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Ch. 6: Matter over Mind

8 years earlier…

Joyce stepped outside as she waited for the water to boil. The evening air was refreshingly chilly by the sea, the perfect weather for hot chocolate. Overwhelmed by the innumerable calls and paperwork surrounding her messy divorce, she took a moment and basked in the distant sounds of sea gulls, of the tireless ocean, of…someone crying?

She looked over and saw a teenage boy sitting on the back porch of the townhouse next door.

“Are you all right? Is that you, William?” Joyce asked cautiously, concerned about the sweet summer neighbor who had just spent his first summer away from England.

William looked up slowly, his glasses clouded with tears and his face pale. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Summers. I’m okay.” He wiped away his tears and tried to smile.

“Oh, call me Joyce, really. I, well, I was making some hot chocolate. I had a long day, too. Would you like to join me? I’d have enough for two, and the weather’s just perfect for cocoa.” Joyce smiled sympathetically and tried to make herself approachable. Something in William’s demeanor made her feel for him, want to be a friend to him.

Spike sniffed and exhaled slowly. “Actually, that sounds lovely. Do you happen to have those little marshmallows?”

Joyce smiled widely. “Of course.” She opened the door and beckoned him in.

Upon entering the kitchen, Joyce began putting all the ingredients together, grabbing two mugs and stirring the chocolaty concoction.

“No, no, sit down. You’re a guest,” she said when she saw William moving to help her. “I want you to sit back and tell me how you’ve enjoyed your stay in the States so far,” she said lightly. She wanted to hear what was wrong, but she didn’t want to pressure him too quickly into sharing his thoughts.

William shrugged. “It’s not been too terrible, I suppose,” he said with a sad smile. “I didn’t really want to spend the summer away from Mum, but she was so sick and had such difficulty keeping up her strength. I think it was better that she didn’t have to worry about me being around. And my cousin Angel lives here in the US, so I’m not completely alone.” He reached for the steaming mug and blew on it gently. “I do miss her. She’s the one I always talked to when I had problems or just when I had a bad day.”

Joyce pulled up a stool next to him and sipped her cocoa slowly. “Well, you can always tell me, if you want. I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener. And I’ve had a bad day, too, so we can trade stories, if it makes you feel better.” Joyce smiled at him.

“Okay, maybe I will. But why don’t you go first? My mum always taught me to allow women to go first,” he said. His posture relaxed a little, and Joyce could tell he was starting to feel more comfortable around her.

“Well, where do I begin? My husband of 14 years left me for another woman, a younger bimbo of a thing, and now I’m trying to sort through all the mess that has resulted from his affair. Somehow he is off gallivanting with a woman, and I’m stuck with the paperwork. I’m not sure how he was able to pull that off, but I’m not surprised. So I’ve brought all the work here, because I just couldn’t stand being at the house we lived in together.”

“Oh, Mrs. Summers. I’m so sorry. I hope you don’t think all men are evil because of his reprehensible actions.” William looked at her, his face conveying his sincere regrets at her situation.

Joyce looked into the swirling cocoa and smiled thoughtfully. “This beach house is a place where my daughter and I usually came when Hank was away on business trips. Most of my memories here don’t involve him. So, I figured it was a safe haven for me.” She finished off her cocoa and got up for a second cup. “But I’m not as angry with him as I thought I would be. I mean, I think I feel betrayed, but I don’t feel that it was unexpected. Maybe I knew things had been bad for a while. And really, you can call me Joyce.”

“Uh, okay…Joyce. You are a strong woman to be so secure after such a tragedy. I hope that you will find someone more deserving of your character.” William caught the last few drops of cocoa on his tongue. “And you really make great cocoa.” He grinned sheepishly at his greediness in licking up every last drop. Joyce took his cue and gave him another cup.

“Well, cocoa has always been my comfort drink. It’s better than alcohol, I say.” She leaned back against the counter and looked at him. “But now it’s your turn. Why the sad face today?”

“Oh, well I feel silly telling you about my tales when you’ve obviously dealt with something so much more serious than my frivolous problems. It’s not a big deal,” he said dismissively.

“No, I insist. No problem is silly if it makes your heart ache. Please, I promise it’ll make you feel better.” She moved to sit down next to him.

“I suppose it can’t hurt to talk about it with someone.” He drew in a deep breath as if preparing to unload a large burden. “When I first came here, I didn’t really know many people beyond my cousin. I’m quite shy, so I didn’t make friends right away. I tend to observe people first, and then I write down my perceptions in my journal. Sometimes I fancy myself a poet, but I know it often comes out as drivel.” William absentmindedly stirred his cocoa. He looked up, as if replaying a scene in his mind. “There was one girl who stood out to me, who seemed to have a kindred soul, calling out to my own. And so I began writing poetry about her. Cecily.” He said her name with such anguish that Joyce couldn’t help but feel bad for the poet next to her.

