Claire thought beautiful red-haired men didn't exist.
Until she met Cam McBain.
He was six-two and had wide shoulders, long legs and arms. His hands were large and graceful. The hands of a concert pianist or artist. His skin was a soft, gold-tinged peaches and cream shade she'd never quite seen before, and only the faintest smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose were testimony, aside from his hair, to his membership in the league of the carrot-topped.
Membership he shared with her.
That was the thing...she'd never even considered the idea of a beautiful redheaded man because as a redheaded woman it had always felt a little too...well, a little too incestuous to think of dating another redhead.
Among all caucasian hair colors, it seemed only redheads could be completely unrelated and still confused as relatives.
Yet here they were.
Then again, she reflected often, if there were ever two very different ginger-haired specimens, it was Claire Ring and Cam McBain.
Cam, so tall and rangy, with his beautiful skin, GQ model bone structure and perfectly wavy strawberry blonde coiff.
And her.
Short little Claire, all of five-feet one inches tall. Freckle-faced Claire. Blue eyes. Outrageous, Raggedy-Anne curly red. Every American's dumb stereotype of a wee Irish lass, in spite of the fact she was born and raised in the Buckhead neighborhood in Atlanta, Georgia.
Claire was shapely, heavy-bosomed, had to fight the weight most of her life. Occasionally she envied her man's ease with all things athletic and weight-related. If they shared the genes of one particular ancestor who had bequeathed them both red hair, then it was pretty much, in her mind, only the hair gene they shared.
The other thing she'd never expected before she met Cam McBain their freshman year in college was the prospect of falling in love with a redhaired man. God help her, she was in love with Cam McBain. That was why Thanksgiving week was going to be one of the most important weeks of her young life.
Cam was taking her home to meet his family.
"Hi, sweetie. All packed yet?" Cam sounded sleepy over the phone, his bass voice crackling around the edges.
Claire cradled the portable phone between her ear and shoulder as she bustled about her dorm room, making sure everything she wanted with her on the trip was where it should be: in the two oversized duffel bags on her roommate's bed.
"Yes, I am about as ready as I'll ever be." she lied.
"Really?" he sounded amused.
"What?" she asked, a little defensive.
"Well...you sound a little out of breath."
"Um..."
"Baby." he sounded placating. Sometimes it really irritated her when he did that.
"What?" she sounded sharp, didn't mean to.
"Claire...my family will love you whether you have enough underwear or not."
Claire laughed. "Okay...you got me."
"I know. Nervous?"
"Cam...you have to ask?"
Cam sighed on his end of the phone, patient as ever. "Claire, what's important about this weekend is that you get to know my family and they get to know you. I mean, I've brought very few people home, it's true. But that's because very few have been even close to important enough. And no one's been as important as you. They'll love you, because I do."
"Oh, baby." it was Claire's turn to sigh. Cam was one of the kindest men she'd ever known. He had a talent for knowing what she needed to hear. "I've mentioned I love you today, haven't I?"
Cam laughed, a gentle basso rumble.
"Sure you don't want to come over?" she asked, letting a seductive tone creep into her voice.
"Claire, you know I would, but the guys..." he was truly apologetic. His buddies from the band had decided the Tuesday before Thanksgiving was the best night to go on a serious pre-holiday bender. Cam was often the designated driver, and either way the guys always wanted him around for his humor and camaraderie. Before Claire had come along they'd wanted Cam's 'leftovers.'
"Okay. I guess I'll just take care of myself." she knew she was pushing it now, but she didn't care.
"Whoa."
Claire smiled. That was Cam's way of saying she'd made him think twice with the little allusion to going solo, sexually speaking. "What, baby?"
"Um...oh, Claire, I promised. We'll have the entire holiday together."
She sat down abruptly on the edge of her bed, pouting, though he couldn't see. "Yeah, at your parent's house."
"No...I don't think I've explained that to you." he sounded a little urgent. She knew his roommate Tom was probably tapping his foot now.
