Sins at the Water's Edge

By Jay Stephens

From birth to her death, Daren Edmondson grasped tightly all that fate placed at her feet. Those individuals enticed to tangle with Ms. Edmondson were intrigued. For most, contact with the woman led to erotic interactions they were unlikely to forget, for a few, the contact led to their untimely death at the water's edge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Stephens
• Release date: Mar 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310792816

Jay Stephens

Jay Stephens is retired. He lives with Susan, his wife of forty-six years in western New York. Sins at the Water's Edge is his first work of fiction published.

Book preview

Like the rest of Creation, man’s ancestors were forced to wander in search of nourishment to sustain life. Those migrations were dictated by the climate. Sexual contact between the sexes of any given species was meant by Nature to result in procreation and the continuance of that species.

About four thousand years before Christmas, the climate on this rock stabilized. No longer forced to follow the sunshine, man foraged less for existence, put down roots, and finally, Homo sapiens claimed the landscape. As men and women evolved, they discovered the sexual experience pleasurable beyond the expectation of an offspring. Sex became a pastime to be enjoyed.

While playful intercourse was and is still considered an abomination by some religions, humans continued to experiment to achieve the satisfaction desired, and that’s where the trouble began.

Animals must learn right from wrong at an early age, there is little room for error. Those that fail to grasp this fact are destine to become fodder for creatures higher up the food chain, or simply fail to exist.

Unfortunately, some of us are slow learners, some never learn. That’s the rub that makes life interesting.

There are lapses in the history that follows, for not everyone involved has been willing to come forward and speak. Additional information may come to light as the authorities apply sufficient pressure by way of Grand Jury proceedings and criminal indictments, but for the time being, this is what is known:

Chapter one: Carpenters Pond

August 12th, 1962: One week after Marilyn’s untimely death at the age of thirty-six, Jack Lundberg made his trek to the woods off of the Williams Road. In the mind of the sheltered eighteen year old, the forest was an exotic locale where danger resided, not unlike Hemingway’s Africa.

At the time of Jack’s visit, the plot of ancient forest was surrounded by a single, eight-home subdivision and a small commercial plaza that included a grocery store, a pharmacy and an eight lane bowling alley. His visit that rainy Sunday afternoon was not his first during the summer of ’62. He had tramped about these woods weekly, usually fully-clothe, sometimes not. On that second Sunday in August, his most glorious adventure to date took shape, the consequence of random acts of kindness on the part of the individuals involved.

The Carpenter family had owned the six hundred and twenty-four acre woodlot and the waters contained therein by government decree, following the Treaty of Ghent, the agreement that brought the War of 1812 to a close. The Governor of the State of New York, Daniel D. Tompkins, granted Jonathan Carpenter title to the land for services rendered to the nation during Dr. Cyrenius Chapin’s failed attempt to stop the British advance on the City of Buffalo in December of 1813. Jonathan, a transplanted Pennsylvania gunsmith, had provided the much of the weaponry used by Dr. Chapin and his militia. That militia, while valiant in their defense of Buffalo, was no match for the Red Coats. The men of Chapin’s militia were routed by a superior British force and the City was put to the torch in reprisal for the burning of Newark by the retreating American army just weeks earlier when the Americans abandon Fort George on the Canadian side of the Niagara River. Just a few years into the 20th century, Jonathan’s eldest grandson, Patrick Jordan, declared the property a nature preserve, to be Forever safe from the ravages of civilization.

With the passing Jonathan’s only male heir in 1956, Genevieve Michalski became trustee of Patrick Jordan’s legacy.

Carpenters Pond is still the attraction for most of the folks who slogged through the wetlands that surround the pond south of Sherman, New York. The pond remains a landlocked impoundment today, fed by the two narrow streams that meander through the wooded sanctuary, and the unguided runoff from the surrounding hills. Game birds, ring-necked pheasant and grouse flourish there. Waterfowl frequent the pond, a respite during their twice-annual migrations. There is also an abundance of white-tailed deer, squirrel and rabbits.

