Sarah Redux

a Story of Rediscovery

Copyright � 2003, Varangian

A single glimpse of the woman left me breathless, not because she was young and beautiful, and I horny.� None of that was true.� She, in her early thirties, possessed a plain, yet pleasant face, while I had a wife who after twenty-three years of marriage never failed to entice me to robust sex at least once a week.

She looked like Sarah all grown up � though Sarah never had, because she died in a car crash at age sixteen.� The resemblance was uncanny.� I caught the woman staring at me when I looked again, but she turned her head quickly and went on to view the next Van Gogh.

I neither followed her nor sought to be nearby, but in the turns of the gallery we encountered each other more than once.� The third time she looked into my face and asked, �Do I know you?�

I shrugged my shoulders, smiled and replied, �It�s unlikely.� I would have remembered, of course.� But you do resemble a person I knew thirty years ago.� Please forgive me for staring.�

She smiled in return.� �I was only two then, so I must not be the girl.� I too should apologize for looking at you, although I can�t say I�ve ever met you before despite a certain something about your face.� Are you a professor?� Perhaps I�ve noticed you on campus.�

�It�s possible, although not here.� I�ve been at Ann Arbor for fifteen years.�

�No, that can�t be it.� I�ve never visited the U of M.� I studied at Chicago.�

We fell silent and regarded each other for a long moment.� Like Sarah, she had dark hair and an impish face unadorned by cosmetics.� She was also a head shorter than I and without discernible breasts beneath the white blouse and well-tailored jacket.

�It�s bizarre,� she remarked.

�Indeed it is.�� I laughed.� �Perhaps we�ve met in another life.� But I won�t take any more of your time.� Please excuse me again.�

She grinned in a perfect imitation of Sarah, turned and stepped away without a further word.� I gazed at her as she retreated, shook my head, then headed in the other direction.

I almost bumped into her in a crowd at the museum�s exit as I went out.� �Oops!� I exclaimed, arms raised in surprise, not quite touching her.� She turned and laughed.

�The fates have it in for us,� she remarked.� �We should at least introduce ourselves.�

�Thomas Ellsworth,� I said, beating her to it.

�Professor Ellsworth.�� She extended her hand.� � I�m Katie Schneider.�

We shook hands formally.� �The girl I mentioned earlier was Sarah Crawford.� Do you by chance have a Crawford in your past?�

She shook her head. ��Not that I�m aware of.� Have you lost touch with her?�

�She�s been dead for thirty years.�

�Oh.� I�m very sorry.� Were you close friends?�

�High school sweethearts.� It was a car crash.�

She gave a commiserating look.� �I�m sorry if I�ve dredged up unhappy memories.�

�We were very happy until the end: like children, you know.�

She looked up and down the drive in front of the museum as though expecting a ride.�� She then turned to me again.� �Did you come down from Ann Arbor for the exhibition?�

�Yes.� I was invited like the rest of the people here, perhaps because I�ve written on Van Gogh.� He has always been a passion of mine.� If I ever win the lottery, I�ll spend every penny to buy one of his works.�

�I have one,� she admitted in a small voice.� �It�s an unimportant watercolor from his early period � before he went to Paris.�

My face must have taken on a foolish expression of astonishment, because she grinned at me.� �Unimportant!� I exclaimed.� �None of his stuff is unimportant!�

�Here�s my ride,� she said quickly.� �I�d like to show it to you, if you�re not in a hurry.�

The car was a tan Bentley.� A liveried chauffeur got out and stepped around to open the rear door.� Such signs of luxury were in keeping with someone who owned a Van Gogh, I thought.

�That�s very kind of you,� I responded.� �But I�m afraid I�ve already been too much of a bother.�

It was a lame objection that I hoped she would reject.� I was not yet certain whether I was more interested in the lovely woman than her Van Gogh.� It would have been a difficult query, because I was comfortably married and had two children in college.

�I�m not suggesting anything naughty,� she said with a wink, reading my mind the way Sarah always had.

�Yes.� I would very much like to see it.� Do you want me to follow you?� I asked, extending an arm toward the parking lot where my more modest vehicle waited.

�No, no.� Come with me.� Marko will drive you back to your car.�

* * *

In the vehicle�s closeness I sensed a vague whiff of lilac, something I had always associated with Sarah, who every Spring since she was ten presented me with a bouquet snipped from a neighbor�s bush.� During lilac time at age thirteen we kissed for the first time, and I briefly fondled a small breast.� She, a religious girl, pushed my hand away, while remaining in my embrace.� We never went further than that.

�You seem bemused, Professor Ellsworth.� May I call you Tom?�

�Yes, of course.� I�m sorry.� The scent of lilac awakened a memory.�

�Lilac?� I don�t smell it.� Are you feeling all right?� You seem pale.�

I laughed.� �Perhaps it�s because I skipped lunch.�

�We�ll soon fix that!�� She waved at a leather cabinet.� �I�d offer you a drink right now, but since my husband�s death I no longer keep alcohol in the car.�

�I�m sorry . . .�

�It�s been over a year now,� she interrupted.� �Are you married?�

I held up my left hand to display the wedding band.