"What?" she'd assumed she would be in the guest room. She knew the McBains had money and lots of land, though Cam was modest with his material things, even the car he drove.
"My folks don't care if we sleep together."
Claire felt her jaw drop. "Say again?"
"My folks could care less. It's cool. They'd..." he seemed to choose words carefully,"...be surprised if we didn't."
They were only 19, both of them. As far as her parents knew, sitting right that moment in the family room in their nice tudor house a few blocks from Peachtree down in Atlanta, Claire was still a virgin. The fact she had not been since age 16 would be astonishing and disappointing to them.
It occurred to her she was shocked. Shocked that they'd never discussed this before, and shocked that Cam's parents would be-surprised?
"Surprised?" she said finally.
"Yeah. They're cool. Listen. You have no idea what you're in for. My family is the coolest. And you'll so fit in. The only non-redhead in the room will be Uncle Randolph, and that's just because he shaves his head."
They made their goodnights, and Claire went over her packing again. She switched on her TV and lay there under her pink and blue handmade quilt, given to her by her Mom when the day she left for school.
His family would be surprised if they did not sleep together? She felt the statement trying to bother her.
Claire wasn't raised to attend church every Wednesday and Sunday like many of her peers at the Lovett School, the prestigious private school she attended junior high and high school. Her folks were a liberal sort as Atlantans went, prone to vote democrat, believers in recycling, caring for the environment. They were big into what she called 'therapy-speak', not the kind of mom and dad who issued edicts and orders. They wanted to 'relate.'
Claire often found this annoying.
But her mother and father had been clear on the subject of sex, and how big a responsibility it was. They were clear that if she had it before marriage she would be a disappointment to them. Claire had the insight to know that this knowledge on her part figured into letting Jimmy Willard into her pants after the big game against Pace Academy in the Fall of her junior year. Rebellion, pure and simple.
And enjoyment, after a while.
Nothing like the enjoyment she experienced with Cam, but Claire was comfortable with liking sex.
The first time with Cam was a revelation to her. One of the three boys she slept with while in high school seemed concerned with doing things for her too, with her pleasure. She realized at some point in her relationship with that guy, one Sean Pickman, that she was having orgasms on a fairly regular basis.
With Cam she lost her mind to the pleasure, from the very first time. She lost count of orgasms. Somehow the experience was whole. From the first kiss to penetration, the scent and taste of it all seemed perfect.
Not long after the first time with Cam she was working on a paper for her Art History course when she came across a quote about redheads by Toulouse-Lautrec. He felt they had a 'particularly erotic odour.'
Even reading this alone in the library Claire giggled and blushed. At the time she thought she should show it to Cam, and simply forgot. Now as she lay in her dorm bed trying fall asleep she let her mind turn that thought over.
She juxtaposed the thought with her attitude about never dating another redhead before meeting Cam and then brought in the fact Cam said his entire family was redhaired.
His folks would be surprised if they didn't have sex?
Claire wondered if she could sleep. Her feelings were an uncomfortable mix of horniness, curiosity, and-well, discomfort.
What was it? Did all the McBains seek out only other reds? Were they into free love?
She turned up the volume on the remote. The TV was on VH1, her roomie Wanda's favorite channel, and sometimes Claire left it on to bore her to sleep.
She started flipping channels, to see if she could find something more engaging. Something that would ameliorate the queer mix of emotions bubbling in her brain.
She stopped on the Discovery Channel, as the face of a 'neanderthal' filled the screen.
Claire truly loved the Discovery Channel. She had not declared a major yet, but she thought frequently that anthropology would be an extraordinarily fascinating field to go into. Her interest in the subject was based partly in the trips she and her Father would make to museums in Atlanta and the other large cities they visited on vacation. Her father entered college as an Anthropology major only to move into the more practical, but more stressful field of medicine. He could discourse for hours on Mammoths discovered frozen in the Siberian tundra with daisies still fresh in his mouth.
The special on the science heavy channel was about theories about the evolution and extinction of neanderthals. It was good enough to fall asleep by.