No one knew the actual depth of the water back in ‘62. The use of watercraft was prohibited on Carpenters Pond to keep the dozen or so nesting pairs of mallards from deserting their nests and taking flight for parts unknown. The rafts built by neighborhood boys were quickly destroyed by one of the three caretakers who patrolled the property up until 1968. The crayfish in the pond were the size of small lobster. Muskrats and martins, weasels and mink were plentiful. That combination of claws and lengthy incisors kept most folks out of the pond and no one, not even Jack Lundberg or Genevieve Michalski, ever swan to the center of the pond, despite weekly visits to the cool water during the tail-end of that long hot summer and the Indian summer that followed.

The preserve was fenced in 1969 or 1970, the result of the bottles, cans, and other assorted trash left behind by visitors. Admission was restricted and allowed at three gates manned from noon on Thursday through sunset on Sunday. The preserve was off-limits the rest of the week. Those same regulations continue to be enforced today, eight years after Genevieve Michalski’s passing.

On that rainy August afternoon in 1962, Jack Lundberg laid his kit out on the living room rug after he finished the dinner dishes with the help of his younger sister, Suzanna. Mom hovered nearby and watched Jack packed two empty coffee cans, a length of twelve-pound Dacron fishing line, four or five #2 long shank hooks and two half-full jars of salmon eggs he’d use as bait, into the olive-drab knapsack.

Jack looked up to find a troubled look on Mom’s face.

He’ll be fine, Margaret, was Dad’s answer to his wife’s whispered worry.

But it’s raining, John.

I’ll be careful, Mom, Jack added. It’s not like there’s fire falling from the clouds.

Jack concealed his English racer in tall weeds behind the pharmacy. A brisk walk from the parking lot along a low ridge brought Jack to the fork where a decision was needed. To the grassy north shore, there was safe entry into the cool water. The dense, ancient forest bordered the south shore right to the water’s edge. The massive root structure provided plenty of cover for the muskrats, the crayfish and the schools of sticklebacks. Many of the ancestors of those fish swam in dozens of aquariums around town, collected by boys in search of a payday, however small. Knee-deep muck separated the north and south shores of the pond from the deep water.

Crayfish, is what he told Mom, an attempt to conceal the real purpose for his walk in the rain. He’d nab a coffee can full before heading home for appearance sake. For now, there was a more immediate need to satisfy.

The steady drizzle had been falling since one, after a bright sunny morning was overtaken by the clouds that blew inland from the lake. The cool drizzle and the dark gray overcast would keep the bird watchers and other nature-lovers at home. So was the boy’s hope as he turned north at the fork.

He dropped his knapsack to the wet grass and scanned the hills overlooking the shore of Carpenters Pond. No one around, he decided after a long ‘look-see’. By now, thirty-five minutes into his hike, his shirt and dungarees are soaked through and plastered to his skin. He pulled off his sneakers and followed the flight of a ruffed grouse hen that broke cover.

At a distance of fifty feet, the woman was invisible in her green slicker, her footfalls silenced by the rain and the wet. Sunday afternoons were reserved, her quiet time with Renegade in the lead while her husband, Michael, practiced his avocation at the kitchen counter. Elegant dinners followed those long walks in the woods she called her own. Her thoughts occupied the middle of nowhere until she ducked beneath a low pine limb and caught her first glimpse. She watched Jack struggle the snug wet tee shirt from his pale chest. She knelt beside the beagle at her feet to quiet the restless animal as Jack pushed the dungarees from his hips. She held her breath so as not to disturb the performance.