�Children?�

�Two: twin young adults.� They�re both at Yale.�

�I�ve never wanted a child,� she confessed.� �I guess it�s selfish, but I don�t think I�m patient enough to be a good mother.�

�Sarah once said that!� Those very words!�

�Did she.� Was there a problem?� A scare?�

I hesitated before answering.� �We were never that intimate.� We were only kids.�

�Most girls are fully grown at sixteen.� You�re haunted by her, aren�t you, Tom?� Even after thirty years.�

I nodded.� �I often think of her, but I wouldn�t say the memory haunts me.�

She placed a hand on my knee.� �But you must fantasize about �knowing� her completely.�

�Hah!� I started doing that when I was thirteen.�

�Does your wife resemble her?�

�Not at all.� Cynthia, my wife, is tall and blonde.�

She squeezed the knee.� �So, there�s some unfinished business in your life.�

I looked at the intruding hand and said, �I�m happily married.�

�I�m sure you are, Tom,� she responded and removed the hand.

* * *

Katie�s large house was situated on an acre lot in an expensive neighborhood not far from the university.� A maid opened the door as we ascended the front stairs.� The interior was extremely tidy, like a museum, which was appropriate, because I immediately recognized a Sisley and a Manet even before entering the living room that extended at least forty feet.

�My husband was much older than I,� she remarked.� �People say I married him for his money, and it�s true.�

I did not know how to respond to the unbidden history lesson.� The woman seemed a bit quirky, which only enhanced her mystery, because Sarah had been like that too.

She led me to a smaller parlor and pointed to the wall.� �There�s my Van Gogh,� she said.� �Make yourself comfortable.� I�ll go and see about something to eat.�

She left and I studied the painting.� It was a dark scene depicting two peasants in a field.� Although it was undeniably a Van Gogh, I had seen much better in the museum earlier.

�I told you it was an unimportant work,� she said upon returning and stepping to a wet bar.� �What�s your preference?�

�I�m not much of a drinker.� I usually add soda pop.�

�Not here you won�t!� Try this Scotch.�

She handed me a generous glass and we sat together on a leather sofa that faced the painting.

�Have you told Cynthia about your fixation?� she asked, placing a hand on my knee again.

�Fixation!� It�s hardly that!� I protested.� �But she already knew about Sarah and me.� They were school mates.�

�Indeed!� Are you suggesting you�ve only known one woman?�

The intrusive question irked me, but I replied truthfully.� �We went steady in high school and married after graduating from college.�

�Evidently you had better luck with her.�

�I�ve never wanted anyone else!� I retorted.

�Except Sarah.�

That was too much.� I scarcely knew the woman and she was prying into something delicate. �I�ve seen your Van Gogh, Katie.� Perhaps it�s time for me to leave.�� I placed the unsipped glass on a side table and rose.

�If you must, Tom,� she responded, also rising.� �Marko will drive you back to your car.� But you should stay long enough to eat something.� You are pale.�� She looked at me for a moment, then shrugged.� �It�s up to you.�

She was obviously backing off, but from what exactly I could not comprehend.� The thrust of her words was towards sex, although that intent seemed improbable.� I was a potty, forty-seven year old history professor.

�You�ve been very gracious,� I apologized.� �I didn�t mean to be rude.�

She waved a dismissive hand.� �Sit and finish your drink.� I�ll go and hurry up lunch.�

After she left I picked up the glass and sipped exquisite liquor while pacing the �small� parlor, which was larger than my living room.� A few minutes later the maid appeared with a tray of food, placing it on the coffee table with a deferential nod.� I nibbled a finger sandwich, and when Katie failed to return I sat and ate.

* * *

I heard Katie�s voice from behind as I poured another drink at the bar.� �We won�t be disturbed, Tom.�

I turned and gasped at the sight of her.� She was clad in a short, plaid skirt and a white blouse.� Her slender legs were bare except for anklets.� She had tied her dark hair into a pony tail, and looked like a grown woman imitating a school girl.� But the effect, for me, was devastating.� Despite the mature face, she was Sarah as I remembered the girl.

�Wha�� What are you up to?� I stammered, then stood mute to marvel at the sight of her.

�Is this what Sarah looked like?� she asked, pressing hands down her side to emphasize the meager breasts.

