Calypso's Body

The ocean moves above me, shifting the light through the greenish-blue waves like stars falling into the sea. My eyes are wide open to stare into the distorted sky, watching the sway of beams that sink deeper into the water as if reaching for me, begging me to take their hands. I let them fall past me, leaving me in the dark. I wait for the light to fade away, for the clouds to cover up the sun, before kicking my feet and propelling myself back towards the world sitting above the sea. The air is crisp and harsh on my lungs, bringing the tears to the edge of my eyelids as I try to blink the salty water away. The clouds cover my naked body as I swim back for the shore. My feet touch the sandy bottom and I stand, the water dripping down my skin into rivers tracing my veins and muscles. I walk back towards my home, the ocean lapping at my ankles, asking me to stay.

Hours later when he calls, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, watching the bright light of the clock crawl from 11:56 to 11:57. I don’t answer it right away, instead silently listening to the incessant ringing, the sound drowning out the beating of my heart.

           I reach my hand over to the phone, my face blank under the lamp’s watchful gaze. My hands no longer shake like they used to – now they are as still as the moon hanging calmly in the night sky. I put the receiver to my ear.

           “I’ll be over in 10” is all he says in his thick, gravelly voice. I hear the click as he hangs up. I continue to hold the phone to my ear limply, listening to previous conversations over the static dial tone, ghosts of words too far away to remember.

           When he first started calling, we’d talk for hours – about both nothing and everything all at once. We’d tell stories about our childhoods, remembering the way our mothers smelled and the sound of our fathers’ voices. Wrapped in the darkness of night, I quietly listened to every word, afraid that if I breathed too loud, I would miss some important detail in his endless stories. Then, one day, he said slowly, “Penelope’s away and it’s so quiet in this house. The coldness has found its way in.”

           It wasn’t a statement, not really, but a question for me.        

           “Would you like to come over? I can make some coffee,” I’d said.

           I have made so many mistakes since then, over and over again. I remember my mother saying once that women in love never learn their lesson. I wonder if she knew that she was talking about me, too, or if she was simply remembering her own mistakes. I’m sure my mother, who smelled like saltwater and lavender and looked as though she were made of sunlight, was loved by many men that she should not have loved back.

           I put the phone receiver back down and stand, the yellow cotton sundress billowing in the gentle wind sweeping through the open window and brushing against the backs of my ankles as my bones crackle like firewood. The joints of my body are frozen over, too stiff to allow the rest of me to shift back into place. My entire being feels as though it is made of dust and ice. The wood floor creaks beneath me as I move, giving sound to the suffocating silence as I make my way slowly towards the door. When I open it, the cool breeze sweeping off the waves comes to greet me. I let it wrap around me like a cocoon, the cold from the sea saying hello to the cold of my hollow body.

           I don’t know how long I’m standing there, staring into the waves, before I notice him making his way down the beach. I watch quietly while the wind whips his long, chestnut brown curls around behind him. His strong steps have the confidence and dignity of a king, and I remember why I started making these mistakes in the first place. The light of the moon seems to reflect off his skin, creating a glow that covers his whole body. He is light, gliding across the sand and come to find me in the dark spots the sky can’t touch.

           He takes the steps up to my home in threes, his long legs charioting him up to me, and then his lips are on mine, pushing greedily for their parting. He wraps his hands in my hair, grinding his fingers into the roots until I can’t tell what’s him and what’s me. With his other hand, he walks his fingers down the length of my spine, coming to the place on my lower back that sends shivers down to my toes. I let out a small moan from between my teeth and I can feel him smiling. He knows he’s captured me. He knows he’s won.

           I sink into his body like I’m melting, allowing myself to be held up in his familiar embrace.

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           When he’s gotten what he came for, he sits on the end of the bed sliding his sandals back on his feet. I sit behind him propped up against the headboard, humming quietly to myself. He stops in his re-clothing process, his back to me as he tilts his head to the side and says, “Would you stop? You know how annoying I find the humming.”

           I grow quiet, but can’t stop myself from whispering, “You use to love my singing.”

           He grunts, standing up from the bed after slipping on his other shoe.

           “I never loved the humming or the singing. That’s like saying sailors love the singing of sirens. They leave their wives for musical whores – wicked nymphs just like you.”

           The jab hurts, but I don’t say anything back. In his mind, it’s my fault he’s disloyal to his wife. I am the witch and he is simply my latest victim.

           And maybe he’s right. Maybe I am the “witch.” Or maybe that’s the other mistress he calls when he needs someone other than me. No, I am not the witch. I am the “siren,” the “nymph” with the cursed voice that forces his virtue and his loyalty. The one who lulls the sailors to their deaths. He drowns in me, not the other way around. I am the dark ocean, and he is the sunbeams sinking to the bottom.

           After he leaves, I stand and allow the blankets to fall to the floor. I gently run my fingers along my arms, neck, cheeks – anything his rough hands had touched, had tried to claim as his. I let my arms fall to my sides and begin walking, moving slowly through the rooms of my home towards the door, towards the sand, towards the ocean. There is no one to see me now, but the moon finds my naked body and reaches its white light to caress my skin. My feet touch the freezing waves, curling into the sand for warmth, but I continue to wade into the sea until the water wraps around my thighs. My frozen demons are dragged out of my skin and down into the ocean, leaving me to exist someplace between the sea and the sky.

           I begin to hum to myself again, calming my breath to match the sway of the waves the way my mother had taught me to when I was young. Before the days of wild men and “musical whores.” Before the days when I had a body that I did not feel was ever wholly mine. I tilt my head back, my long hair trailing down my back and brushing against the spot he’d captured, sweeping away the last of his touch. I open my eyes wide, staring up into the glimmering sky and allowing the stars to see me, witness the body that was terrified to be seen by the light.

           I let the day fall away to rest between the sea and the stars, engulfed in the chill of the ocean and the smell of saltwater.