Jack looked around one last time before shedding the white briefs. Striped of the essentials now packed away in his knapsack, he chanced the cool, dark water. She had known Jack since he was a kindergartener. She thought to hurry off unseen without causing either of them the embarrassment but she waited a heartbeat too long. She found herself unable to look away as Jack rose up out of the water. He wallowed across the muddy bottom once the water was too shallow to swim. Out of the cool water, he wiped his feet over the damp grass to clean the mud from between his toes. The woman shifted her gaze from Jack’s pale blonde center to the her own shadow when the sun found a small break in the overcast and pressed her long silhouette onto the greenery at her feet.

While Genevieve Michalski appreciated the view from afar, a primal desire beckoned. She worked her way slowly towards the grassy knoll ahead with Renegade on a shortened leash.

At twenty paces, Genevieve stooped low and unclipped the leash from the dog’s collar. The dog’s yelp was sufficient warning. Jack stepped back into the under growth as the beagle bolted from Genevieve’s relaxed hold. Hot on the scent, Renegade dodged through the brush and was at Jack’s feet, tail wagging wildly.

Get hold of him, a voice called out from behind a thick screen of wild raspberry bushes and pokeweed. He spotted the lady making her way around the brush and realized the dilemma he faced. There was no time to extract the dungarees from the knapsack. He could flee, but what of the beagle? He squatted low to the grass, grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and waited.

Jack recognized the woman once she pushed the hood of her slicker away from her face and brushed smooth her shoulder-length hair.

Jack Lundberg had been bookended by Genevieve and Michael Michalski’s two daughters since the first grade. Stephanie, the younger of the two sisters, was a grade behind Jack, her elder sister, Eileen, a grade ahead. Their mother had been the highlight of the Sunday service at St. John’s that morning.

Did you see that Michalski woman? Mom had asked of Jack’s Dad during the drive home that morning after the High Mass at ten o’clock. The cloud filled into the last of the blue by the time Dad thought to answer.

No, Dad lied with a smile on his mouth and Mom knew it a lie. While a bit passed her prime, everyone in the church took notice when Genevieve Michalski made her way from the Communion rail in a beige cap-sleeved shift that fit over her pointed Playtex profile like paint, a thin coating at that. Tall black heels added to her stature and sounded each footfall of her deliberately easy stride down the center aisle of the church.

At forty-two, Genevieve Michalski was still an eyeful. She drove herself relentlessly in her husband’s basement gym, slinging weights about for hours-on-end. Genevieve exemplified the term ‘gunner’ long before that meaning hit the vernacular. From every man’s prospective, her sweat was well worth the effort.

Thank you, Jack. I might have spent the day searching if not for your help.

Mrs. Michalski provided a unique prospective when she stooped to fit the leash onto the Renegade’s collar. The patch of dirty-blonde she unknowingly flashed was a novel sight.

During his stays at Uncle Josh’s farm, Jack had peeked-in on his cousin Peggy on numerous occasions once the bubbles burst and the bathwater was clear to the bottom of the tub. While Peggy was flat-chested and without a hair on her body, Jack was not immune to the view and the kisses they exchanged while he toweled her dry when Peggy wanted ‘naughty’. Several years would pass before adolescence took hold of the girl and she had more to offer her cousin than those fleeting flavors of her lips and her tongue.

Genevieve secured the end of the leash to thin trunk of a red sumac and turned her attention back in Jack’s direction.

You take quite a chance swimming here alone, Jack. You could cramp-up and drowned.

I’m very careful, was his nervous reply. He rose to his feet and cupped his palms over his groin. I’m a good swimmer.

Will you swim with me and keep me safe, Jack? She asked the question coyly.

Yes, Mrs. Michalski, Jack answered without missing a beat.

Genevieve heard the assertiveness in his answer, and cast aside the green slicker. She kicked off her sandals and raised the hem of her yellow sundress. She slipped a toe into the dark water and the chill prickled her skin. The fine blonde hairs on her thighs and her arms stood on end.

It’s cold.

You get used to the cold, Jack answered, but you can’t swim in your dress, Mrs. Michalski.

Genevieve blushed at the suggestive nature of Jack’s comment.

And why not? she asked.

