Intimates

The forest was especially beautiful in the fall. It was a pity there was nobody to witness it but the two − nay, three − of them and still her heart fluttered with delight as they walked with no goals or limits for hours on end. It was a good workout, anyways, and nothing cured the troubles of the mind like a solid walk around the Witchwood. Her lungs filled up with fresh air and she felt a little more at peace. Jerry had insisted on carrying the backpack and the pots and pans and tin cans of tonight’s meal were clinging with every step. It was almost a melody.

"The Lord gives," she said, looking at the broadness of the woods around them. One could get lost forever on these tracks. "And the Lord takes away."

She closed her eyes and paused there, swelled up her chest with the beauty of nature.

"Fall is my favorite season," she confessed. "The leaves, the colors…"

She opened her eyes again but Jerry had disappeared. Not given any time to fret, she startled as she felt his presence behind her, the warmth and height of him at her back and a single point of contact was made and sent her knees yielding under her. His fingers were strong and his touch sure of himself and every part of her body tingled with intense delight as he tugged her ponytails tight, one then the other, pushing the scrunchies down, fluffing up the hair caught in them so that the tie was as snug as could be. She shivered. Awkwardly, his hands hovered over her head when he was done and he cleared his throat.

"Your… your ponytails were drooping…"

Her cheeks burned up with shame and pleasure. She started walking again and Jerry trotted up to catch up with her, but with several feet of distance between them for safety. It was better not to be tempted. She was just as much at fault as he was.

"I’m sorry," he muttered.

Her hand ached with the urge to hold his, to seize it and squeeze it and comfort him, to tell him it was quite alright, that she had liked it. That she wanted him to do it again, or to loosen her hair entirely and let it fall in wild cascades over her shoulders and pass his fingers through it and… She clenched her fists and stared at the ground. The forest was so beautiful this time of year. She was glad to be out here with him.

"It’s alright," she replied. "Thank you, Boy Jerry."

Dead leaves crunched under her hiking boots. Another winter was coming.

"But you’d better not do that again."

Rain had poured all day and seeped into the entire camp grounds, and even the walk from one lodging to another was enough to cover one with mud from feet to thighs. As campers were instructed to remain in their cabins − girls with girls, boys with boys under strict supervision by the counselors − Jerry and Jeri were getting busy cooking lunch for the whole camp. The barbecues outside normally so busy were drenched and exposed to the outpour and the small kitchen at the end of the row of bungalows had to do. It was a tight space for two, but they were filling it with good smells and godliness. The old cassette tape on the window sill was playing the epistles in a crackly old-fashioned voice. Those tapes had belonged to Jeri’s family and she had brought them with her on her first Abstinence Camp. She had no family anymore, but she still had the Bible. She always would have that.

"Pass me the knife, will you, Boy Jerry?" She asked, chipper even in the middle of a dreadful storm.

Jerry grabbed the knife from the stand. The radio chirped out the next verse of the epistle of First Corinthians.

"Now concerning the things of which you wrote to me: It is good for a man not to touch a woman…"

Smiling at her, he switched over the blade in his hand, presenting her the handle which she seized and began cutting meat. Their fingers did not touch. They were to cook for dozens of campers and counselors, but Jerry and Jeri had never been afraid of toil. These camp grounds were their domain. Nothing here could frighten them. She was an exceptionally hard worker, Jerry noted for the thousandth time. When she focused on her task, her brows made a small ridge between her eyes and the tiniest tip of her tongue slipped out of her lips. Her plump, beautiful pink lips…

"Can you turn the page?"

"O-Of course, Girl Jeri."

He let out a sharp nervous breath. Hands shaking, he licked his thumb and turned to the next page of the recipe book leaning in front of her against the wall. For the rest of the morning, he resolutely avoided glancing at her so much as a single time.

Year round, they spent almost all weekends in the cabins of Camp I-Don’t-Wanna-Bang and the weekdays in their own apartments in Hatchetfield, working on this and that. Toil was never ending at the ministry and they were always glad for the respite when they got to take a breather in the woods. Not even the terror that lived there could tarnish it on weekends after a particularly long few days of work. Jeri let out a deep breath of relief when she opened the door to her car and smelled the pine trees all around. It was good to be back.

Jerry would only come back in the morning, he had told her apologetically on the phone. There was an emergency at the youth ministry and he had only dropped his things before being forced to run out again. He hoped she would forgive him.

