Fools Rush in(72)

In the deepening evening, in the relative privacy of the yard, we could hear the sounds of his neighbors, but we really couldn’t see anything. And nobody could see us.

“Let’s go to bed, honey,” my honey said, wrapping his arms around me. He gave me another world-class kiss, one that I would have enjoyed greatly had I not been so focused on my escape.

“Joe,” I murmured against his mouth.

“Hmm?”

“I’ve never, you know…” He was kissing my neck.

“Never what?”

“I’ve never made love outside.”

He pulled back to look at me, a grin crossing his face. “We can fix that.”

Just fix it fast, I thought. I wanted desperately to be in my own house, in my immaculate bathroom, showering off the salt and whale spit.

Joe’s hands slipped under my shirt and neatly removed it. Amazingly, as much as his hands knew what they were doing, as beautiful as he was, as long as I had wanted him, I found myself faking it. A few minutes later, we were lying on a small patch of grass under a cedar, and all I could think was hurry up. Finally, he moaned into my neck and sagged against me, rolling over so I was snuggled against his side. Okay, let’s go home, I thought.

“God, Millie, that was fantastic,” Joe murmured.

“Mmm.” Wondering how much longer it would be till he took me home, I stroked his silky hair for a minute, then turned my head. I shrieked, unbelieving. Joe jumped.

“What? What?”

“Jesus, Joe!” I shrilled, leaping to my feet and grabbing my shirt against me. “Shit!”

Clearly evident in our post-coital resting place was an unmistakably healthy crop of poison ivy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE NEXT DAY, ITCHY, STINGING, prickling, burning welts covered my back, arms, neck and half of my ass. Mercifully, my female parts were spared, and so were my legs. My face, however, swelled red, tight and aching, a victim of sunburn on the boat. The rest of it was Cape Cod’s national flower, poison ivy.

Joe had driven me home, sheepishly apologetic. Even in my distress, I hadn’t wanted to wash off at his filthy house. I was furious—not just at him, but at both of us. But yes, at him. It was his yard, after all. Granted, I could’ve paid more attention, but my focus had been on escaping the grime of his house. He should have seen where he was rolling me, right? It was…thoughtless. He was just caught up in the moment, I argued with myself. Isn’t that a good thing?

“I’m sorry, Mil,” he’d said, pulling into my driveway. “I’m immune to poison ivy, so I guess I just don’t notice it.”

Of course he was immune. I was not, I soon discovered. Despite a long, hot shower, the welts came home to roost on Saturday night. For the first time in my life, I’d been stupid enough to get poison ivy.

There was no way I could go to work. On Sunday morning, I phoned Juanita, who kindly arranged for coverage at the clinic for Monday. Then I called myself in a prescription of prednisone, which my mom picked up for me, as I was loath to show my face in public. Joe called me and I lied, telling him I think I got lucky and didn’t get anything. He crooned about our day together, and while I was glad that he was happy, I also felt a little irritated. After all, I’d been seasick, terrified, horrified, disgusted, itchy. Not my best day.

At least it was Sunday and I could hide here at home. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. Did my face look more like an enormous slice of salami or a blotchy Marlon Brando? Brando won. I was very Island of Dr. Moreau. I couldn’t sit, as my entire back was tender, itchy and sore all at once. I could lie on my stomach, but if I tried to read or watch TV, my neck started to ache. I vacuumed my house and washed the floors, wanting more than ever to be in a nice, clean environment after visiting Joe yesterday.

In a Benadryl fog, I soaked in an oatmeal soap bath, and it was as disgusting as it sounds. Now I was slimy, itchy and welt-covered. The steroids would take a day or two to work, and by Sunday evening, I’d only had four doses. I changed into a roomy old Notre Dame T-shirt that Sam had sent me a thousand years ago and some scrub bottoms. Digger was very sympathetic, wagging gently and looking at me with his sweet brown eyes. It was one of those times when animals prove vastly superior to humans. I stroked his pretty head and gazed back.

“Good puppy,” I said, grateful for his presence.

The itching began in full strength. Little razor-sharp flashes of hurt, followed by almost psychotic itching, raced up and down my back and arms. Thank God my nether regions were unaffected, or I truly would have been suicidal. I rubbed my arms gently, then a little harder. Oooh. The itch flashed into a blaze of heat. “Distract yourself,” I said, pacing around my small home. Flash! Youch! Don’t scratch. “Don’t scratch,” I repeated out loud, reciting the instructions I gave at least twice daily at the clinic. “Scratching will inflame the area and just make it feel worse.”

Standing between the dining room and kitchen, I leaned against the door frame. I rubbed—gently, gently—back and forth. The flames of itch leaped in exhilaration. Oh, man, that felt good! Just one scratch to make the itching go away. The skin on my back sang in searing joy. I stopped, satisfied for two entire seconds, and then my entire torso crawled in a wave of fresh, stronger itchiness. Oh, screw it. Don’t scratch, be damned. This was agony.

I stomped into the kitchen and yanked open a drawer. Knife? No, too sharp. Didn’t want to draw blood. Spatula? No. Whisk? Ineffective. Aha! Pasta fork! A plastic pasta fork, with those lovely little prongs for grabbing spaghetti. Blessed utensil! I grabbed it and slammed the drawer shut, then reached back and went to work. Ooooh. Aaahhh. Oh, Mommy. I scratched maniacally, the razor flashes subdued by the hurt-so-good reaming. Leaning my hot, blotchy, swollen face against the coolness of the fridge, I raked my back in a delirium of Benadryl to near orgasmic satisfaction.