David's Brain Factory: Art of the Novella

Dan Zollman: Final Post- All Thing Lead to This

2008-12-14T15:36:00.001-08:00

All Paths Lead to This One Last Day A cold front had moved in over the Russian countryside near the city of Petrozavodsk. The temperatures drove most of the residents indoors, leaving the place barren and still. Occasionally a resident would venture out moving slowly while fighting to keep the cold on the outside. There was nothing else to do but wait for the ocean currents and the wind to bring some warmth back into the land. Until then the snowmen would remain unfinished in the square, resembling standing corpses as they lost limbs, eyeballs, and buttons without the children there to maintain them. Only one car moved through the town this early in the morning, its tires cracking harshly against the ice crystals on the road. The iced windows prevented anyone from seeing who was driving but the small clear hole in the front windshield showed that there was at least some warmth inside the car. The black Volvo moved slowly but deliberately through the town, attracting the attention of the old men who sat at their windows drinking coffee. They were glad that they were not outside in the cold. The black car moved down the road until it came into view. The Petrozavodsk paper mill was seated upon a small hill, standing out like a giant playground amidst the country landscape. The mill had been a product of Soviet Russia, who spared no expense in making it a large and unbecoming blemish on the land. The Soviets had grand ideas of making and controlling all of the printed paper in that area of Russia with the Petrozavodsk plant. In its time the smoke stacks would never rest from spewing out the dark particles that came from producing thousands of lies. Whenever someone wished to publish a book, a copy was sent to this plant where it was first read over closely. The plant employed literary experts who could recognize the slightest anti-Soviet tone in a sentence like “the red sun set against a dark sky” which of course called for the fall of the Soviet Union. At this point the book would be highlighted and sent to an authority who would decide either that the book should be edited or that the book should be burnt and the author should be shot, or at least have their hands broke. From this plant came forth some of the most brilliant Soviet propaganda. Posters supporting Lenin and Stalin’s five year plan were printed here. Magazines glorifying the works of the proletariat in creating the large factories were printed here. Pamphlets that instructed citizens in identifying anti-Soviet supporters were produced here. Generic letters to the families of the dead were produced here. The plant had been alive. Now only part of the plant was actually used. The dormitories that had housed the employees were barren, and the printing press lay rusted and broken inside the large warehouse. The plant was only a producer of clean white paper. The grounds in and around the plant were always littered with paper. Much of it was that same old propaganda that was printed during the dying throes of the Soviet Union. During those last few years the plant was still producing but the paper wasn’t going anywhere. The citizens needed a job, and they were ordered to produce paper even if the trucks seldom came to pick up any of their products. The ghosts of the Soviet Union haunted the surrounding area as the wind liberated the paper from its resting place within the plant. “WE ARE SORRY TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON HAS DIED IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY. . . . . . . . ” “YOUR CURRENT PLACE OF RESIDENCE IS BEING DEMOLISHED, PLEASE RELOCATE TO ONE OF THE COMMUNITY RESIDENCES THAT WE HAVE PROVIDED. . . . ” “YOUR HUSBAND HAS BEEN SHOT TO DEATH BY FIRING SQUAD AFTER UNDENIABLE EVIDENCE IN HIS PARTICIPATION IN ANTI-SOVIET MATTERS WAS FOUND. PAY THE FOLLOWING SUM FOR THE BULLET THAT WAS WASTED UNDER PENALTY OF LAW. . . ” Everyone hated the plant, but seeing as it still provided jobs for some people it was tolerated. Parents would send their children out to gather the paper for their fires, trying to get some use out of the hurtful drifting nuisances. The children thought it was fun to collect some of the most rare and personal papers and keep them. They would trade these papers back and forth or play games in which they would imagine themselves issuing the letter to someone. To them it was a game, it was no longer real. The elders would sit inside and watch their lives be reenacted by the children outside, shuddering at the thought of what could be written on those papers. Thankfully the pen had lost its bite. The black Volvo pulled into the parking lot in front of the plant. The sky above the plant was clear that day because there was nothing coming out of the smokestacks. The light was dulled by light ice fog created by the cold, giving everything a grayish complexion. The door opened and a blue heel stepped out onto the ground. The door slammed, echoing in the parking lot, and the figure made her way down the sidewalk, ignoring the cold with her steady pace. The sound of her heels on the cold pavement was like a watch, click-clack click-clack, growing steadily louder as it bounced off the building she was approaching. A few restless pieces of papers took flight as doors to the entrance were flung open. When she entered a room people would adjust themselves. Men sat up straight and women would fix their hair as her tall, slender frame marched across a room, always with a purpose. Her very presence demanded respect and attention, creating a tense atmosphere in every place she visited. Her light blue eyes would almost lifelessly survey their surroundings, pausing to stare people directly in their faces. Sometimes people who did not know her nervously mistook this as a gesture of familiarity and would smile back at her. Kristina Bazhenov did not smile. Kristina could not help but feel as though today should hold some special significance. It was her last day of work at the plant. The plant had been a part of her life ever since she was born. She had been one of those children that collected letters and scraps of paper that emanated from the plant. At first it was just a childhood game of collecting items for their size or color but once she learned to read she became fascinated with the papers. It was like getting a message from the past. She would think about the people that received those letters and imagine that she was a member of that family. She grieved for dead sons, fought against the government, and became a dedicated patriot in her imagination. When she was young her father would take her up to the plant and they would sneak in through the back doors, searching the abandoned corridors for anything of interest. Once her father had found an old typewriter in one of the rooms. “Kristina, someday I will buy one of these for you and you will be the greatest Russian author since Tolstoy!” Kristina sat at the desk, feeling important and began punching the keys. The type writer was too old to work but that did not stop her from sitting at the desk for a good half hour before her father decided it was time to go home. She hung her long gray coat on one of the hooks in the entrance way and made her way inside. Her long strands of light blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, adding more definition to the sharp features of her face. Kristina took great pride in her hair, letting it grow long and always keeping it combed. In her purse she always kept an assortment of combs and a small pair of scissors just in case her hair got out of control, which seldom happened. She never missed a chance to check her hair when she passed in front of anything that reflected back at her. Kristina was stunning, unforgettable, and intimidating but she was not beautiful in the common sense of the word. Men were still attracted to her, describing her as exotic rather than pretty. Like a work of art, she seemed made to be admired but not touched. Her voice was low pitched and commanding but she spoke with perfect pronunciation. This was Kristina Bazhenov had become. She came to the plant with some hopes that someday it would allow her to do some writing but until now those hopes had been crushed. She entered the main office of Vitally Frolov, the plant manager, only to find that he was not there. In fact the whole factory was quiet and cold. Kristina thought that apparently people were using the cold as an excuse to be late, or even worse not come to work today. “Vitally is not fit to be manager if he cannot set a good example for the rest of the workers” she thought to herself. She would have to let the owners of the the mill know about this incident before she left. Kristina made a memo to herself in the small notebook that she always had on her person. The notebook was filled with nothing but notes and reminders. As Kristina flipped through it in search of a blank page she imagined that the notebook really contained a story. She quickly focused back onto the task at hand. Writing was now just for unproductive dreamers, it distracted you from the harsh reality of the world. Kristina had long ago vowed that she would never be distracted again. The plant was unusually cold, probably because the giant furnace had not been turned on yet. Kristina moved to the managers chair and sat down, watching her breath rise above her for a moment. She had been at the mill for eight years now, rising quickly through the ranks. Had she done something stupid? When the merger gave her an opportunity to leave the plant, Petrozavodsk, and all of Russia behind something told her to take it. She reached out and put her hands on the cold surface of the desk, holding them there for a moment. Kristina tried to remember her father. Not just what he looked like, but who he was. She was young so she could only remember the small things like that day at the paper mill. Had he been a kind man? Did he really love her as he said he did? She remembered him on the day he left. How could he have lied to his family like that? He hugged Kristina and told her that he would be back in a few days. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and eventually Krisitna realized that he wasn’t coming back. Kristina never saw it coming. She had been too wrapped up in her own world to notice anything going on around her. Her older brother told her that he knew that it was going to happen weeks before her father left. She never wanted to know that feeling again. She had felt stupid, betrayed, angry, and sad all at the same time. From that point on Kristina hardened herself against the world. The sound of the door screeching open brought her back to present time. Even in the office Kristina could feel the draft of cold air enter the room. After a minute her red nosed boss entered the room. Vitally Frolov was a middle aged man with a large beard and an even larger belly. His wife fed him well at home, evidence of his meals could always be found hiding amongst the curls of his beard. At first he did not notice Kristina’s presence in the room as he set his coat and lunch box down and began to fiddle with his boots. “Oh! Kristina, I didn’t see you there. What brings you here so early on such a cold day?” He asked her, still bent over his boots. “Seven O’clock, I believe is the designated starting time for managers at this plant. Why should the cold give us an excuse to be late?” She said, rising from his seat and walking toward him. Vitally noticed the marks on his desk left by Kristina’s warm hands. “Apparently even she has a little warmth in her” he thought to himself. Vitally’s boots were now off, and he stood on the cold floor in only his socks. Kristina moved in between him and his locker where his shoes were, standing a good four inches taller than him with her heels on. “I am going to my office to sort out the orders for next week. You had better turn on the furnace or the workers will complain and want to go home. ” A look of hope flashed in Vitally’s eyes for a moment but she quickly said “but we won’t let them will we?” “No Kristina, we have too much work to get done, we cannot fall behind. I will turn the furnace on as soon as I put my shoes on. And try to get those reports done by lunch so that I can take a look