“But of course,” Jeri had smiled into her phone. “Take all the time you need.”

Walking into the camp grounds alone, however, she began to feel the weight of solitude. And of the forest all around her. Of course, he was lurking in the shadows somewhere, she was sure. She might even go say hi later, but for the moment she was content to sit in the empty cabin where they would usually spend the evenings, make herself a cup of tea, and take in the pleasantly fresh air around her.

It was only later she found his things in a corner and a quick glance told her he had taken his laundry with him. Better than the laundromat three blocks away from his apartment with their exorbitant prices, the camp had a single machine which was free and rarely used much during the year. Thinking of doing him a favor, she ran a load for him. While it washed, she thought she might just as well make herself useful in his absence. She found his cabin less than pristine and made herself busy cleaning it all up for him − what a wonderful surprise for him in the morning.

“Who can find a virtuous woman,” she pondered wistfully, “For her price is far above rubies…”

When his laundry was clean, she hung it on the strings outside where the breeze would dry them right up before Jerry even arrived. Picking up garment after garment, she blushed as she imagined him inhabiting the clothes, the shape of his bulking them up, how lively he made everything that he touched. She wanted to cry.

In another life, she would have gladly been his wife. She would have done for him every last thing he would have wanted of a spouse, been his help meet and everything he asked for. They wouldn’t have been too bad of a couple, she thought. Laundry for two, three, more, however many he would have wanted. It could have been a comfortable, faithful, righteous life. And she had thrown all of it away by opening her legs to him too soon.

In the flap of the clothes on the wind, though, the life she could have had lingered for a moment, the domesticity. Jeri seeped it in for as long as she was able, and then went on with her life. It wasn’t half as happy as the pretense.

Little Jery was passionately and virulently upholding the values of purity and chastity. At first, he had only spooked a couple of campers out of their lodgings after curfew – neither of which has ever strayed from the path of righteousness after the encounter. The second attack had been markedly more serious, with a terrified kid begging to be sent home to recover from injuries both seen and invisible to the eye, and to never come back to camp for the rest of her life. By the time the third incident happened, Jerry and Jeri understood perfectly what the fate of abstinence camp would look like for the rest of their child's life, cutting down on moral abominations without a care about the brutality employed to that effect.

Back when he’d been born, it had been Jeri’s idea to hide him in the woods and keep a low profile for some time, to hope nobody would enquire about what had eventually happened to the pregnancy. Jerry had supported her − when didn’t he? This new secret, however, seemed a whole lot harder to conceal than letting people believe in an unfortunate tragedy had been. It was no longer about hiding the existence of their baby but hiding his mischiefs from the world as well. There was a violence to him neither of them understood, who had always strived to be cheerful and compliant every day of their lives. Whatever the forest had nurtured in Jery, it had altered and twisted and there was nothing in him like the newborn Jerry still remembered holding close that dreadful night he alone had helped Jeri give birth to him deep in the woods. Their bastard had turned into a monster. Maybe they should have expected it.

There had been an incident again, though the boy had survived the attack this time and, though bleeding and shaking, could not utter a word to describe what exactly had happened to him, what had been done to him. It was as though the encounter had rendered him mute. Jerry still remembered the first times and how terrified Jeri had been of their son’s misdeeds. He remembered how much he had wanted to comfort her and soothe all the woes in her heart − and this was what he channeled as he cleaned up the wound on the boy and bandaged him dutifully. It was only when he came back to the office that he realized he was covered with blood himself.

“This is too much,” Jeri muttered.

She had picked up a basin of water and a handkerchief she had embroidered herself and was cleaning him up little by little, first his face then his arms and hands. Her touch was gentle, though efficacious. Jerry would miss it when she would be done with him.

“We should go back in town,” she said. “Tell the deacons or…”

But Jerry seized her hand firmly between his fingers to stop the idea, shaking his head. Jeri could get so many fretting ideas if he allowed her. It wasn’t good for her and it certainly wasn’t good for the camp.

“… You’re right,” she sighed. “You’re right.”

She was on the verge of tears. Every attack was worse on her than the one before, no matter his efforts. Softly, he loosened his grip on her. Her hand in his, he pulled her knuckles to his lips, not quite kissing them. He breathed deeply in and out. Underneath her skin, he could feel the faint pulse of her racing heart. She was ever so full of anxieties, getting worse by the years.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart,” he said in a low, calm voice, letting go of her hand. “All things work together for good to those that love God.”