I paused to catch my breath before answering.� �Yes.� Exactly, although she wore skirts only infrequently.� The pony tail is perfect.� Are you certain you�ve never met her?�

�If so, Tom, I was only a baby at the time.� I would not have remembered, would I?�

�I don�t understand, Katie.� Why have you done this?� If it�s some kind of game, I�m afraid it�s in bad taste.� You�re toying with a memory that�s very special to me.�

She looked hurt.� �Are you offended?� I was hoping to cheer you up, to let you experience something you missed as a boy.�

Again the hint of sex, and I was sorely tempted despite twenty-three years of faithfulness.� �Why are you doing this, Katie?� You bear a striking resemblance to her, but how could that be of any interest to you?�

She shrugged, then stepped close to touch my arm.� �Is it important, Tom?� Loosen up and let your imagination run free.� Pretend I�m Sarah for a while.�� She encircled my waist with her arms.

The scent of lilac was unmistakable.� If I had only imagined it before, now it was real.� I could not resist kissing her.� Her response was almost chaste, virginal.� The lips scarcely puckered as though she were doing it for the first time.� It was as if we were thirteen again.� I gasped, hugged the slight creature and exclaimed, �Oh, god!�� I brought a hand between us to fondle a small breast, soft and braless.� Sarah never required such an item.

�I trust you, Tommy,� she mewled into my ear, her arms now around my neck, leaning up.

I realized the woman was playing a role, but I, an eager participant, welcomed the charade.� With arms still entangled around each other we moved to the couch where we sat and kissed intensely as I ran a hand up a cool, sleek thigh.� �Don�t hurt me,� she moaned against my lips.� She aped a little girl voice that did not fool me a bit, but I hoped she would remain in character.

When I touched her pubic bush � she wore no panties � I entered new territory, because I never thought of Sarah with hair down there, although, of course, it would have been unusual if she had none even at age thirteen.

There were limits to this posture�s credulity, I knew, but I wanted to pretend and realize a dream, even if it was a mere sham.� I slipped to the floor and began kissing up an inner thigh.

�What are you doing, Tommy?� she cried, and when my mouth reached the bush, she exclaimed, �That�s nasty!�� I could imagine Sarah�s protest.

She held my head tightly to her as I ate out the fragrant pussy; she enjoying it, I suppose, in real time.� �Jesus!� she cried out in climax, pulling at my hair.� I had heard Sarah call forth that name, but only in church.

I squatted on the floor in front of her.� The skirt was at her waist and she had ripped off the blouse to expose small breasts that were pert only in my imagination.� Her face was for a moment devilish, but quickly assumed an innocence appearance.� I undid my trousers and pulled them down.

�Oh, my!� she exclaimed at the sight of my rigid cock.� �You�ll hurt me with that, Tommy.� You�ll make a baby.�

I rose on my knees and leaned forward between her legs.� The penetration, of course, was easy, because she was a mature, aroused woman.� She cried out as though it were her first time.� I abandoned myself to the fantasy and banged my darling Sarah with lips pressed to hers, overwhelmed by an intense passion that I had not felt in decades.� Her orgasm was spectacular:� a loud yell presaged by scratching fingernails on my shoulders.� I sucked her neck as I came.

Then it was over.

I felt foolish, squatting on my knees before a strange woman who oozed my stuff onto the leather cushion.� Sarah had entirely disappeared, replaced by an attractive older person who resembled her.

�I enjoyed it,� I said, struggling to my feet.� �But that�s the male�s prerogative.� What�s your excuse?�

�Passion,� she said.� �Really feeling. It�s the first time I�ve felt it in a guy.�

I zipped my trousers with eyes fixed on her almost naked body lounging on the couch.

�You�ve been on a quest?� I asked.� �You�ve been seeking the prefect fuck?�

�Don�t give me that shit, Thomas!� You enjoyed it as much as I!�

�Yes I did, but I feel guilty about it.� I just don�t understand your motivation.�

�Like I said, I wanted passion.�� And when I saw your name on the museum�s invitation list, I knew I had a chance at something special.�

�What are you talking about?�

She straightened her skirt but the seeming adolescent chest remained exposed.�
�I never knew Sarah, of course, but she was my mother�s cousin.� Your love affair with Sarah was a legend in our house.� �The perfect romance,� my mom always said, �broken by tragedy.��

I looked at the ceiling and breathed deeply.� �I need a drink.�

�Help yourself, Tom.� But don�t think badly of me.� You believed it, though, didn�t you?� Just for a moment?�

�I guess I wanted to believe it.� It was good.�

She grinned at me.� �I think so too.� Can you stay the night?� I know some other stuff.� I�ll suck my thumb for you.�

That had been an endearing habit Sarah never managed to break.� �My god,� I murmured, �did her family talk about her so much?�

�Not that much.�� The woman smiled smugly.� �I found her diary.�

�Her diary!� I didn�t know she kept one.�

�Neither did anyone else.� She told it everything.� She loved you, Thomas Parkingham Ellsworth, with all her heart.�

�Oh, my god!�

�As a teenager I lived in her old bedroom.� When I looked for a spot to keep my secrets, I found hers there.� It is amazing how much like her I am.�� The woman rose to her feet and stood very close to me � lilacs mixed with female heat.� �Is it surprising I should find you as attractive as she did?�

END