at them. Really, I don’t know what we will do without you. ” Vitally said this with a hint of sarcasm. He and Kristina had been at odds with each other ever since she came to work for him. Her high standards and unforgiving work ethic put too much pressure on poor Vitally who wanted nothing else than to come to work to escape the responsibilities of having a family. “Goodbye!” She replied shortly and then quickly exited the room, leaving Vitally standing by himself. Vitally put on his cold but more comfortable Nike shoes and then went out to start up the furnace. Working in a paper mill invited the habit of blowing out the pilot every day before leaving. This prevented any of the drifting paper from catching on fire and it saved fuel. Vitally made his way down the stairs to the first floor where the large furnace was located. He bent over and grabbed a piece paper, lit it on fire, and turned on the gas while holding the burning paper next to the gas outlet. With a little poof the gas ignited and Vitally dropped the paper. He moved over to the wall and turned the furnace up to sixty degrees. Kristina would not like it to be up that high, but he did not care. It was cold and he was the boss. He made short little hops to quickly go up the stairs that led to his office. The sound of the furnace starting up could be heard throughout the plant. The workers would arrive soon and huddle around the vents, putting work off until their hands and feet warmed up or until Kristina came out and saw them. Kristina gave a short “hmmph” of contentment as she heard the heater start up. She had chosen an office that was far away from the most active part of the mill. It was colder back down the corridor, but she liked it back there. This was her favorite part of the mill, it was away from the noise and distractions created by the other workers. She opened the door to her office. It was a small, meticulous room with little personality. It would not take long to pack. Kristina would have time to finish the reports and collect everything in her office today. She should be angry at Vitally for the move he pulled. He could be fired but Kristina decided that this was for the best. It had not originally been her idea to transfer to the United States for work. Weeks ago Vitally had put things in motion on his own. Vitally Makes His Move Vitally was basking in the heat that poured into his room from the vent below him. He had positioned his desk and chair so that he was seated directly above the warm vent. Vitally was not concerned with the orders that day, he had just learned of a very important event. The paper mill was going to be absorbed! It was not to be absorbed by just anyone, it was being taken over by an American company. The United News Network, better known as UNN, had reached an agreement with the owners of the company that very day. “Why would they want this old building?” Vitally wondered. The labor was cheap, but not as bad as it was in other places. “Mother Russia must really be losing it if we are cooperating with the Americans now. ” But this didn’t bother Vitally. He was told that he would be able to keep his job, but they would have to replace some of the personnel with Americans. Vitally was writing furiously on a piece of paper. It was a proposal. The phone on the side of the wall began ringing. Vitally glanced at it for a moment but quickly abandoned the prospect of moving away from the warmth to answer the phone. Vitally had an opportunity to get rid of one of his major problems. Kristina Bazhenov was bad news. He had watched her quickly rise to her manager position and he felt that his own job security had been threatened. Vitally had never really liked women, especially women with an attitude like Kristina’s. Now her father was a different story. Vitally and him had been close back in the day, but he had no idea where the man had gone or what happened to him. Knowing of Kristina’s problems with her fathers disappearance, Vitally kept his mouth closed and never let her know about their connection. Kristina had to go. The absence of her bossy attitude, questions, and arrogant personality would make the plant a much nicer place to work. Unfortunately he was not in the position to fire her, and the people that were knew that she was an asset to the business. “Well, she can be an asset to the Americans. ” He thought to himself, looking over his proposal. I am pleased to hear that the merger has gone well. I am sorry to hear that we must give some of our own countrymen up to allow our new employers a place among us. Be that as it may I have one suggestion. The position of Manager of Orders would be an excellent managerial position for someone new to the mill. I have spoken with Ms. Bazhenov, the current holder of this position, and she has informed me that she would be glad to support the merger and leave her position here for one in the United States. Though I will regret losing this valuable worker, I feel that it will be for the overall good of the company. Signed Vitally Frolov Vitally pushed his shoes off and held his feet over the heater and leaned back. The room filled with the smell of sweaty socks as Vitally leaned back, chuckling to himself. “Wait until she finds out about this. It will be too late for you Kristina. You will have to leave, or you will have to quit you job here. There’s no getting out of this one. ” The phone rang again, but there was no way he was getting up. The workers downstairs heard the familiar click clack of Kristina’s heals approaching and quickly stood up, put down their coffee, and stopped their conversations. Her blue eyes glanced down at the for a minute as she walked by the window but she quickly looked back up. Kristina was cracking her knuckles as she walked down the hallway. She did not crack them all at once, pushing on all them with the palm of her hand. Instead she cracked them methodically one at a time. The sharp cracking noise was surprisingly loud for being emitted out of such long slender fingers. The joints of her fingers appeared a little to large for the rest of her fingers, a product of her finger popping habit. Click-clack, crack, click-clack, crack the sound of her knuckles blended with the sound of her heels, announcing that she was coming and that she was upset. Vitally heard the sound of the distant firing squad and braced himself for her visit. He slid his Nikes back on and moved the letter into his desk just as she opened the door. “Ahem, Kristina. What brings you here before lunch? He said, still trying to close the desk drawer as she moved closer to the desk. Kristina, still cracking her fingers, moved over to the phone on the wall and put the receiver to her ear. “I see that there is still a tone here. Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Isn’t that what you’re paid to do?” Her voice rose. “Maybe this is why our orders have been decreasing. Don’t shake your head at me, I’ve noticed that we have had less and less orders lately. Vitally stayed seated, still unwilling to leave his heat. “Kristina, the orders always fall when it gets colder out. People buy less because they stay indoors more during the cold months. Is this the reason you came here? “No. ” She said, glancing at some of the papers on his desk. “I have come to discuss the west corridor with you. I believe that we can open it up and put it to some use. Vitally glanced down and realized that he still had a letter with the large letterhead logo of UNN printed on the top of his page. He hoped that Kristina would not notice this, and attempted to humor her questions. This was not the first time she asked about the west corridor. “Kristina, we have talked over this before. What could we possibly do with the west corridor?” “Well Mr. Frolov. I believe that if we cleaned it up and heated it we could work on the old printing press and. . . “The printing press!” Vitally belched, chuckling. “Why that old printing press will never run again Kristina. Haven’t you seen it back there? “Yes Sir, well we could maybe replace it. I believe that by expanding the mills services we could make a greater profit and establish ourselves once again as a vital community resource. ” Again, Kristina glanced down at the paper sitting in front of Vitally. She had just noticed the large UNN letters on the letterhead. Vitally saw her glance down again and quickly said “Kristina I want you to take control of your project and start working on it as soon as possible. ” Kristina had been thinking over the UNN logo, a known adversary, but was quickly brought back into the conversation by Vitally’s statement. Had the insolent old man finally listened to reason? “Start today? That sounds good Sir, but I don’t know where to begin. “Begin by getting the place cleaned up. You know how much loose paper and dust is back there. We can’t do anything until it is picked up. ” “Yes you are right Sir, I’ll gather some of the workers and. . . ” “No, we are shorthanded today. If you want this project to get done you will have to start it by yourself. ” Kristina was in the process of trying her blonde hair up into a bun. If she smiled she would have done so now. “I’ll start immediately, thank you Sir. It really is for the good of the company” “I’m sure it is. ” Vitally said, taking a deep breath as he watched Kristina making her way towards the door. “Make sure you get rid of all of those books!” He called out after her as the door was closing. He was safe. “That should keep her occupied and quiet for a while. ” He thought to himself. Yes, life was looking good for Vitally Frolov. Kristina Finds Something The next day it was a little warmer outside and Kristina made her way into work quickly. Vitally had gotten there first today, a rare occasion, and had already started unlocking things around the plant. He met her in the corridor that led to her office. “Mornin, Krisitna” said Victor. “Good Morning Victor” she replied, noticing that he was already in his Nikes. “What brings you here so early?” “Oh, had some business to get to early this morning. Nothing big, nothing big. Just had to get it done. Thats all. Are you going to be back in the warehouse all day again?” something about him seemed a little suspicious. “Yes, probably. Will there be any extra hands available today?” “No, probably not, we are shorthanded again” “Well then, I will work on room 48 then” “Hmm, the room with all of the books” “Yes, thats the one. What do you think we should do with them. The books I mean” “Hmm, yes, hhmm. I don’t know. Maybe we should give them out. Like a charity or something. Or maybe we could sell them. ” He sat there for a minute giving out the occasional “hmm” before saying “You know, I don’t care what you do with them. Just get them out of there. ” “Yes, sir. Oh, Sir?” “Yes Kristina. ” “When are we going to start moving things in? I need a timeline. ” “Hmm, I should guess we could start within a week. ” “Within a week? I won’t be finished by that time. Victor paused again, looking up into her blue eyes for a moment before quickly looking back down. He was enjoying this new power he had over her, but he was aware that he might be pushing her too far. “Don’t worry, we will move in slowly” he said while starting to move away. “Just worry about room fourty-eight for now. ” Kristina nodded and moved back toward her office. The office was cold again. “Why is it always cold in here?” she thought to herself. She did not remember it being as cold as it had been the past couple of days. She had left her coat on and decided to leave it on. The entire plant had seemed different lately. Looking around at the posters and personal items she knew that they were hers, they were what made her. How could they seem so unfamiliar to her? She looked hard at the mirror on the wall. Had it always been there? She took the opportunity to check her hair. Always perfect. The key fit roughly into the old brass door knob. After shaking the door for a minute, checking the key to see if it was all the way in, and shoving her shoulder into the solid metal door Kristina finally made her way into room fourty-eight. Nobody had been in the room for at least a year. The light from the hallway shone into the room, allowing Kristina to enter the room once her eyes adjusted. The dust gave everything the appearance of being in a black and white movie. A few stacks of books