She sniffed. She did not believe him one bit, but she was courteous enough to let him believe she did. Jerry saw right through her.

“Yes,” she said. “He’s only doing… the right thing.”

He nodded. They had taught their children everything they believed. If there was anyone to blame, it was them, and Jerry would split hell wide open before he admitted to having failed his son.

“We’ll just tell the parents the kid fell off a tree,” he said. “That’s what happened. You understand?”

Jeri passed the handkerchief one last time over his brow and faked a smile for him. Even so, it was the loveliest thing he had seen tonight.

“That’s exactly what happened,” she replied.

The sun was burning high in the sky and plunging the camp grounds into a languid stupor. Life was crawling to a halt and Jerry's good spirits were all the bubblier to make up for it. He had been raised to pour his heart into whatever work was put on his table and all the more when it pertained to the Lord – those were riches laid in heaven. The camp counselors were just as slothful as the campers on such days, yet his energy never failed him. Jeri had always admired his capacity to get anything done.

“They’re talking upwards of 90 degrees, Boy Jerry,” she told him as he was packing for the day in the counselors’ cabin, following the list she had carefully written down for him the night prior.

He crossed off several items he had picked from the shelves, mostly packs of raisins and a couple of extra water bottles for the most forgetful of teens they had on their hands. He barely glanced at her, only briefly enough to give her a sincere smile, a smile that told her he knew perfectly well what he was doing, that she did not need to worry. Jeri always worried for him either way.

“I got it, Girl Jeri,” he told her simply.

He was to spend the night in the woods with the boys of camp this evening. In the morning, Jeri would have to drink her cup of tea by herself, staring at the woods and wondering when they would be back. Already, he was on his way to go, all packed and ready, but for the one detail. She barred his way out.

“You forgot sunscreen,” she chided him as she would a young first-time camper.

Jerry rolled his eyes with an easy smile. He was about to grab the bottle from her when she squirted some onto her fingers and traced two lines on each cheek, as if it were war paint. Stupidly, her hand stayed there, caught up in the air and touching his face, and his eyes softened. They could be so fond of each other, she knew. They were very, very good friends.

“I don’t want you to burn in the sun,” she said in a soft whisper full of shame. Why hadn’t she just handed him the bottle?

Slowly, Jerry reached and seized her wrist in his palm. For a moment, they was almost like love birds holding hands. He muttered words in a voice that did not carry much further than the two of them, low and understanding.

“But if they cannot contain themselves, let them marry: for it is better to marry than to burn*.*”

His face glinted with a hopefulness time had never dulled.

“Boy Jerry…”

She could never marry him. She was soiled, unworthy of a white dress, of a loving spouse. She had desecrated marriage before even entering it − how could she think of nuptials now? Jerry had never asked her outright, of course, but the question had lingered unspoken between them for as long as their child had.

“Rub the lotion in,” she asked him, afraid to speak her mind for fear she would lose it. “And make sure you reapply it every couple of hours.”

Jerry stared at her for a moment. Finally, he dropped his hold on her hand and, no longer smiling, left the cabin in long, hurried strides.

A mere few days after camp, Jeri felt more sick than she had been in years and half of the counselors were already back home or on their way there by the time her illness was at her worst. Jerry called the ministry to let them know she was staying at the camp grounds a little longer than planned, that he would take care of her. How could he not? To see her suffer was to be tortured himself.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Boy Jerry,” Jeri told him in a weak tired voice.

She was hunched over the toilet bowl and Jerry was tying her pretty, pretty hair back into a tighter bun to keep it clean and out of the way as the poor girl vomited with seemingly no end on sight. The doctor had come already and declared it nothing more than an indigestion. If he could leave, Jerry would have interrogated every camper and counsellor to find the culprit of this, the one who had meddled with her food, whether by accident or not. He could go nowhere at all if it meant leaving Jeri on her own, though. Retributions would wait for another time.

“You’re too nice to me,” she sniffled. “I don’t know why you stuck by me.”

Jerry wanted to pat her back, to hold her close and cradle her in his arms as she recovered. He wanted to tuck her into bed − and preferably his own − and watch her all hours of the day till she was up on her feet again.

