Taming a Sea Horse

19

It was Memorial Day and Susan and I packed a picnic and went canoeing on the Concord River. Actually I went canoeing and Susan went riding in the front of the canoe in a onepiece bathing suit catching some rays and occasionally trailing the fingers of her left hand in the water. The river was quiet and flat and gentle. Trees arched over it often and made the surface of the water dapple with shade. There were others on the river, as there usually were, but it was not crowded.

"We'll head upstream going out," I said. "So it'll be downstream coming back and we're tired."

"I don't expect to be tired," Susan said. She was facing me, her eyes closed, her face turned toward pre-summer sunshine. Her paddle lay on the floor of the canoe beside the red-and-white Igloo cooler.

"Must be all that Nautilus training," I said. She smiled without opening her eyes.

It was easy paddling, the current was very gentle and I wasn't hurrying to get anywhere. Some kids were fishing from the shore. One of them spoke to Susan.

"Hey, lady," he said. "There's snapping turtles in here must weigh fifty pounds. I wouldn't put my hands in the water like that."

Susan kept her eyes closed but she pulled her hand back.

"Egad," she said.

"Nature red in tooth and claw," I said.

"Confirms your view of the world, I suppose," Susan said.

"I suppose."

"A lovely world with danger just beneath."

"Doesn't make the world less lovely," I said.

"Maybe makes it more," Susan said.

"Death is the mother of beauty?"

She opened her wonderful large eyes and looked at me and said, "Maybe." Her look was always kinetic. It always had the weight of mischief and passion and intelligence in it.

"How about prostitution," I said. "Got any thoughts on that?"

"Probably hard to generalize," Susan said, "though it's a pretty good bet that most prostitutes are working from a pathological base."

The backyards of many houses came down to the river in the section past the Concord Bridge, and the smell of barbecued hamburger drifted past us.

"But not necessarily the same pathological base," I said.

Susan nodded. Her bathing suit was cut fashionably high at the side and her thighs looked strong and smooth.

"A pathological base being another way to say that they're whacko."

She smiled. "That's the technical term for it. But it's a little broad, no pun intended, I would think, and my experience tells me that people choose to be whores for reasons which, when discovered, I would attempt to treat therapeutically."

"Aside from needing money," I said.

"Aside from that. Many people need money, not all of them choose to be prostitutes in order to earn it."

"How about they enjoy sex?" I said. The sun was warm on my back as I paddled slowly, letting the canoe slide along gently between strokes, listening to Susan. I had a pleasant sweat developing.

"Again it's hard to generalize, but I would guess that prostitution has little to do with sex."

"Patricia Utley says that the men and women involved in the transaction tend not to like one another."

The sun, as it got higher, reached more of the river and the dappling of shade contrasted more sharply.

"Sexual activity, unredeemed by love, or at least passion, is not the most dignified of activities," Susan said. "It offers good opportunities for degradation."

"For both parties," I said.

"For both parties.

"On the other hand," Susan said, "finding a way to satisfy pathological needs does not always make life untenable. Failing to satisfy the need makes it untenable. Many whores may be in a state of equilibrium."

"Meaning maybe they're better off being whores?"

"Sure, put that way, it's the decision we reached on April Kyle three years ago."

"But," I said.

"But," Susan said, "finding a way to fulfill a pathological need is not as satisfactory an answer as treating the need."

"But April wouldn't."

"Not then," Susan said. "Maybe not ever. Depends on how much pressure she feels."'

"Tough way to look at it," I said.

"Psychology is a tough-minded business," Susan said. "As tough as yours. Maybe tougher. There's not much room for romanticism."

"Noted," I said.

"Do you know where April is?"

"Not, yet, but I have hold of one end."

Susan smiled at the metaphor. "I'll bet you do," she said. "And when you find her?"

"We'll see. Depends on her situation," I gaid. "Let's eat."

We slid around a gentle meander in the river into a cove with a small strip of sand along the water's edge. I beached the canoe on the sand and Susan held it while I climbed out with the Igloo cooler.

We sat against the low banking together while I opened a bottle of white zinfandel. We each had a plastic glass of it and ate a smoked turkey sandwich on whole wheat. Our shoulders touched. There was no one on this stretch of the river.

"Do you think a natural setting enhances lovemaking?" I said.

Susan sipped a little of her wine. She ate a small wedge of Crenshaw melon. She gazed up at the sky, and pursed her lips. She looked at the slate-colored river.

"No," she said, "I don't think so."

"Oh," I said. I swallowed a bit of smoked salmon on pumpernickel.

"But it doesn't do it any harm either," she said, and leaned her head into the place where my neck joins my shoulders. I kissed her on top of her head. She put her wine down and put her arms around me and kissed me on the mouth. I could taste the wine and melon. I could feel the rush I always felt.

Getting her out of the bathing suit was a bitch.

But worth it.