were piled up next to an old metal desk that loomed out of the surrounding darkness. Kristina brushed her hand on the side of the wall in search of a light switch. The switch clicked on, letting a sharp noise pierce the air of the room. The light flickered on slowly but still worked. The walls were covered with a barren light shade of gray. No posters were put up in this room, the only thing it held was dust, the two stacks of books, and the desk. Kristina didn’t remember this room being so empty but felt relief in the fact that it would be a quick cleanup. She walked over to the desk and swept the dust off of the chair. The chair was cold and Kristina was careful to tuck her long coat underneath her as she sat down. She grabbed the first book off of the nearest stack. The book had a faded green cover with no title on the front. Kristina opened the first page and again found no title. She flipped through the first few pages of the book, her eyes searching closely for any trace of ink, and found nothing. Then she saw it, sitting in the corner of the room covered in dust. The old typewriter that her and her father had discovered. She bent down to get a closer look at it and noticed the paper still in it. Though the typewriter had been out of ink it had still imprinted her words on the page. The first sentence read “I love you daddy. ” A commotion in the hallway interrupted Kristina. She quickly closed the book, dropped in the large pocket on the left side of her coat and moved to the door to meet what sounded like Vitally talking to a few other unrecognized voices. “Yes, yes. This will work nicely” said an unfamiliar voice. “This must be the help Vitally promised” Kristina thought to herself. She stepped out into the hallway, brining Vitally and his group to a halt. Vitally had with him two men, one of which was obviously not a Russian. He wore a black business suit with a poorly tied tie and looked rather cold, he took a second to let his hungry eyes look over Kristina’s features before he made eye contact with her and quickly let them drop to the floor. The other man was the one that had been speaking to Vitally. He was dressed more practically than the other man and still managed to look professional. Without missing a beat he quickly said “Excuse us Miss Kristina I believe. ” She gave him a quick conformation nod as he stuck his hand out to meet his own. Kristina saw Vitally squirming nervously in his Nikes. “I’m Victor Terletsky and this is Adam Weber, your replacement. ” Adam, recognizing his name in the conversation, reached out his hand as well only to quickly draw it back as an expression of anger and surprise grew on Kristina’s face. Her well trimmed eyebrows raised high on her forehead as she quickly turned to Vitally who had moved a couple steps back, using the men before him as a human shield. “What! Replacement!” she sneered at Vitally. “What is this? You cannot replace me! Get these men out of here now Vitally. ” She was now standing over him, looking straight down into his face. Vitally froze for a moment, still shifting back and forth. The American Adam had no idea what was going on. He moved up against the wall, smiling nervously. Victor was only listening intently. “Kristina, we’ve been bought out. HNN purchased us yesterday and they want to transfer some workers from the U. S. over here. I thought. . . ” “When were you going to tell me about this!” Kristina was losing her composure. A few strands of her blonde hair were hanging down over her face. Before giving Vitally time to answer she continued. “When was I to hear about this? Vitally I know you did this. You did it on purpose. . . . ” Then Victor interrupted. “What is this Vitally. She does not know?” “No I don’t know” she cried back. “I am not leaving!” “Vitally, you know someone has to go. We already have Adam here” he said giving a quick glance over to Adam. He went on, trying to hide the low persuasive tone in his voice “and you said this would go over smoothly. ” “It will, it will” said Vitally. “No problem” he said in English to Adam who was still leaning awkwardly against the wall. “Kristina, this is a promotion. They have set up everything for you in America. ” Victor jumped in. “Yes Kristina, everything has been arranged. This is just a trial run, to see how workers adapt across cultures. If you don’t like it you can always come back, but please give it a try. ” “No!” and with that Kristina clacked quickly down the hallway, leaving the men behind her before they had a chance to say anything else. “We’ll give her a minute” said Vitally to Victor. Adam watched for the flash of white flesh that showed from the bottom of Kristina’s skirt as she walked through the door at the end of the hallway. The trip home seemed to take longer than usual. Krisitna mulled over Vitally’s proposition the entire way. “How can I leave Petrovadsk?” she thought to herself. “I have everything here. Well, everything and nothing at the same time. This is my life, the life that I have worked on for the past twenty years. I can’t just up and leave. Or can I?” She thought of her father. It seemed that as though she would be leaving him. She remembered the explosion of words and anger in Vitally’s office. Her face felt hot. His words rung in her ears, “Your father left you Kristina, he left for the U. S. You have nothing here!” The shock was too great for belief. Kristina shut Vitally out when he said this. “How could he have known?” Then she remembered that Vitally had worked at the plant when her father was still around. The gravity of his statement hit her and she stopped the car, dead in the road. Kristina buried her face in her arms and leaned on the the steering wheel. She tried hard to see his face as he sat in the black car. “Why didn’t he look back?” It had all been for him. She had all been for him. “Who am I?” she thought. Everything that she had done had been a result of his leaving. “Why do I let him do this to me?” she thought. Kristina was startled by a gentle tap on her window. “Excuse me? Hello!” it was a man’s voice. Kristina attempted to roll the window down but it was frozen. She opened her door a crack and peered out. The man was surprised to see a pretty blonde looking up at him. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes were gleaming as if she were about to cry. Kristina tried to regain her composure. “Ca, can I. . . Whats the problem?” she asked, craning her neck out to make eye contact with the man. “You’re parked in the middle of the road Miss. I didn’t know anyone was in the car. ” he looked back at his truck. “Engine trouble?” Something in this man made Kristina feel good. He was a good person, she could tell by the way he spoke to her. He sounded truly concerned. It had been a long time since Kristina had ever needed any help, it was odd to be asked. “No, I’m. . . Well, I’m fine and” she opened her door wider and looked back at his truck. There was a woman and a boy, probably about ten years old, sitting inside the truck and watching the man. She ran her fingers through her hair, putting it back in its place, and said with as sincere a look as she could muster “Thanks. ” She shut the door and put the car in drive. The man stood there for a minute before shrugging his shoulders and walking back to his family. Kristina sped through the open countryside. Something had awakened in her. It was a new sort of ambition. She did not need her father. She did not need any man. The world was hers for the taking. She felt free. While driving through town Kristina looked out at the people in the streets. Children disgusted her. She couldn’t stand there unpredictable mannerisms and general uncleanliness. She slowed down as a group of them crossed the road in front of her. A couple of them looked at the car and picked up their pace while the rest walked at a comfortable pace across the road. As her car approached them at an alarming speed they took notice and ran the rest of the way. Nothing was going to stop her now. She saw the local Russian woman out trying to manage their hoards. “They are no better than vending machines. Pop a few coins in their slot and out comes a bag of chips. Thats not the life for me. ” In the United States she could take her potential and do whatever she liked with it. Americans, such as the man at the paper company, were easily dominated in Kristina’s opinion. She would take her revenge out on the people that her father left her for. Kristina’s apartment was modest and immaculate. Her high heels were arranged on a shoe rack next to the door. One large pair of winter boots were leaned up against the rack in attempt to make them look ordered and neat. It would be an easy move. As Kristina swung her coat off her shoulders something fell out onto the tile floor. It was the book with the green cover. She had forgotten all about it. She picked the book up and sat down with it at her table. She thumbed through it, staring at the blank pages. AThe book screamed with potential. Kristina’s brow furrowed and she began to imagine the pages filled with writing, her own writing. No, she could not write. She would not write. Thats what her father had wanted her to do. She tossed the book onto the sofa and went into her bedroom. Kristina’s bed was as flat as a board. No ripple existed in the comforter and a single white pillow was placed at the head of the bed. Besides Kristina no other person had laid on this bed for a long time. There was one man that had the rare privilege of entering Kristina’s apartment. She met him about five years earlier and for a while she thought that he was the one. He shared the same views as she did, he dressed perfectly, and he always looked Kristina in the eye. Theirs was a relationship without secrets. They held nothing back, taking on every subject as if they were discussing something in a business meeting. Kristina never saw the man’s apartment, and he did occasionally stay here with her. The nights that the man stayed in the apartment were not much different from any other night. The place stayed just as clean and almost as quiet as when Kristina was there alone. The only difference being the slight squeak of the bed for ten to fifteen minutes sometime between the hours of nine and ten-thirty. They had sex as if they were trying not to have it. Kristina laid flat on the bad, her white limbs giving her a corpse like appearance, as the man slowly and steadily pumped his pelvis. There were some soft moans and some short grunts but conversation was closed until the act was over. It would have been an odd scene to an outside on looker. To these two sex was a process, something that had to be done. They looked like animals, having sex not for pleasure but for necessity. Afterwards the man would go to the shower while Kristina changed her sheets, waiting for her turn to shower. Sometimes when she got out the man was not there. She would brush her hair, turn the thermostat down, and click the light off, just as she did every night. Kristina had not had sex since the last time he spent the night. One day the man left on a business trip for a weekend and she did not hear from him again for over a month. She did pass by him on the streets several times since but they only acknowledged each other as acquaintances, not even stopping to utter more than a few syllables as the walked by each other. It had been a necessary relationship and Kristina had prepared for abandonment her entire life. It was much easier to let go of him than she had hoped. The next day Kristina walked into the paper mill with a little quicker step than usual. The workers that were there early came to attention, expecting a short list of orders from her she walked by, only to be relieved when she marched past them without as much as a glance. They sat back down and sipped on their coffee while discussing the rumors about her that had been circulating since yesterday. They hoped that they were true. Kristina did not stop until she reached Vitally’s office, which was already occupied by himself, Victor, and the American. The two Russians looked guilty, as though they had just been caught in the act of something, and the American was still smiling. They braced themselves, expecting a verbal, and possibly physical, attack from Kristina. Kristina paused for a moment, taking a second to look at all three of them before saying “When does the plane leave?” Vitally let out a breath in relief. “So you’ve decided to go after all? This is good Kristina. ” Victor was translating for the American, the tone in his voice was excited. Vitally continued “I think you will find it much better there and. . . ” “I don’t want to hear another word out of you” Kristina said fiercely, looking him in the eyes. “You have done something wrong here Vitally. I could have you fired for this, but I am going to show you some mercy and take the proposition offered by these two gentleman. My business is with them, not you. You will get the necessary papers ready for me to sign and cut me my last check. I hope that this is the last interaction that will ever go on between us. ” Vitally nodded, gave the other two men a nervous look and left the room mumbling something about “getting papers ready. ” Kristina turned her attention to Victor. “Now Sir, get me out of here. ” They had offered Kristina two weeks to prepare to leave since she had been unaware of the merger, but she shortened it down to two days. The thought of staying in Petrovadsk for any longer now repulsed her. Everything about the place seemed different now. She had to drive by everything that used to bring back fond memories of her old family everyday. What used to cause painful but fond feelings of regret and longing now only brought forth anger. It drove her forward. She would escape everything. Maybe she was more like her father than she had thoughts. She would leave him to fade into nothing just as he left her to rot in Petrovodsk. Not knowing why Kristina had brought the green book with her in her purse, but soon forgot about it. Now, as she waited at the airport for someone to pick her up, she opened it up. During the plane ride her mind had been fast at work. Her childhood ambitions were beginning to come back to her and she no longer saw a need to repel them. She was beginning a new life. She pulled out a pen from her purse and wrote one line on the first page of the book. The dark ink stood out boldly against the old yellowed pages. Kristina smiled for a brief moment before closing the book and putting it back in her bag. She had gathered her three suitcases around here on the bench and she sat straight, watching closely for her ride. “I already see how it will be in dealing with these American’s she thought to herself. ” She had been sitting there for almost twenty minutes after gathering her luggage. She put the book back in her purse and made a sort of game out of making eye contact with people. Once she caught there eye they would always look away, pretending not to have noticed. “Yes, I think I will like it here” she thought to herself. Charlie Moore The sun peeked through the scattered trees and roofs to bring light to the world of the working men and women of Greenshade suburbs. Husbands and wives kissed, or didn’t, gulped down that last drink of coffee and jumped into their “environmentally” friendly foreign cars. In a matter of minutes the dead streets were filled with lines of vehicles, like ants marching to and from the hill. With that they were gone. The suburbs now belonged to those who stayed at home. After the stampede, dogs were let out to survey their own little patch of green on earth. Stay at home moms and dads might venture out, still in their pajamas, for some reason or other. The children wouldn’t be up for an hour or so, it being the summer months. These few moments of relative stillness were precious to those who were still awake. Inside the house was still. The kitchen still had the smell of coffee and eggs and the dishes lay unwashed on the counter. The entire house seemed to glow as the sun entered in through the windows and warmed the house. Dust could be seen in the penetrating light, floating lazily down from nowhere. It could be cleaned later. In these precious moments the numerous duties and cares of the day were put on hold. These were the moments when a person could realize themselves. It created a time to become familiar with yourself through the silence. It was healing. It was nostalgic. It was not what Charlie Moore was encountering this morning. The stillness of the house was shattered by sound of feet thudding quickly down the stairs. In a flash of clothes and half groomed features Charlie burst into the kitchen, gulped down a cold, day old cup of coffee and bent down to tie his shoes. The shades were still drawn, allowing only a dim light to enter the the living room. Charlie slid on his brown loafers, realized that he left his briefcase upstairs, and ran up to retrieve it with his shoes on. His bedroom was a wreck. The sheets on the bed were only halfway on. The large flowry comforter lay as if it were some slain monster on the ground. An assortment of clothes and garbage were strewn haphazardly around the bedroom. A box of chinese food sat on top of the dresser next to a collection of perfumes and jewelry boxes. Charlie made a quick mental note to clean up the place before Shannon came home and ran downstairs with his briefcase. The door slammed behind him, leaving the house to enjoy the sweet morning on its own. Charlie brought the Corolla’s speedometer up to a quick fourty-five. He was late for work and this gave him an excuse to exceed the communities twenty-five mile an hour speed limit. The rows of houses sped by him as if he were replaying the same scene on a video. They were all the same, occasionally varying in color or lawn ornaments. It was a jungle out there, easy to get lost in if you didn’t know your way. One wrong turn in an unfamiliar area and you were destined to wander the lonely corridors in search for a familiar street name. Many of Charlie’s co-workers employed an in car gps that told you what to do in case of a wrong turn. Without missing a beat the seductive electronic voice told you where you were and how to get where you were going. It was a comfort to always know where you were going. Charlie Moore knew where he was going. There would be no time to stop by one of the little drive thru coffee shops today. Those girls are always so glad to see you in the morning. If you went often enough they might even remember you. Once they knew your face they could associate it with your drink. Charlie was a black and white Mocha. It felt good to have some sort of companion out there. Charlie would try to wave as he drove by his stand. They might recognize his car. He approached Coffee Tyme on the corner of Lancaster and Cannon lane and rolled down his window. The little shop was located at a major junction within the suburbs. It took long enough to get out of the suburbs that the residents allowed the little establishments to be put up in a few locations. People could not go that long in the morning without coffee and it was harder to find a good place once you were out on the freeway. This was Charlie’s coffee stand, he knew that Melissa would be working. The girls were always surprised when he called them by their first name for the first time. He always felt clever when they gave him a confused look and he stared back for a moment as if they should know him. After a moment’s pause he would always tap his breast and point at them and , in turn, they look down to see their own name tag. As Charlie rolled down his window he gave his horn two short honks and leaned out to see if Melissa had seen him and then BUMP! His car gave a startling jolt as he hit the brakes. “Have I been hit?” he thought, looking in his rearview mirror? He was the only car on the street at the moment. And then he saw it. A small bundle of fur lay in the road about twenty feet behind him. “Damn. Must have been a dog. ” The animal was too big for a cat, and he could not imagine any other pet living in the area. For a moment he considered driving on. “Someone will pick it up later. I don’t have time to deal with it” he thought. His engine idled, still in the drive position. But then another thought quickly came to him. What if Melissa had seen him hit the dog. There would be no way out of it, she recognized his car. Charlie imagined the upset owners, probably a crying child and flustered mother, coming out to their dead pet. They would surely ask Melissa if she saw what happened. Charlie glanced at her window in the coffee house, it was closed for the moment. He had no choice, he had to take care of the dog. Charlie backed his car up along the white line on the side of the road. A million things were flashing in his mind. “I am late for work, I don’t have time to deal with this. ” “Who’s dog is this, what should I do with it?” “Had Melissa seen me hit the dog?” “I wonder if she will be upset?” “What will Shannon say about this?” He stepped out of the car, now parked parallel to the dog in the road. The animal was still moving, kicking one of its legs and whining. The noise was terrible, it was as if Charlie could hear the animal’s pain with every whine. The dog appeared to be a small black and white border collie. Charlie’s grandfather had a border collie for a while. The dog would take advantage of Charlie’s adolescent size and knock him over every chance it got, flooding his face with kisses and consuming whatever food he had on his person. The dog looked like his grandfathers, except it had a large white strip on its nose. As he approached it he noticed a small pool of dark blood growing from the dog’s side. The animal took no notice of him and continued to writhe about and whine there on the pavement. How had Charlie come to this point in his life? He couldn’t help thinking as he stood there in front of the dying creature that everything in his life had led up to this moment. His job, his wife, his house, all decisions led to this moment in time. He couldn’t help hitting the dog, it was something that was going to happen. He looked up for a moment, shielding his eyes from the sun. No, he did not believe in God. God was a thing of the past, as Nietzshe said “God is dead. ” Dead in our imaginations. Charlie no longer needed God. He had his life laid out before him. God was replaced with cookie-cutter houses, “environmentally friendly” cars, GPS navigators, and coffee shop girls. There was no more room for God in this world. No, it wasn’t God that brought him here. Charlie brought his hand down and looked over toward Coffee Tyme. Melissa had opened the window and was staring out at him. Catching his attention she yelled out to him. “Do you need any help sir?” Why hadn’t she used his first name? “Do you have any trash bags?” Charlie called back to her. She nodded her head and disappeared back into the shack. The dog had not died yet. Charlie wondered how long it would take. Maybe the animal would survive the incident? His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of Melissa’s flip flops slapping against the pavement. She looked rather disturbed. Charlie watched her run across the pavement toward him in her short brown shorts and tight t-shirt. Melissa was a looker, Charlie was sure of that. Something about the intense emotional expression on her face and her casual “summer girl” outfit turned Charlie on. She was innocent, or at least she was in his mind. She really cared for this dog that lay their dying on the cold pavement. He longed to touch her. But then again he didn’t. He had a beautiful wife, a house, and a successful career. Charlie knew that he didn’t want her, but for some reason he did. “Ooooh, poor puppy!” she squealed as she got closer. “Is it alright? Do you think it will make it?” “I don’t know,” Charlie said. “It didn’t even see it. ” How could he not have? The dog was in the the middle of an empty street on a sunny morning. Melissa bent down and put her hand up to the dog’s nose. For the first time it seemed to take notice of its surroundings and it licked her hand. Charlie shuddered. “I think it is those people’s dogs, I’ve seen it around before,” she said, nodding toward one of the nearby houses. “Maybe we should get it off the road first. ” Melissa, in tears at this time, nodded in agreement. Charlie was not sure of the best way to go about doing this, not knowing how in tact the dog actually was. He stood awkwardly over the dog for a moment and then moved as if he were going to drag it off to the side. “Oh, don’t do that” said Melissa. “Here I’ll do it,” she gave him a sharp glance. Melissa bent over and picked the dog up