“It’s nothing,” he assured her. “You’d do the same for me if I was sick.”

He had cleaned up after her since the sickness had started, the same way he had all those years ago. He could still see himself, a young teen and holding her hair just like now in the morning when the worst of it hit her, trying to support her through this experience that was his own fault for having impregnated her. It was the least he could do, but he did it diligently.

“You’ve always stuck by me,” she said in a painful whimper, “Even though you could’ve…”

Briefly, Jerry’s hand touched the back of her shirt and he felt her lean up into the touch, embrace it, crave it. She was such a fragile little thing, so how could she be the strongest woman he had ever known?

“No,” he whispered back, “I couldn’t have.”

She looked at him with large frightened eyes, gray and blue and every shade of the pretty sky. Jerry smiled.

“You’ll be up on your feet again in no time,” he said brusquely to change the subject. “A cheerful heart is good medicine.”

“Th-thank you, Boy Jerry,” she muttered and hunched over the bowl again loudly.

Before the campers arrived, the counselors tested out every activity they would be guiding the kids into, to ensure their utmost safety. For days, the camp bustled with a special energy as the adults waited impatiently for their residents to arrive. Every tool, every workshop, every trail around camp was tried and thought out, and they were already mapping out the schedule of the following weeks onto thick boards in the main hall so that all kids could make their own choices − all they ever wanted was for kids to make the right choices for themselves, with a helping hand.

"Pottery," Jeri smiled as she entered the arts and crafts tent − she’d had a hunch Jerry would have been there. He had a passion and a talent with his hands she had always admired. "That’s a new one."

He flashed her a bright smile. Fingers brown with clay, he batted the remark away.

"It's good to learn new things," he said, full of confidence. "Hands are made for working."

She giggled. The door was open, giving clear view of the dreamy blue sky outside. This summer was going to be wonderful. Taking a seat next to him, she picked a lump of clay from a plastic wrap in a basket. She placed it on the potter's wheel and looked at his technique.

"I've stayed up all night learning this," Jerry admitted. “I think this will be just the distraction the campers need! Really gets your mind off of things, you know.”

She tried her hand at the craft too. Every last person on camp needed their mind off, didn’t they? As counselors, they were to be role models for the young ones. But it didn’t take long at all for her to realize just how talented Jerry was, and how little she was. No matter how she placed her hands, pumping the clay up and down like he was, the lump remained clumped together and would not turn into the beautiful piece Jerry was halfway through.

“I don’t think I’m getting it,” she said, defeated.

Jerry smiled at her chivalrously and shook his head. Scooting closer, he leaned over her shoulder and both his arms circled hers, covering her hands with his own to guide the motions.

“This is how you do it,” he said in a low voice that sent shivers down her spine and had her heart skip a beat or ten. “There you go. Don’t be afraid to get dirty hands.”

In truth, he was helping her so intently she was hardly putting in any effort. She wanted to lean back into him and just one more time rest her head against his comfortable broad chest, to feel the warmth of his body close to hers, to nuzzle his neck and clasp his arms as Jerry simply…

“Whatever you do,” he interrupted her thoughts abruptly, rebuking her, “Do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men.”

At once, his arms were gone and Jeri was alone and ashamed and stared at the shapeless lump of clay that amounted to nothing between her dirty, dirty hands. Jerry was standing at a safe distance, looking at her disgustedly.

“We’re banning pottery from the camp,” he declared with spite.

Another summer had come and gone, this one particularly well, all considered. All campers were going home safely this year, their most chaste batch so far. As a reward for themselves and all the other counselors, Jerry and Jeri threw a small ’They didn’t wanna bang’ sort of party in the almost deserted camp. There were balloons and non-alcoholic cocktails and Christian rock, and around a campfire they shared their favorite stories from the summer and talked about the kids’ virtue.

"Even Spankoffski handled himself this year," one of them said, a girl who had been a camper merely the year prior. "Can you believe it? After that hike in the woods he was just… refreshed."

The two of them exchanged a glance and hid their concern. They knew what was lurking in the deepest of the Witchwood. They knew its name, its face, its fears. It was what kept them coming back to the camp grounds over and over again. And there was no one else in the world who soothed their fears better than one another. For the rest of their lives, they would keep together this secret bigger than the laws of nature. The burden was lighter halved.