“What happened?” she asked sympathetically.

“Well, I thought—since I felt she was a kindred soul—that I could share some of my poetry with her. So this morning at the beach, I approached her with my journal. I wanted to talk to her quietly, but she said she couldn’t hear me very well. In the end, she took my journal and started laughing. She shared it with some of the others there, and they all took turns making fun of me.” He started crying again, his emotions overwhelming him as he recalled his humiliation.

Joyce put her arm around him and rubbed his shoulders. “They were just jealous of you, of your ability to articulate things that they’re too shallow to contemplate. This Cecily isn’t the one for you,” she said while pulling him close.

He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “But I don’t understand. I watched her, saw her gentleness with others, her intelligence in conversations. Why didn’t she see me as someone to share those things with? How could she be so cruel, when all I ever saw was her kindness? Was I that stupid?” He began crying again, and he left his glasses on the table to cover his face with his hands. “I’m sorry I’m being such a ponce. I just can’t understand.”

“Oh, William. It’s not you. Never think that you’re the one who can’t understand. They don’t realize who you are, what you are. Don’t let them dictate your own identity. That only gives them power, and they don’t deserve that.” Joyce continued to hold him tightly.

“But what if she’s right? Maybe I am just a stupid geek who’s beneath her. Maybe I’ll never find love because no one would ever stoop to love me, hold me, kiss me. Oh, she was so terribly cruel—I can barely repeat the things she said to me.” He continued to sob, his body trembling with tension.

“She was wrong. She was wrong, William. You are brilliant, wonderful—such a shining, genuine soul.” She took his hands from his face and made him look at her. She gazed into eyes that were startlingly blue with intensity and beauty. In that moment, she was struck by this boy, by his hurting soul, by his beautiful face marred by a girl’s cutting words. She wanted to help him, to heal him. Impulsively, she cupped his face and kissed him. She saw the confusion in his watery eyes, gently wiped his tears away, and kissed him again, softly and tenderly.

He looked at her again, not knowing how to react. He had felt the genuineness in her kiss; he sensed that it wasn’t out of pity, and that sense surprised him. He glanced down at her lips, and his body wanted to feel them again, even though he felt that giving in would somehow be wrong.

“William, I do mean what I say. I’ve always been struck by you, by your depth and wisdom even in the brief times we’ve talked. It would be a shame to think that a stupid girl took all that away from you. I’m a woman, and I don’t think you’re beneath me.” She ran her fingers through his hair, already rumpled by his earlier outbursts. “Not beneath me at all,” she murmured.

“Mrs. Summers, I—“ he began, not sure what to say. He felt her fingers in his hair, softly rubbing his earlobe. He closed his eyes and allowed the sensation to wash over him.

“Please,” she whispered as she continued stroking his hair. “Call me Joyce.”

She then leaned in and kissed him again, not being able to resist his closed eyes and look of contentment that she had caused. It gave her a sense of accomplishment—of power, even—knowing that she was the source of his satisfaction. Hank had always diddled with younger women, and she had never really understood the enticement until now, until she saw how satisfying it was to see someone be drawn in, because she knew what worked, what could please another; in this case, being older meant knowing more, and that knowledge gave her a power she hadn’t felt in a long time. She began to pull away, finally acknowledging the numerous reasons why it would be a mistake, when she felt his hand at her waist and his tongue at her lips. So soft, so hesitant. To resist now would only devastate him more, and she did not want to resist; she felt her own attraction to him, and her resistance was only based in rational thought, not in physical reasoning. She had a feeling that he would equate the two. And right now, she didn’t want to think that hard.

William wasn’t thinking at all. He had kissed others before, but this was different; this was soft and searching and kind and healing and he didn’t even think about how this woman was older, how perhaps he shouldn’t be moving his hand up her body, how he probably shouldn’t taste her—all he could do was act, and his body was more than willing to take over his thoughts.

He stood, attempting to press more of her body against his, wanting to feel her against his entirety. Their kissing became more fervent and heated, their tongues drinking in each other’s essence, their hands learning the new landscape. He felt her begin to move away. He began to panic—his mind suddenly warring with his body for rational thought and supremacy—when he felt her hand in his.

“Let’s go somewhere more comfortable,” she said quietly, leading him towards the stairs.

His body once again conquered his mind, and he followed in anticipation.





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