slowly, she held it as if it were a newborn child. Melissa held everything as if it were the most fragile thing in the world. When Charlie got his coffee from her she would hold on to it until she was sure that he had it firmly in his grasp. Her long slender fingers would become entangled in his own. The contact was awkward but Charlie enjoyed it. The dog’s whines had died down to the occasional long whine. She carried it to the nearest lawn, kneeled down and then rested the dog in the soft grass. Charlie stared at the blood stain in the middle of the road for a moment. He had the odd sensation of floating above himself. It was as if he were watching a movie about himself. He felt as though he were staring at a crime scene. He envisioned a white chalk line in the shape of a border collie on the pavement. Stifling a small chuckle he turned back toward the dog and the girl. The man who owned the lawn was walking out toward them. He still wore his flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt that said “Maui Wowie” in big red letters. “Hey, what happened here?” he said with a look of concern as he walked toward them. “I hit this dog on accident, is it yours?” Charlie asked. “No, but it looks like the McCallums little collie” he replied. “I’ll give em a call, hold on” he said, rushing back into his house. ” This thing was beginning to be quite the ordeal. The time was 8:45 and Charlie knew that he would have to call into work and let them know he would be an hour or more late. The dog was much quieter now, but it was still breathing. Melissa remained kneeled beside it, petting it and occasionally saying “Its okay girl, its alright. ” The sun was beginning to grow a little higher in the sky. Charlie was sweating but he did not know if the cause was the sun or his nerves. He took off his suit jacket and carried it to the car. “Sir, please don’t go anywhere” it was the man again. “I’ve called Mrs. McCallum, she’ll be right over. ” “Don’t worry, I’ve just gotta make a quick call” Charlie said, ducking his into his car. He threw his coat in the passenger seat and sat down in the driver’s seat, leaving the door open. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed the secretaries office. “HNN what can I do for you today?” the receptionists voice was cool and impersonal, a product of rehearsal and repetition. “Yes, this is Charlie Moore from the office of personnel relations. I am calling to let Roger Barkis to know that I am going to be a little late today due to an accident on my way in. ” “I’ll let him know Sir. Have a nice day!” “Wait a minute” Charlie said trying to make the conversation last longer. “How long have you worked there for? Do I know you?” “No sir, I don’t think we have met. I’m sorry, I have a call waiting on the other line” “Oh, I’ll let you go then. Just let Barkis know. ” “Got it Sir. Bye,” and with a click she was no longer on the line. Charlie wanted to stay in the car a moment longer. He left the phone help up to his ear so that it looked like he was still talking. He saw, what he supposed to be, Mrs. McCallum running across the street from her house next door. Charlie felt guilty, sitting there in the murder weapon with the phone up to his ear. “Hello! Helllo” he yelled into the receiver. “What was that?” he thought to himself. He was sure that he had just heard someone saying his name in the receiver. It sounded as though someone was talking not to him, but about him in the background. He held the phone up to his ear, listening closely. Nothing. The sound of the woman crying brought him back. He stepped out of his car and returned to the pitiful scene. Apparently the dog had died. Its long tongue hung out the side of its mouth, at least the animal had the dignity to die with its eyes shut. Both Melissa and Mrs. McCallum were crying and the neighbor man was doing his best to comfort them. “At least she’s not in any more pain” the neighbor said. “Oh, Maggie. I can’t believe it. I just let her out” Mrs. McCallum sobbed. Charlie was not sure what to do. He waited a moment and said “I’m sorry mam, I didn’t see her. If there’s anything I can do. . . d’ya want money or anything?” “No, no its alright. I should have kept on eye on here. . . she normally stays in the yard” she had forgiven him. Melissa was not so quick to forgive him. She stood there, her shirt stained with the dogs blood, glaring at Charlie. Charlie felt released and was about to leave when Melissa said “what if it were a child?” Charlie was utterly unprepared for the question. Why would she even jump to that conclusion? He hadn’t hit a child he had hit a dog. Melissa had probably been drinking a little too much of the product that she was selling. Charlie guessed that she was another one of those girls who hopes for moments like these in order to create a little drama in their uninteresting little lives. They wish they were like the starts of their tv shows, dealing with bigger problems in one week of school than most adults deal with in their entire lives. “It wasn’t dear, this is different” Mrs. McCallum again came to the rescue. “I don’t know” the neighbor chimed in. “I have a child that could have just as easily been on these streets. How fast were you going?” Before Charlie could answer Melissa yelled out “Fast! He was going way over the speed limit. I saw him. ” “I was late for work, I. . . ” Charlie was cut off. “Late for work? LATE FOR WORK” the neighbor yelled. “Do you think that gives you an excuse. What if it had been my child?” How had Charlie gotten here? “Yeah, and why weren’t you watching the road?” Melissa chimed in. She was beautiful even in her anger, but Charlie didn’t notice. “I, I, look I’m really sorry” he stuttered. “But at least it didn’t happen. I’ll be more careful, I’ll. . . ” he was only digging himself deeper. Suddenly the attention was diverted from him as Mrs. McCallum grabbed the plastic bag and began scooping the lifeless bundle of blood and fur into it. “Just go” she said. “I want to get this cleaned up before the kids are up. ” “Charlie walked backwards toward his car. “I’m sorry, so sorry” he said, but there was no reply. He stepped into his car, turned the key, and slowly rolled away from the scene. It was a shit morning for sure. He glanced at the clock, 9:10, he could swing by for a much needed cup of coffee before heading to work. Maybe the day was not a total loss. He glanced up nervously in his rearview mirror again, feeling as though someone would be chasing him. Seeing nothing he returned his gaze to the road, putting the past behind him. Charlie juggled his briefcase, newspaper, and cup of coffee as he entered the elevator that would take him to floor that his office was on. The elevator was almost empty this time of morning, he only shared it with one other person. It was a woman who worked on the floor above Charlie’s. He always saw her push the button for the sixth floor, and often took the opportunity to look over her outfit during her brief moment of preoccupation. Today she wore tight black slacks. As she leaned forward to push her button Charlie was sure that he could make out a panty line encircling her firm little ass. She looked back at him quicker than he had expected. He smiled and gave a barely audible “g’morning. ” “She must have seen my eyes jump up” he thought. The woman smiled back and moved to her side of the elevator without saying a word. Charlie felt as if he should say something else as the elevator slowly lifted them up. Words were not necessary here. People lived in their own little spheres and talking to strangers was no longer considered polite or necessary. Charlie was sure that she felt the same way. Everyday people were forced together in elevators, airports, and rooms only to teeter on the brink of conversation and then feel relieved when it doesn’t happen. He liked to think about what would happen if the elevator were to get stuck and trap him in with whoever was riding. The woman would be forced to make conversation with him. Charlie couldn’t help but think that he wouldn’t mind being stuck in there with her. It would be an intimate bonding experience. The elevator door opened up to reveal the fifth floor offices of HNN and Charlie stepped out. He could feel the woman’s eyes on him as he became uncomfortably aware of his stride as he walked away. Charlie decided to go to the secretaries desk up front to let them know he was in and waste a little time before he started work. Becky was working up front, not exactly the person Charlie was hoping to see. Becky was a middle aged woman of large proportions. She had very little time for Charlie or his attempts to break the ice with her. “Hallo, Becky. How’s You’re morning going?” “Same as always Mr. Moore. ” “Thats good, well I hope it is. Anyways, I was just stopping by to let you know that I’m in now. ” “In what?” Becky asked, looking above the rims of the glasses that sat low on her nose. “Haha, in for work. I called earlier to let you know that I was going to be late. ” “Interesting Mr. Moore, but that wasn’t me. You didn’t call this office. ” She looked back down to her computer screen, obviously done with the current conversation. Charlie had forgotten that he called the main HNN desk before. He had probably arrived before his message did. It would eventually reach Bakis’s desk but there was no telling when. Charlie barely had time to sit at his desk when his boss burst in the door. “Where have you been? Today is not the day to be late!” he was excited about something. “Don’t you remember that Russian woman that is flying in today. You were supposed to pick her up. Her planes been in for half an hour already. “My bad. I hit a dog on my way in this morning and. . . ” “You hit a dog? What the fuck took you so long? It doesn’t take two goddamn hours to hit a dog!” The veins along Roger’s temples looked as though they would burst open onto his red face. When he was angry his language would be filled with fucks, shits, and goddamns. Charlie wondered if he was like this with his wife and children? “Well, the owners came and. . . ” Charlie didn’t have time to explain himself but he checked his watch again. Had it really been two hours? “I don’t care. You need to be on your way to the airport five minutes ago. We’ll talk about his later. Hell, I’ll even help you wash the mutt’s guts from your hood. Just go get the girl and do like I told you. ” Charlie followed him out into the hallway, he heard Roger muttering something to himself about “it all going smoothly. ” It took Charlie twenty-five minutes to get from HNN to the airport. He had just gone through the pickup gait in his car and cruised slowly down the road in search of gate fifteen. A few weeks ago Roger had informed Charlie that, as a member of the public relations department, he would be placed in charge of making sure that a new employee transferring from Russia would fit in in the U. S. It was all a big publicity stunt, Charlie knew that they didn’t really need the Russian office. The company was bored and some wealthy writer or journalist decided that it would be interesting to mess with someone’s life. It was Reality TV without the cameras. Charlie took a special interest in this project. He had spent the last couple of weeks setting up a place for the Russian to live and thinking of things to do with her once she was in America. Charlie was given very little information about the Russian, only that it was a female with experience in labor management. She didn’t sound like the kind of woman Charlie was in to. Labor management sounded rough, Russia sounded even rougher. He drove slowly along the airport terminal watching the people get greet relatives, lovers, and friends, chatting happily as they told their stories about the flight. Charlie would have to come pick up Catherine in a few days. He saw a couple embracing each other by one of the automatic doors. The thought of Catherine somehow changed his mood. “Why do I feel guilty?” I haven’t done anything wrong. ” The temptation had always been there for Charlie. His wife gave him too many opportunities but so far he had stayed strong. It was hard for Charlie to accept the fact that this was his life. And there was gate thirteen, then fourteen, and finally fifteen. There was no one waiting in front of the gate. “Damn” Charlie thought to himself. “What if she has already left. ” He parked