“That’s the power of Christ,” another piped up. “He works wonders in people’s hearts. Even the worst sinners…”

“Good old JC,” Jerry said, smiling. He kissed fingers at his lips and sent them up towards the sky. “Always there when we need him.”

Jeri giggled, half to cover up the awkward spiky issue, half because Jerry had always had a knack for making her lighten up. From teenage years they had shared the same humor, the same interests. She was a godly young woman despite everything she had done.

“Girl Jeri,” someone called out across the campfire. “Your marshmallow’s burning.”

She let out a small gasp − Jerry had distracted her. Sheepishly, she pulled the stick to her again and blew quickly on the marshmallow to put out the flame, but it was too late. It was well and burnt and her face fell with disappointment. This had been their last pack.

“Here,” he offered, “Let’s switch. Mine’s nice and gold.”

She would have been less happy with a million bucks and Jerry’s heart raced excitedly with warmth coursing through his entire being before he handed her the intact marshmallow. Briefly, their fingers brushed as they exchanged their sticks. Jerry popped the poor little marshmallow in his mouth, the burnt side crunching under his teeth, and smiled to reassure her he didn’t mind.

Jeri pried the marshmallow from the tip of the stick with her mouth and it was so golden, so well softened that she let out a whimper that made Jerry’s guts twist with want. He cursed himself. She seemed to realize this and her eyes opened again staring at him bewildered, as if she couldn’t believe such a sound had escaped her. Jerry had heard her make this sound, and more still, but if he allowed himself the thought, he might just lose his head.

“Therefore, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God,” Jeri blurted out and he did not know whether she was chiding him or herself.

“Hear, hear!” A few counsellors replied. “This one’s to Jesus!”

Jerry sat with a burnt taste in his mouth and stared at the flames. She was a temptress, alright, yet he would never fall for her charms again. He swore to God he never would and squeezed his fists so tight his palms bled a little as his nails dug into them.

In the winter, they spent all break rearranging the cabins for the mini camp only the most devout of teenagers attended. There was the facilities to check for any damage, the kitchens to put back into use, the beds to make, and a whole lot of shuffling things around. It was plenty enough for two pairs of hands, but then work was never something to shy away from at camp. It was split between all for the works of God.

“Where do these go again?” Jerry asked her, his arms full of a cardboard box of bits and bobs. “Dining room?”

“Play room,” Jeri corrected. “Thank you, Boy Jerry.”

She had cleaned up every cabin, checked every pipe and drain for cold damage, stacked up the pantry and fridges. On the program were karaoke nights of Christian rock, cool and exciting bible study with a modern twist, prayers, and above all a heavy dose of fun for the young teenagers about to be welcomed here. They had a great week to look forward to.

“Here, let me get this for you,” he said when he came back and saw her struggling with carrying a large box. “It’s too heavy for you.”

“Says who?” She tried to reply wittily but they both could see he was much stronger than she was.

“Carry each other’s burdens,” he grinned, “and so fulfill the law of Christ.”

Her arms were thankful for the help, in any case, and she felt relieved when the weight was lifted from her. She palmed her forearms still a little sore.

“Thank you so much, Boy Jerry,” she said, “I don’t know what I was… Oh.”

His shoelaces had loosened and were now dangerously untied. Without thinking, she knelt in front of him to tie them back up. It was only when she looked up again that she saw the expression on his face. She could not tell if it was disgust or desire. Was there even a difference. Her hands rested against his thighs and she stared up at him. She could have sat there for as long as he wished. He sighed.

“Don’t touch me,” he demanded regretfully.

And regretfully, she scooted back, well away from him.

Jeri had had a passion for music from childhood (and Jerry had known her all those years ago and could vouch for her innate talent at it) and he was slowly letting himself be dragged into it. Ever since they had been named abstinence camp directors, she had the vision that they should make a musical out of it and, out of the affection he held for his friend, Jerry was doing his share of the project. Some might even say that he was enjoying it.

“The Sounds of Celibacy is shaping up nicely,” she told him excitedly that day.

All week, she had told him she was working on editing together the clips they had shot the last time they had seen each other and he was looking forward to having a look at the final result.

“Sing to the Lord a new song, for he has done marvelous things,” he said, smiling. “Show me everything.”