The cloth will weigh you down.

Live your life without limitations, her mother had demanded of Genevieve and her sister, Doris, on the evening cancer won out, three days after Christmas the previous winter, as if there’s no tomorrow. Genevieve replayed mother’s advice a second time before she was sure.

There’s no need to cover your body, Jack. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.

Only the yellow, strapless sundress stood in the way of discovery. To provide the impetus she believed necessary, Genevieve pulled the yellow belt from her waist and undid a long line of buttons at the bodice of the dress. The yellow cloth fell away easily. Her bare flesh aroused to two of them simultaneously. She felt hers at the base of her spine and noted the anatomical change Jack was unable to control or conceal completely.

Will you show me, Jack?

Still unsure, he offered her a small smile before he took his hands away. He widened his stance on the slippery grass underfoot.

Oh, my, Jack heard her say as she reached out slowly.

This, she said while he pulsed wildly in the palm of her hand, is nothing to be ashamed of, Jack. She felt the shudder as his excitement bled into her clenched fist.

This, she opened her hand, gives me reason to continued, if you’d care to…

Genevieve brought her hand to her lips and discovered a liking for the taste for Jack’s desire.

You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, Mrs. Michalski, he admitted while he shivered and the earth quaked beneath his feet.

Have you ever been with a woman?

He thought to lie, but answered truthfully, No. Cousin Peggy was hardly a woman.

Mrs. Michalski took hold of Jack a second time and with a firm hand on the handle maneuvered him down to the damp grass. She parted her legs and asked, Put a finger here, Jack.

He rolled a single finger deep into the divide and poked at the tender fabric of her sex, far from the center. Having spent two or three weeks at the farm in Arcade each summer since his fifth birthday, Jack was familiar with the means by which procreation was managed. He had helped birth a number of calves and lambs during those stays, but he was at a loss with regard to the specific physiology of the female anatomy.

Genevieve saw fit to direct the action and took him by the wrist.

A bit higher, Jack… Yes, there… That’s it… Slowly, Jack… Yes, yes, that’s it… Her head fell back to the damp grass and her body responded to his manipulation.

A little more pressure… Wet your fingers… she asked with the approach of another contraction.

Jack raised his fingers and touched his fingertips to his tongue.

Genevieve she saw the delight in his eyes and wondered aloud, You like?

His smile affirmed what she believed.

Mrs. Michalski opened her legs wider and Jack followed her lead without another word. He and Cousin Peggy had played out this scenario several times. With his tongue, he wet the bud and he felt it swell beneath the pressure of his kiss.

Oh, lord, you’re going to kill me it you continued doing that, Genevieve cried out. Jack ignored her warning and she did not die that rainy afternoon. No one but Jack heard her sighs.

I would have let you, Jack. A shame to waste this, she said as her fingers tightened around the swollen head of Jack’s limp penis. The next time, you will.

Genevieve stood over Jack. He lay exhausted on the damp grass. She stepped into her sundress and pulled the yellow cotton up along her muscled legs and over her hips.

I’ll be in Boston with the girls next week. She offered her schedule while she secured the line of buttons at her chest.

I’m free the following Sunday…after one, Jack…

Mrs. Michalski pulled the leash free of the thin tree trunk and made her way to the north and home.

The first half of the decade was a kinder time. Decorum silenced gossip. Secrets were not broadcast to the masses for all to hear and so their secret remained theirs alone.

Chapter two: Twice Surprised

June 5th, 1964: Irene Edmondson’s fourth pregnancy came as a surprise, as did Daren, the second daughter to see the light of day that afternoon. Unlike their three siblings, the new daughters were finely boned, slight wisps of humanity. Like their brothers and sister, the girls might have passed into the world in the usually way if not for the fetal distress indicated on two of the monitors in the maternity ward of Mercy Hospital that forced Dr. Rubio’s hand.