his car on the side of the curb and looked around. There were a few people sitting in the shade on a bench outside, they weren’t the person he was looking for. An old man pulled his luggage slowly behind him as he passed in front of Charlie’s car, struggling against the heat. Charlie figured that he had better get out and look inside for her. He felt like one of those limo drivers with a cardboard sign. “Should I get a sign?” he wondered. “What if I don’t recognize her?” He had never even imagined the pickup. And how had he forgotten to pick her up today? Lately Charlie had been preoccupied with his wife. She had been gone for a few days but still managed to stay on his mind through constant phone calls and emails. Last night she had accused Charlie of cheating on her while she was gone. Catherine was often gone. Her job required her to be gone. She was an author, but not in the traditional sense. Catherine wrote stories that were not here own, she was a professional autobiographer. Charlie had always found her profession to be intriguing. He had been full of questions when they first met. “An autobiographer? You’re kidding right, you’re an editor or something. ” He took another drink of wine, his third that night. “Don’t laugh” Catherine replied jokingly. “Its real. Listen, you know how many people write autobiographies right?” “No, but I know that I am not planning on writing one any time soon. haha” “Not ordinary people, your ARE funny Charlie,” apparently Catherine had also had a few glasses. “Celebrities, politicians, and other famous people. They are always writing autobiographies. ” “Well, yeah, but don’t they write their own?” Charlie asked, playing with the few noodles that remained on his plate. “Do you think they really have the time? Have you ever noticed how quickly they come out with these autobiographies?” Charlie shook his head. “Have you ever read one?” “Yeah, I read most of Bono’s once. Pretty interesting stuff in there. ” “Thats just it Charlie. Do you think people’s lives are really that interesting?” “Well, Bono has done alot and. . . ” “Do you think Bono really sat down and wrote that during all of his touring and trips to Africa?” Catherine had grown serious. Charlie thought for a second and, catching on to what Catherine was getting at, said “well maybe he had some help. ” “Yeah, from people like me. You see,” she took another sip of wine, closing her eyes and relishing the rich taste, “people’s lives are never that great. Half of Bono’s time is probably spent on an airplane, and you know his childhood wasn’t as great as it sounds. Give me anyone’s life and I’ll make it a story. ” Charlie’s interest was peaked. “Wait, so it’s all made up?” “No, not all of it. We get a basic outline and sort of fill in the middle. We ask for certain important events that we might elaborate on and go from there. ” Catherine leaned back in her chair confidently. “How much do you “elaborate? How do the actual people respond to this?” “However much it takes Charlie. As long as the book sells its all good. Sometimes people don’t like it, but eventually the autobiography becomes a part of them and they accept it. Once it is out there it might as well have already happened. Oh, don’t look at me like that Charlie. We don’t change that much, just the little things. And we never publish without permission from the author. ” Charlie had been thinking much on the concept of the author lately. He was the author of his own story, and like his wife, he could make things up too if he wanted to. He wondered if his wife ever lied to him. They seemed to be in love, but then again, Charlie was never really sure what love meant. He imagined that he could love alot of people. What made one person so special? Was it the ring or was it something more? These dark thoughts filled Charlie’s head as he searched for a place to park. His phone began to play a slow country song that reminded him of Catherine. Could she sense that he was thinking of her? Charlie looked at his phone for a moment, debating on whether or not to answer it right now. Charlie let the song play on for a few moments before answering the phone. “Hello?” “Hey honey, what’s going on?” “At work right now, picking up somebody from the airport. ” “Oh yeah? Are you driving right now?” “No, just pulled in. What ya need?” “I just wanted to see how your day was going? Whats the matter Charlie, you sound upset?” How could she tell? Charlie had been watching a young woman in a mini skirt walking by his car and trying to decided of she was a natural blonde or not. But this question brought him back into the conversation. “I’m fine, just a little stressed today. I hit a dog on the way into work. ” “A dog! Charlie, oh no! Where was it?” “On the road by the coffee hut. . . but listen I gotta go inside and get this person ok. I’ll give you a call when I get home tonight and fill you in. ” “Alright. Hey! Only two more nights of Chinese food or whatever it is that you eat. Can’t wait to see you” “Me neither, love you. ” The Union Charlie hung up the phone with Catherine and glanced at his watch. He waited for her for a few minutes before grudgingly realizing that he would have to go find her. It was much hotter out that it had been earlier that morning. Charlie could see heatwaves rising, making everything seem as though it were in motion in some blurry water color world. The automatic doors opened to greet Charlie with a blast of cool air. It took him a minute to adjust his eyes to the lights of the airport terminal. Then he saw her. He knew right away that it must of been her. She looked so foreign, so out of place, just sitting there with her luggage. She was amazing. Charlie had never seen anyone like her before. As he approached her she looked up into his eyes. Kristina noticed a man in a brown suit walking in her direction and looked up into his eyes. He was looking back and he was not looking away. He walked toward her with a purpose, as if he knew her. She grew a little nervous, was her own game coming back to bite her. Maybe this man thought she making advances on him. He smiled and offered her his hand. “Kristina Bazhenov?” he asked, still looking into her eyes. Refusing to lose she stared back. “Yes. Are you here to pick me up?” Kristina became painfully aware of her Russian accent. Charlie was not sure what to do with his own eyes. He felt a rush through his entire body, those cool blue eyes seemed to bathe him in ice water. “Yes, I’m sorry that I was late, I can’t believe your still hear after such a long wait. ” He had to do it, he had to drop his gaze for a moment. It was too intense for him. He made a gesture with his arms, looked at her luggage and asked “Are these yours?” “Stupid question” he immediately thought to himself. “You’re not too late. I’ve only been in for fourty-five minutes. And yes, these are my bags. ” Kristina said, still watching Charlie. He was an interesting man. She could tell that he was excited. He made some awkward jerky movements with his hands as he reach for a piece of luggage as the same time she did. “Sorry, haha. ” he smiled wide. “I’ll get the rest. The car is right out front. Was it a long flight?” Another stupid question. With that he grabbed the two bags and headed for the door. Kristina, who followed close behind, was almost overwhelmed by the change of temperature when she went through the doors. The head smothered her. It seemed unbearable and she wondered how people could even live in such conditions. There was no escape from the heat whereas in Russia she could always put another coat on. By the time they reached the car and began loading the luggage in the rear, she refused Charlie’s offer to get it all, she could feel beads of sweat forming on her scalp. Maybe she had made the wrong choice. Charlie’s first task was to bring Kristina back to the HNN building and introduce her to some of the people that she would be working with. He couldn’t stop looking over at her as they pulled out of the airport. She was reserved, she felt no need to talk, she was all business. She was so different from anything Charlie had ever known. But back there , in the airport terminal, they had connected for a moment. Charlie had never felt so real in his life as he did then. Kristina had seen him, she had really seen him. All formalities, politeness, and bullshit was put aside for a moment. Charlie realized that he been quiet for a while, which seemed to suit Kristina just fine. She just sat there in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead. Charlie was not ready to give her up to his co-workers yet. She was his He looked down at the clock and realized it was 12:30, lunchtime. “Miss Bazhenov?” he asked. “Yes, Mr. . .?” she gave him an inquisitive look. Had he really forgotten to give her his name? “I”m such an idiot” he thought. “Oh! I can’t believe it. Sorry, Mr. Moore. Charlie Moore” he nodded at her. “Pleased to meet you again” he said with a slight chuckle. “Yes, Mr. Moore. What is it?” she asked, looking directly at him again. Charlie could stand to not look at her but he did his best to keep his eyes on the road. “Well, it looks like its lunchtime. Everyone back at HNN will be at lunch right now so we might as well go. Don’t worry, I’ve got a business card on me” he said while his mind raced to think of an appropriate restaurant to take her too. Kristina glanced at the car’s digital clock before saying “I didn’t realize it was noon already. Yes, I’m not hungry but I suppose thats fine. ” Charlie nodded. “Well, what are you in the mood for?” “In the mood?” Kristina asked, not entirely sure what he was asking her. “ What kind of food do you want. I know of a great little place down on fifth, not too far from HNN” he said, turning into the left lane already, “Thats fine” she replied. “I do not know of anywhere else here. ” Kristina pulled the green book out of her purse to use as a distraction. Something about Charlie was different. Normally she would have nothing to do with a man like him. He asked redundant questions and was constantly fidgeting with something, it was the car’s AC controls at that moment. She watched him adjust the controls for a moment. He would click the knob and then hold his hand over the vents, trying to create the perfect temperature in the car. Kristina was convinced that there was no longer a perfect temperature. While she preferred the frigid Russian climate to this muggy heat she was willing to admit that neither extreme was preferable. She opened the green book and pretended as if she were reading it. She needed a distraction from Charlie. She did not want to change this much but her body was telling her otherwise. As Charlie reached down to turn on the radio she almost flinched away from him while at the same time longing to come into contact with him. “Whatcha readin there?” Charlie interrupted her. Kristina closed the book. “Nothing, just an old book from Russia?” “Oh yeah? Who is it about?” he asked, looking at the front cover of the book. “I don’t know” Kristina said as she put the book back in her purse. “I haven’t read it yet. ” The restaurant was filled with people but the waiter found room for Charlie and Kristina at a small, intimate booth. Charlie was on fire. He had not felt this way since he and Catherine were first seeing each other. He imagined what life would be like living with this woman. She was different and Charlie loved her for that. He noticed her straight hair and wished that he could run his hands through it. He stood a little closer to her than he should have, trying to get a whiff of the foreign scent of her clothes. Charlie could see that this woman had her own little world set up around her. He could tell from the way she seemed to arrange everything around her. She always seemed to be the center or the focus. He wanted to be a part of that world. “And what can I get for you and your wife to drink sir?” The waiter had messed up. Charlie turned red but didn’t say anything right away. Had his imagination come to life? Kristina sputtered, and said “No sir, no. I am not his wife. We are. . . ” The waiter realized his mistake and said “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. . . anyways, drinks?” Charlie was trying to decide what to drink. His mind was racing faster and faster. “I’ll have a glass of water and a double shot of the Stoli Vodka