The narrator's voice was soothing as the graphics and tableaus passed by. Claire's eyes grew heavy.
"Much is not known about the Neanderthals. Did they have language? If so, could they communicate with the first Cro-Magnon men they encountered?"
Claire blinked, lids heavy.
"...evidence of cannibalism at sites in northern France..."
Claire opened her eyes again at the word cannibalism. Who knew? She thought. Maybe they'd eaten each other out of existence...
Claire wasn't sure how long she'd been out when the narrator's dulcet tones seemed to break through the fog again.
"In a study at Oxford in 2001 researchers claimed to have discovered a link between modern day humans with red hair and freckles and a gene present in Northern Europe among neanderthals over 100,000 years ago. Before Cro-Magnon man migrated into this region from Africa."
Claire woke fully. She wasn't sure she was hearing this right.
"These controversial results contribute to the theory that neanderthals did not so much become extinct as breed with Cro-Magnon man once they were encountered. Modern-day redheads are not sure what to make of the study..."
There was a cut to a beautiful Irish girl being interviewed on a cobbled street in Dublin. Idly it occurred to Claire that the girl could be her sister. Her eyelids felt heavy and as interesting and possibly disturbing as what she had just heard was, she rolled over to try and go back to sleep.
There is a dullness to the light and it is cold. Somehow Claire knows she's dreaming. Yet...
Cam is there. Cam, and not-Cam. He's standing in a circle with other men, and they are dressed in skins.
Claire looks around. They are at the foot of a hill, where the limestone has formed natural caverns. There are several entrances, but one looks large enough to accomodate people.
Ruefully Claire thinks she should have stuck with VH1, and then she wonders what VH1 is.
A scream stops her mind wandering.
She turns, and Cam and the group of men are gone. She is alone in a clearing, surrounded by evergreens on all sides. The forest is too dark. Not penetrated by the wan light. She hears another scream. It is the scream of a young girl.
Somehow, Claire hopes it's an animal.
Not knowing where to go she approaches the area where the men were.
The forest opens up here, as if brush and saplings have been cleared away. Claire perceives a path, and knows it must be followed.
She follows.
Time collapses as it does in dreams and telescopes.
It is now dark. There is a flickering light, and Claire turns to see a fire. Around the fire stands a group of people. Perhaps the fire causes the effect, but it seems to her they all have tangled heads of crimson colored hair.
The scream rips through her head again, and she feels a deep chill. She approaches the group slowly. Claire thinks she knows them. Yet it seems each step slows. It is as if she is wading through molasses.
Soon she is at the shoulder of the largest man in the group, and he seems to sense her.
He turns. Cam's face, but not Cam's face. He is not as beautiful. He is not beautiful at all. His golden red hair is a mass of snakelike tangles, almost dredlocks, but not by intention, just from dirt.
Worse is the grin. A broad, predatory leer is more like it.
He grabs her roughly by the shoulder and pulls her into the circle.
The scream again.
She sees the screamer.
A little boy with slightly slanted eyes and wild dark hair, delicate features. He is nude and tied to a rough wooden post with thick rough leather ties.
As she watches one of the women lifts something dark to the child's throat and makes a fluid, sweeping gesture. The boy's mouth opens as if to scream, but no sound escapes. His eyes roll back in his head.
Now the people around her, all of them pale skinned, and as she turns she sees they each have masses of tangled, matted red hair, begin to chant. It is rhythmic, spoken, it reminds her of something done at a ballgame. Blood, black in the wavering firelight, streams down the little boy's bare chest.
And she thinks; not us.
And she thinks; not people.
And she thinks; food...
Claire woke with a sharp intake of breath.
Where the fuck was her mind taking her?
She looked at the clock. It was 2 a.m.
The Discovery Channel was still on, and it appeared they repeated shows late at night. The same damn show about neanderthals was on.
Claire switched the TV back to VH1 and tried to fall back to sleep.
She did not succeed.
(...to be continued...)