They sat each on one end of the sofa and she pressed play on the remote. One clip at a time, she showed him the miracles of her work, sometimes with a video and other tracks only music. Brainstorming together, they never seemed to run out of ideas for new songs. He admired her creativity.

“That part sounds excellent,” he said after a particularly good bout of singing from her part. “They oughta put you on Broadway.”

“You wrote the lyrics,” she reminded him. “This is all your work we’re singing.”

“You’re better at it than me still,” he insisted. “And you can dance.”

She giggled. On the screen, a very stiff Jerry was only proving his point.

“Well, what matters isn’t any of that,” she said modestly. “But if we can help even a handful of kids, even just one to not make a mistake…”

“Then that’ll all be worth the effort,” Jerry concluded.

They smiled at each other. He was infinitely proud of her for her talents, her good heart, her desire to see their project through. It was wonderful what goodness they were capable of when they spread the good message of abstinence.

Jerry had broken his arm in a terribly silly accident none of the boys were willing to let Jeri know about when the group came back to camp. All that was to know was that he was rendered a whole lot less potent for the weeks to come and, after a visit to the hospital she strongly urged him into, he suddenly became a lot more dependent than he had been since childhood. Jeri was at his beck and call and glad to do so.

“It’s lucky I still have one arm,” Jerry said merrily. “I can wash myself just fine.”

That was lucky for their nostrils, Jeri supposed, as the camp policy did not allow for anyone to be in each other’s naked presence for any reason. Though he struggled to get dressed, though she had to cut his meat at every dinner, Jerry was adapting to his temporary one-armed life as well as could be, given the circumstances she could guess.

“You really shouldn’t bother with this,” he sighed as Jeri prepared the razor once more with a towel and a clean bowl of water. “There’s nothing wrong with having a beard.”

“You’ve never had a beard before,” she reminded him. “You’ve never had long hair. I’m not going to let you start now. Does not even nature itself teach you that if a man has long hair, it is a dishonor to him?”

Summer was slowly coming to an end, yet every morning after his shower, Jeri insisted on taking a moment to make him presentable again. She thought it their duty to look as well as they could to give the teens a good impression of what life as a celibate could look like. Anyone watching at them could see they were thriving, couldn’t they? And Jerry had such a naturally handsome face she would hate for anything to come cover up, even his own hair. He was in great need of a shave and a haircut.

“Chin up,” she instructed kindly as she worked the blade on his stubble. “There.”

With a now near expertise, she shaved him as close as he would have himself. It was a different business than legs and armpits altogether, but she had grown to like it in the time she had offered to do it. There was something relaxing about how precise she had to be for fear of cutting him. Briefly, she thought about an axe, and how quickly it could slice through flesh and bone. She pushed the thought aside.

“Ta dah!” She cried out, proud of herself for getting faster and faster at this every morning. “All handsome again!”

She could not have been more embarrassed if she had accidentally blurted out obscenities. Eyes wide, she stared at him apologetically and stammered.

“I-I mean…” She put down the razor and patted his cheeks and neck dry. “I mean, it’s done…”

With his good hand, which was his weak one, he touched his skin. When she touched the scissors, he shuddered and Jeri hesitated. If she wanted to cut his hair, she would have to comb fingers through it, to touch it between her knuckles, to feel his scalp at her fingertips, the warmth of his skin underneath…

“I think I can wait till the end of camp for a haircut,” Jerry suggested. “Don’t you, Girl Jeri?”

She felt sad beyond words. If only. If things had been different, she might have cut his hair every month on the kitchen floor in a house of their own. She would have been his personal barber, and his cook and his…

“Yes,” she replied. “That’s a great idea.”

On the last day of camp, the counselors held a small celebration out in the moonlight, gathered around a campfire to feast on a summer well spent spreading the good word to the youth of Hatchetfield. How many lives had they saved this year again? How many souls?

The chatter went a little into the night as the stars started peaking through the skies and some of the counselors began going to bed. They were all good kids or very godly people, after all, and if it wasn’t a sin to stay up late, it was a temptation nonetheless. One by one, all of them left till Jerry noticed there was only his fellow director with him.

“Should we call it a night?” He asked.

In the darkness, he had not noticed, but a cloud shifted and moonlight peeked through only to reveal that she too had fallen asleep, but long before going to bed. Her head was resting on her elbow sitting on the arm of her camping chair and she was the most peaceful thing in the entire world. In the Witchwood, this was a rarity. Jerry’s heart tightened with fondness.