please.” He looked at Kristina as he said this. She did not look away. “And for you?” the waiter asked. “I’ll have the same.” Kristina couldn’t believe she was doing this. The waiter left and once again they were alone. She was perfectly aware of what Charlie was doing. It was rash and crude and Kristina usually had no time for such people. She began to think about her situation. Had she really managed to find a man on arrival? He was, admittedly, not up to her standards but then again she had been throwing most of her standards out of the window. She would escape her prison and come to know who she really was. This really would be a new life. The paper mill and her father would not ever bother her again. She felt her foot touch Charlie’s under the table and she did not move it away. How could she be so weak? Charlie was sitting there across from her just watching her. He had to have this woman. Once again, he began to think about what brought him here. Without his recent promotion he never would have picked Kristina up, he probably never would have known that she existed. If his wife’s trip hadn’t been prolonged he wouldn’t have been in this position. Charlie had no control over the situation whatsoever. He wasn’t the author of his story, he was just one of the characters being pushed along by some giant pen. Who or what that pen was Charlie had no idea and he didn’t care. There was an order to things that couldn’t be stopped. He was sure of that. Across the way a much different pattern of thought was going on in Kristina’s head. Kristina saw herself as a blank page. Life was now full of possibility and, like the book, it was just waiting for her to begin writing. She had spent too much time shutting the world out. It was time to take things in. The restaurant was filled with scents and colors. People were moving about quickly because of the short lunch break. They were constantly being pushed by time. They could not enjoy their meals, they had to chew it down quickly when the order took longer than expected. People’s conversations were always in times shadow, the listener often glanced at his watch or nodded without really listening to what the speaker was saying. How could something so chaotic still be so ordered? Kristina began to think that the control that she had strived for in life never really existed. One had to stop every once in a while and take things in to really understand what was happening. Soon the waiter arrived with two glasses of water and the Vodka. Charlie felt silly when he saw the alcohol feeling as though it was a little too bold. It was strange to drink in the afternoon for Charlie and he wondered what Kristina would think about it. In truth, Kristina thought very little about it. In Russia it was not uncommon to have a little drink with most meals, though it was the males who usually did it. The waiter took their orders without writing anything down and this immediately took Charlie’s mind off of the Vodka. “How do you remember what everyone ordered?” He asked the waiter. The waiter tapped his head and said “got it all up here Sir.” Charlie nodded but still didn’t believe him. The restaurant ran too smoothly for the waiters to remember every detail. Charlie imagined the waiter hurrying back to the kitchen with the current order in mind. As soon as he was out of sight he probably scribbled the order down and handed it to the cook. It could not have worked any other way. There was always someone behind the scenes running things. “Kristina, what do you think about life?” Charlie said, sliding the glass of Vodka closer to him “What do you mean Mr. Moore?” Kristina replied. “Please call me Charlie, and I guess I’m asking if you think there is an order to things or not. You know, free will and all that. You see this morning I ran over someone’s dog on the way to work. It was unavoidable, my dog and my car were in that place and time for one moment. Was it coincidence? I can’t help but think that there were a million things that came together to create that one moment. Was it really my fault for hitting the dog? I don’t know.” As he finished Charlie raised his glass to meet Kristina’s in midair. They both threw back the shot, letting the cold burning liquid slide down their throats. Charlie managed to keep a straight face, resisting the urge to gag and contort is face as the taste of the Vodka hit him. Kristina still managed to look cool and collected, taking a sip of her water after she put the empty glass down. “No.” she said. “I no longer think that there is a plan. I used to back in Russia but I realized that we make our own story in life. I chose to leave my life behind and come here to the United States. I think that you could have missed that dog if you really wanted to but I’m not saying you did it on purpose.” Kristina crossed her legs, sliding her foot up along Charlie’s calf as she repositioned herself. Charlie shuddered. He could no longer concentrate on the conversation at hand. “I suppose you’re right.” He said in simple agreement. He had felt Kristina’s foot and he now suspected that his feelings were mutual. Sex dominated his mind. Charlie couldn’t go back to work now, he had to have Kristina. Could they do it at work? He imagined taking her into the copy room and locking the door. No, Kristina’s attention would be taken by his other employers. He was jealous, he did not want to share her with them. He could already see Roger sending him away on an errand so that he could have Kristina to himself. Could they do it here? A bathroom sex scene from a movie flashed into Charlie’s head. Erotic, but he imagined the real thing would be much less passionate. The restrooms in this type of restaurant were usually covered in water and soggy pieces of paper. Kristina didn’t look like the type that would be up for that. His mind worked quickly, it didn’t take long for him to remember that he had been given the information for Kristina’s living arrangements. “So Mr. Moore... Sorry, Charlie I mean. What is it exactly that you do besides picking people up from the airport?” Kristina was attempting to be humorous but it had been so long that it turned out sounding more like an insult. Charlie was still thinking about getting Kristina alone. “What? Oh, umm well I work with public relations and human resources. This merger is kind of a big deal and we have been receiving alot of publicity for transferring Russian workers, well I guess thats you, and I’m in charge of making sure you will be comfortable here.” He paused for a moment after his last statement, trying to give it some special significance. Everything seemed to be going so smoothly but when the server brought out their food Charlie suddenly realized that he was still wearing his wedding ring. “Had Kristina noticed” he thought. Apparently she hadn’t. “Should I take it off?” This thought made him start to feel guilty as it reminded him of what he was really doing. His mind began to drift towards thinking of his wife, but he was quickly interrupted. “Charlie, is there any way that I can just go lay down somewhere? I’m feeling a little ill from the plane ride and that Vodka just pushed me over the edge.” Kristina said this hoping that it might lead to other things but it was for the most part the truth. The double shot made her head swim and the jet lag had finally seemed to catch up with her. Any thoughts that Charlie had of his wife immediately vanished. “Well, they have set up an apartment for you. I suppose I could take you there. I think they will understand at work. We can go now if you want?” Kristina, holding her head, said “Please.” Charlie paid the waiter and in no time he and Kristina were on their way to her apartment. He worried that Kristina really was sick. Maybe too sick to do anything but sleep. He took on the role of the comforting friend, he was not sure what else to do in this situation. During the drive he reached over and gently patted her hunched over shoulders. As they entered the neighborhood Charlie saw several coffee shops in the area. He saw himself visiting these small shops after spending mornings or evenings with Kristina. He began to like the idea of having a mistress more and more. She lived far enough away from him for anyone to be suspicious and his wife was always gone. It was dangerous and interesting. It was something new. Besides, his new philosophy saved him from feeling any guilt. Whatever happened was not his fault. This was going to happen. Kristina was not thinking as clearly as Charlie was. The enormity of the changes in her life had mixed with her physical illnesses. She felt vulnerable and sick. She realized that she had no one in this world but Charlie, a man that she had known for less than an hour. Had her father felt the same way when he left? The door opened to a small apartment with large windows that looked out over the suburbs. Charlie was surprised at how much he could see from up on the third floor of the building. He set Kristina’s luggage down in the entryway and ushered her into the room. “Its small, but its in a great location. I think you’ll like it here.” Kristina sat down on the couch. The apartment reminded her of her own back in Russia. It was so clean and cold. Kristina hated it. The apartment was like herself, empty. Her lip began to tremble and she buried her hands in her face. She had not cried since she realized that her father was not coming back. Her stomach felt sick, her heart hurt, and hot tears began streaming out of her eyes. Charlie saw this and was not sure what to do. He sat down on the couch beside her and said “Is there anything I can do?” Kristina looked up into brown eyes for a moment. Their mouths were so close to each other that a kiss almost seemed necessary. Kristina moved first, kissing Charlie differently than she had ever done so before. For the first time she felt passionate, she could hardly contain herself. Rather than slow and methodical she was moving fast and instinctually. She felt truly alive. Charlie’s dreams had apparently come true. This woman was wilder than he could have imagined. He returned her affections with his own but as they went on something made Charlie want to stop. Reluctantly he helped remove her clothes, she really did have a great body. It was everything that he had imagined but now that the dream was realized he no longer wanted it. He thought of his wife as he entered her. She would be home in a few days. How would he act around her now? She always seemed to be able to read him. Kristina moaned, it was unfamiliar to Charlie. He tried to imagine that he was with his wife but he could not conjure up the image. Kristina was there below him and she was horribly real. As Charlie left the apartment Kristina called out to him “I love you.” He didn’t look back but she was not sure if he had heard her. Did she really mean what she had just said? She was no longer sure of anything. She laid down on the bed, still naked, and looked about her apartment. It was no longer neat and clean, just like her. Things really had changed. She opened the blinds to let the warm sun shine in upon her skin as she fell asleep. That night Charlie sat at home eating his Chinese takeout. He could not stop his mind. He had been trying to get the women out of his head but he they would not leave him alone. He needed something to distract him but he could find nothing. He came straight home from Kristina’s apartment. Along the way he passed Melissa’s coffee shop and immediately imagined her beneath him. It was no longer a fantasy. He really had cheated on his wife and now these instances served as a reminder. Charlie had changed his mind about life. His guilt told him that he was to blame for his actions. At any point he could have stopped himself. The only author in his life was himself. Charlie’s phone began to play that old familiar country song. He sat there, staring at it. The next day a different person came to pick Kristina up for work. Throughout the day she looked for Charlie but he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he did not come into work today? After a week without any contact Kristina began to realize that it had happened to her again. She threw the green book into the trash, straightened her hair, and went to work at HNN just as she had done in Russia. Things never would change, and neither would she. Never again.