Sedated, Irene Edmondson was unaware of the danger to herself and her progeny as she slipped off to dreamland, and so the choice was spoken to her husband, Theodore.

Theodore protested, It’s too soon, Paul.

We take the child now, otherwise she will die, Ted.

Dr. Rubio said nothing of the second heartbeat, assured by Ms. Liberti, the RN assisting the doctor that Friday, An echo, Doctor.

Dr. Rubio extracted one daughter then the other from Mrs. Edmondson’s belly seven weeks prior to term by way of the Caesarean scar that divided the hemispheres of Irene’s abdomen. They came silently before Death discovered the mother and daughters at risk. Not until the good doctor untangled the cord, did the daughters dare to make a sound, a low gasp that indicated a breath was taken by each.

Later that evening, with his daughters warming to life outside the womb and Irene asleep in ‘recovery’, Dr. Rubio came to Theodore with a somber look in his dark eyes.

The girls have a good chance, Ted. They’re small but the organs are functioning adequately. They’ll be in the hospital until they’re strong enough.

Paul pulled the paper cap from his head and stared into the darkness beyond the window overlooking Abbott Road.

During the procedure I removed several masses, tumors, Ted. He reached out and touched his fingers to Ted’s forearm. I’m pretty sure they’re benign.

Dr. Rubio was well practiced and spoke the lie with feigned confidence in response to the terror he saw on Ted’s face.

I sent the specimens to pathology with a note to rush. We’ll know more in a few days, Ted.

Can we keep this from Irene until you have the results?

We can do that, Ted, though it’s not entirely ethical.

On that Friday the twins were delivered prematurely, Alex Collins was on his way to fourteen. The Collins family had settled in an affluent section of Jamestown, New York in April following Colonel William Collins’ retirement from the United States Air Force. During his illustrious military career in the Army Air Corp and the Air Force, the family had lived in more places than Alex could recall without the aid of a weathered, pin-stuck map that hung on the wall in his new bedroom in the home off Fairmont Avenue. He and his four siblings were born in a variety of locations overseas. Mrs. Miriam Collins insisted that her three boys remain untrimmed before she was put under on each occasion. The Colonel complied with his wife’s request and so the boys were allowed to retain the seemingly inconsequential flap of skin.

The first Friday in June was an unusually warm day. The nine boys doing battle smelled of sweat, their hair was matted to their scalps and they were covered with fine particles of dirt when they broke from a strenuous battle of ‘king-of-the-mountain’.

"What’s with your dick, man?’ Jeremy asked during the truce. The boys were busy wetting the hillside, a process that had them close to the battle rather than hurrying home to do their business.

I was born this way, Alex said. He and Jeremy shared a good laugh and compared penises before they continued the war.

Jeremy Barnes was a classmate and friend of Alex Collins who had never seen one uncut. That afternoon was the first of many indignities Alex suffered stoically, the first time he learned he was different. His was a difference that would take him on his merry way once puberty had finished with the boy.

Chapter three, the Essence

Tuesday, October 19th, 1965: There were no caustic comments spoken of their affair for two years, two months and seven days, for their secret went no further than the other’s ear. It began in the Carpenters Woods on August 12th, 1962, and came to an unexpected close more than two years later. Both silenced their individual need to boast of their conquest for fear of retribution, for Genevieve Michalski was married to a jealous, sometimes violent man.

During those interludes from the everyday, Jack Lundberg basked in the glow of the woman’s beauty and the ease with which she gave herself following their initial rainy day adventure. Blinded by the glare of pale flesh that entranced, he saw not a single blemish, though he searched diligently.

Genevieve believed Jack sincere when he professed love, ‘Forever’. And when the wet soiled her body prematurely, she saw it not as a sign of weakness or immaturity, but as proof he had enjoyed the sight and the flavor of her flesh. On those occasions, Jack saw to Genevieve’s physical needs at her behest and learned the means by which he brought tears to her blue eyes that first summer and the two that followed.