“Would you look at you,” he muttered in a sigh.

He was loath to wake her up. The poor thing seemed exhausted as she was and he had no right to wake her, not even to put her back to sleep a moment later. Making a quick judgement call of it, he stood and gathered her up in his arms. Jeri did not even stir. Rather, taking a long sleepy breath, nestled close to his torso. It was a miracle the pounding of his heart did not wake her up.

Her cabin was not too far away from the fire camp, and Jerry only had to walk a little to reach the door he pried open with some difficulty. The fresh scent of flowers welcomed him − what a lovely home she kept in the summer. Jeri made every space she inhabited better for having had her.

“When you lie down,” he whispered as he put her to bed, “you will not be afraid.”

He pushed her tousled hair off her face. Did she sleep without her hair ties or not? He could not change her out of her day clothes, but worked on her shoelaces to take off her tennis shoes for her comfort. Pulling the cover tight around her, he tried to make her as cozy as she would want to be. The sight of her peaceful traits in sleep made him want to run away from Hatchetfield and take her with him.

“When you lie down, your sleep will be sweet.”

Despite his best judgement, he kissed her forehead. And hated himself for it.

In the deepest of winter, the forest was the most awake, the most vivid. Snow had blanketed its grounds in thick layers, never letting the older snow fully melt away before covering it again and again and it had reached such a height that the passage between cabins was enough to numb your entire body by the time you reached destination, no matter how close the buildings. They had lit a small heater on the porch of Jeri’s cabin and as night fell, they watched a world of black and white take shape in the shadows. In the distance, they could hear his footsteps, unmistakably heavy, threatening. She spotted a fleeing flock of birds in the corner of her eyes. Nighthawks.

"It’s one of the coldest nights of the year," Jerry told her. "They’ve said that on the radio."

They had made hot chocolate on the stove and, nestled each under a pile of blankets of their own, were sipping it quietly on opposite ends of the porch swing under a starry sky. The stars never looked quite the same from downtown Hatchetfield. There was something about the Witchwood. The sky was clearer, bigger. Easier to lose yourself into.

"Will you be alright?" She enquired.

In another life, she would have offered him a spot in her cabin so that they could brace the cold together. During the summer months, it was the girl counselors’ cabin, but she occupied it during the empty months when the youth ministry did not request access to the camp grounds. Over the years, she had decorated it to her taste and made it a bit of a home. There were several bunk beds at a very respectable distance from one another. He could have slept there. It would have been almost proper. She drank more hot chocolate and its warmth tingled from head to toes in an abnormally cold night.

"Alright? Jesus wept. As well as I’ll ever be," he replied with a melancholic smile.

They stared into each other’s eyes. He had the most wonderful piercing blue eyes which shone with intelligence when he was excited, which soothed her better than the calming sound of a rustling stream when she was in fits of nerves. The icy cold had given his cheeks a deep blush, the parts of his face uncovered between his thick coat, several scarves and a hat she had knitted him many years ago. He had always kept it. The two of them could never shed off what the other had given them.

"Boy Jerry, I…"

Little Jery’s footsteps stopped in his tracks and she sensed him listening in. She took a big breath. Any thought could be pushed away if she put her heart in it. She made herself smile.

"It’s nothing," she said. "I’m sorry."

She could not stop staring at him. For twenty years, their poor existences had been intertwined with the same challenges, the same shameful secret. Even now, she would have chosen nobody else to share her life with. If she’d been less filthy, if she had obeyed God, they might have gotten married. She would have agreed to it if he’d asked, back then, and instead, what had they done? But even the most deviant sin committed with someone else was less lonesome than on one’s guilty own.

“I’m just happy to be here with you,” she said.

She hoped Little Jery would not mind this. It was the mildest expression of her true feelings, but sincere nonetheless.

“Me too,” he replied. “Always.”

On the swing between them, their gloved hands reached for one another, not touching but close enough to fill her with his warmth almost as if. How much she longed to hold it, and to embrace the whole of him just one last time… Didn’t they call it the little death? Their son would put a literal twist to it and she would die in bliss and love.

It could never be. It would never be. Her horrid thoughts were meant to stay solely inside her own mind and they would never come to life again. It was shameful enough just to think them. At her core, she truly was a dirty girl.