wants to say to you. Bang bang bang."

They laughed and said in unison, "Mister Colt is a man of few words."

"The music. The candles. The..."

"Long hours of love making," he finished for her.

 "Yes. I was good back then. Wasn't I. You?"

"Yes. You were good. Sweet so very sweet."

The darkness from the forest seemed to of invaded the car, and in it he saw the
expectant shining look on his wife's face. A moment later her face was gone. In the quiet
around him he heard the zipper on his trousers opening, a soft zzzzzz; and felt her lips on
his penis. He wanted to stop her, but knew he was helpless. She was desperately trying to
save something important to her. She loved him and had given him all a woman could
give a man. Two kids. A home. She dearly loved him. Oh how she loved him. She
prepared breakfast in the morning; eggs over easy, bacon...extra crisp, and rye toast.
When he returned in the evening the house was clean and the children were quiet and
respectful. And later at night when the children were asleep, she did what she was doing
now. And all this she did because she believed in a dream hatched long ago. And he
could not take this away from her. Not without, he knew, tearing out his own soul.

So he bared her down there, as he had done for years. Yet the thought of her down
there easing his tension as she liked to put it made his insides shrivel up. So he told
himself that not only was she a good woman, she was also pretty. Although the years had
aged her, her body still held the girlish features that had first appealed to him. But hard as
he try, the image of her didn't appeal to him now. It just made him sad. So he imagined
Sam was seated next to him. Sam's lips were sliding up and down his penis not her's. As
he imagined this little by little his penis became erect. He watched the forest to keep his
mind from wandering while imagining it was Sam sucking on him. But despite his efforts
occasionally his mind did wander and his resolve faltered along with his penis. At these
moments, he reaffirmed his resolve by imagining Sam lying next to him; his hard body,
his strong hands caressing him. Although he was disgusted with himself, he managed to
fool himself and remain erect. But mile by mile the truth seeped in. It was not Sam
sucking on him. It was his wife. So despite all his efforts to the contrary, as her mouth
earnestly worked cruising the tingling nerves at the tip of his penis and sliding down the
shaft until her lips reached the growth of hair beneath, the expected orgasm grew fainter
instead of closer. He knew he had to do something least he hurt her irrevocably, so he
imagined Sam ramming his penis into his anal cavity. The penetration was both joyful
and painful. The pain absolved him of guilt; and the joy heightened his sense of pleasure
and both flamed in his mind. As he moaned, he almost lost control of the car, but
managed at the last moment to keep the car on the road by forcing one eye to stay open.

She zipped up his trousers and sat upright. "Tension eased?"

There was a glow about her, he thought. Like a little kitten who had just captured
a butterfly and had dropped it at the feet of its master. "Yes," he lied.

She inserted a tape in the player and snuggled up next to him. Soft Irish music
filled the car. He recognized the tune as the Owls waltz. His wife was an Irish music buff,
and this had been her favorite tune of late. The tune went on for at least twenty minutes,
and was a haunting melody. It started out with a series of stings, and then gave way, as if
a way had to be given to release tears and pain, to a melancholy Irish horn. She played it
late at night when the kids were asleep while laying in bed reading a book; and he liked
the tune, it brought forth visions of an Irish mist. Much like the mist hanging like sheets
between the trees outside the window, he thought now.

"We can make it good again," she whispered above the music.

"Yes."

"Like Sam and Mary. They have been married as long as we. Do you know they
make love twice a week?"

Although he knew this was a lie, he nodded. Sam had told him that he had not
made love to Mary for years.

As she kept talking about how good it was going to be, he stared at the darkness
outside. The headlights splashed ahead over a green and white road sign: elevation was
now nineteen hundred feet. He knew the Chalet wasn't much further. As quickly as the
sign had appeared, it vanished. She went on talking, but her voice was a low murmur now
indicating she was falling asleep. He softly stroked her hair. Soon she was asleep, her
voice replaced by soft Irish horns. He continued to stare at the darkness and the shadows
flickering between the trees. Every now and then the darkness was broken by a clearing
in the trees and a light far below in the valley. After a while he imagined the possum
along the side of the road. The possum ran through the forest for many miles, its spindly
legs working for all it was worth. He was sure he saw the possum standing atop the
highest mountain peak. The mountain peak was untrodden upon. Very clean. A place
untarnished by lies. He was sure of this. But an instant later he knew that the sureness
was just another lie. He snorted. In a matter of seconds he had tarnished his untrodden
mountain top with a lie. It would always be so. He was what he lived and he had lived
nothing but lies. And he would continue to live nothing but lies.

It was then that he made a decision separate from her. He had never done so in
twenty years and knew that if he paused even for a second, he would change his mind. So
without thinking he steered the car toward the clearing and the valley below. As the tires
spit out dirt, then lost all purchase except for air, he stroked her hair. She stirred. The
music played around them. "Just the music," he soothed and stared at the far mountain
peak and thought there would be no more lies. Not for her. Not for him.

??