On that October Tuesday just after noon, on the occasion of Genevieve’s forty-sixth birthday, Jack arrived on foot with news of his impending departure. The garage door was up and Genevieve’s Catalina 2+2 was the only vehicle parked there. Her girls were at school, the younger, Stephanie, a senior at Mount Mercy Academy, the elder, Eileen, at NYU in the City, so he felt himself immune to discovery.

Jack approached the side entrance determined, but was stymied when after a two minute wait there was no answer to the chimes Jack heard when he fingered button glowing to the right of the side door. He stepped through the hedge that bordered the back yard. He hoped to find Genevieve busy tending to the garden on that unusually warm October day but found the yard empty.

The sliding door was opened to the sun. Only a screen stood in his path. He heard water running somewhere beyond the screen. Jack assumed the lady of the house in the shower after her ritual morning workout in the basement gym. Jack took a seat out on the patio and lit a Tareyton. A gentle breeze carried the smoke in through the screen and had Genevieve’s attention when she came up the stairs from the laundry room. Jack did not hear her bare feet slapping on the polished maple flooring just inside the screen.

Hello?

The question caused Jack a start. Genevieve took a similar turn when Jack looked back over his shoulder and she identified the intruder.

Jack, what are you doing here? Genevieve stood safe from harm behind the silver screen and navy blue terrycloth.

I’m leaving for basic training on Friday. I can’t leave without saying ‘good-bye’, Genevieve.

Oh, lord, Jack, you didn’t…

My mother said the same thing after I told her… I miss you terribly, Genevieve, Jack said.

There were tears welling, tears that weakened her resolve and the stern look on her face vanished.

Put out that cigarette and come inside.

He followed her direction and Genevieve walked into his arms after he slid the screen close and clicked the latch.

The mismatched couple had not spoken since the previous November, just before Thanksgiving. On that Wednesday, Genevieve turned Jack away from her door with the ominous prophecy on her lips, We can never be together like we have again, Jack.

At the time, Jack was not privy to the fact Eileen, Genevieve’s elder daughter, had discovered the birthday card he had penned with ‘undying love’ and a signature.

"I didn’t see Eileen come into the sitting room. I reread your poem whenever the need arose and the card was there on the table. Eileen waved the card under my nose and stormed out of the room.

I couldn’t risk my family, Jack. I had to say ‘no’ to the man I love. I do love you, Jack.

I thought the love we shared had runs its course, Genevieve.

Jack removed the sash that cinched the terrycloth and slipped his hands around her waist. Genevieve ignored the smoky taste at his mouth for a moment then pushed him off.

Please, Jack. Let me shower first, she said, well aware of his intentions.

Fearful Genevieve might find sanctuary behind a locked bathroom door and refuse his love once again, Jack pulled her down to the hardwood just inside the screened entranceway. He held her wrists to her hips and nuzzled his chin into the divide framed by her sinewy thighs.

Oh, Jack, Genevieve said softly. She pulled free and laced her fingers at the back of his neck. The feathery flutter of her labia on the edge of his tongue aroused while Jack searched for the center of her being.

That afternoon, the capabilities exhibited went beyond his years and anything Genevieve had previously suffered in her forty-six. Her clitoris and labia were swollen by his kiss and his bite. The orgasms had left her in a weakened state. She was unable and unwilling to resist when Jack mounted her one last time and pushed his unprotected penis into her sex. To her surprise, she reveled in that pleasure when she felt the heat of his excitement spill within the confines of her vagina.

My playful beast, I have never been ravaged so violently, so beautifully, so perfectly, Jack. But once you’re gone, I get to suffer the wait until my next period, you dumb ass. You must be careful, otherwise…

Genevieve kissed him firmly on the mouth and noted the scent of her sex and her sweat on his face.

Now go, she said after she pulled herself together and maneuvered Jack into the sunshine before she reached for the blue terrycloth.

Come back to me safe, Jack, she said. Please come back for me.