Jeremy Nowicki - final post of There Once Was This Girl

2008-12-14T13:51:00.000-08:00

Hey guys (and gals)! I just wanted to say thanks for all of your wonderful feedback this semester. Quite a lot of it has helped me refine the story. Although our class is essentially over, if any of you guys have further ideas about how to refine my story or what you'd like to see in addition to what's already there, feel free to e-mail me or leave comments here. I plan on further refining the story later next semester. :o) Good luck on your final projects, papers, and tests! ~J.N. (P.S. This story would probably be easier to read if you copy and paste it into a document/writer program. It's at 69 pages currently! If the formatting doesn't turn out e-mail me at jernowick@hotmail.com and I'll send you a copy.)

There Once Was This Girl Jennifer McMillan exited the subway station an hour late, quite unlike her daily routine, and started to trudge the four blocks to the studio where she was the host of a late-night television show. As her feet dragged along the busy sidewalk towards the building she told herself that she loved her job, it was her dream job, but there were going to be days where it just wasn't perfect. Although the sidewalks were crowded as usual this afternoon something must have shown in her demeanor that gave warning, for everyone seemed to slide out of her way. Her ponytail bounced in rhythm with her footsteps, swinging back and forth across the top of her collar. Although it was only early afternoon, the shadows from the buildings towering overhead made the road far below their gargantuan forms seem chilly. Jennifer wished she had brought a jacket with her tonight. Maybe she'd just catch a taxi home after this show, even though she hated those yellow rodents that scurried around town. Ugh, she thought to herself, the show. She stopped outside the building that contained the Today Tonight show set and production offices for one last longing glimpse at the sun where it was sliding down between two buildings across the street from her. Her face turned upwards towards the sun, vainly seeking some warm comfort or an embrace from the waning beams. She inhaled deeply, almost bursting the top button on her beige blouse, and coughed abruptly. After three years in New York City she still occasionally missed the clean air of her beloved Oregon. As her eyes fell from the sky to the street before her they settled curiously on a well-built, clean-shaven man who was tinkering with a motorcycle parked at the curb, almost at her feet. His dirty-blond hair fell across his forehead attractively and rippled down the back and sides of his head. He had attractive pale blue eyes, she noticed, as he looked up at her and caught her looking at him. He flashed a smile that also was very attractive. Yes, she thought with a slight blush, he's quite attractive. “Pardon me, ma'am, but can you tell me where Eleven Sixty-Four Brenton street is?” He spoke in a voice that seemed made for the outdoors, louder than the ambient noise of humanity but not oppressively so. However, the timber of his voice was rich and deep and she suddenly had an image of him yodeling across a mountain canyon, listening to its echo returning to him seconds later. Suddenly, instead of seeing the actual green shorts and t-shirt that he was wearing, she saw him clad in leather lederhosen, an embroidered Swiss jacket, and a tyrolean hat cocked on top of his head with the Alps rising behind him, rather than the truth of cement-and-glass buildings. She took a step towards him involuntarily. “Ma'am,” he inquired gently. “Oh, yes. 'Scuse me. You're actually here. The door right behind me is the entrance to 1164.” “Oh, good! I was afraid this ol' bike had left me shy of my port. Would you hand me the ratchet there by your feet, please?” Jennifer looked down and saw an old canvas kit unrolled on the sidewalk at her feet and a series of well-used tools laid out in their assigned pockets. She squatted next to the bag, located and pulled out the ratchet but her other hand hesitated before she seized a socket. “What size do you need?” “One quarter inch please,” he returned, and thanked her as she seated the socket on the ratchet handle and passed it over the bike to him. “I've never seen one like this. It looks pretty old,” she commented as she admired the good condition of the motorcycle. “It's a 1966 Honda,” he said with a grin as he looked up from her task and caught her eyes over the leather seat. “Well, that should just about do it. Now I can be here on time and still get home without having to work on this sucker in the dark! Thank you for your help, Miz . . ..” He held out his hand to her after wiping it on a rag. “Miss,” she corrected. “Miss McMillan,” she said as she took his hand. It was warm and calloused, unlike the softness of most of the people whom she had met in the city. She noted him looking at her quizzically and blushed as she dropped his hand, aware that she had been holding it far too long for a casual handshake. “Well, have a great day, Miss McMillan. I hope our paths cross again before too long.” She nodded and entered the building, still blushing slightly. She waved a hand limply at the guard sitting behind the lobby desk, whose name she had never asked. He smiled and waved back before turning his attention back to the couple that he was addressing at the counter. She caught the express elevator up to the thirty-second floor and entered through the studios well-appointed private lobby. “Hi, Jen,” she said to the receptionist as she walked across the carpeted floor to cross her arms and rest her elbows on the mahogany greeting desks counter. “Hi, Jen!” came the receptionists response as they performed their year-old ritual. “Bob's looking for you, told me to send you straight to see him on the floor when you got here.” “Yeah, I bet,” Jennifer muttered. “He's going to tell me to relax, not go too hard on I.M., and, above all . . ..” “Have fun with it!” Both of the Jennifer's finished the familiar line together. They smiled at each other and Jennifer McMillan turned to the left to enter through a small, non-remarkable door set in the wall. On the opposite wall was a highly decorated double-door that led directly into the seating area at the back of the set that was for visitors or guests to the show. She walked down a hallway that had several offices open on either side, then to the green room where the interviewees would be made up and wait their turn to come on the show. Finally she walked out onto the floor of the set itself, her low heels clicking on the concrete floor. Three large cameras sat on the concrete floor, staring unblinking at the set that was her most recognizable “office.” The set had blond hardwood floors that were actually more of a low stage. Her psuedo-birch wood “working” desk, rolling black desk chair, and for this show two black overstuffed chairs, sat on the stage. Behind her desk there appeared to viewers of the show to be two wall-sized windows looking out on the night-life of New York City. In reality they were just wooden frames with a green-screen behind it where pictures from outside the building were added through television magic. There was a bookshelf filled with cardboard boxes that were painted to look like books and was located between her desk and the chairs that her interviewing subjects would seat themselves in. On her desk she could see a sheaf of papers that she would ruffle from time to time to make it look like she was doing something important but that actually contained the script. The use of the script was widely-spread among television programs, but was also highly guarded as a secret. It was usually written in an outline format and was given to her and then sent to the interviewees so that everyone could prepare for what was coming. Most of the questions and answers that viewers saw were in free-format but the script was, in effect, a study-guide. Much deviation from the outline was usually discouraged. Her predecessor had been fired for ignoring the script too many times and coming up with off-the-wall questions and comments for his guests. Although the management did like to shake up some of their more high-profile guests, it simply would not do to irritate people too much or word would spread and the potential pool of people who would allow themselves to come on the show would shrink dramatically. This would be especially disastrous as the show underwent its new, painful makeover as a legitimate source of information and entertainment instead of the hack show of crude humor that it had been a year prior. To the right, behind the row of ever-vigilant cameras on their wheeled dollies, was the raised dais with the folding chairs that visitors who came to see the show sat in. It was fairly small, only meant to hold about forty people, and reached up in four distinct rows to cluster people together and make it seem like there was more of an audience to the camera's eye. An aisle of steps ran down the center of the chairs from the double doors at the top to the bottom of the seating area but didn't leave the platforms to the actual set floor. At the foot of the seating area was a track with a wheeled platform that had another smaller camera mounted on a stationary tripod. Designed to capture views of the audience from time to time during the show as the producer deemed necessary, it was sometimes called The Energizer by the staff for it's effect on people when they realized they were on television. Above the visitor seating in the bare rafters was nestled row after row of lighting. Some were smaller spotlights that simply lent some ambient light or could have colored filters added for a specific effect on the set while others were giant lights designed to skewer a person for the viewer's intense scrutiny. There was a darkened window that she could barely make out through the bright lights set into the wall above the rafters. Behind that pane of glass was the control room where the prompter and producers would sit during the show to keep an eye on things and make sure the recording went smoothly. “Bob!” Jennifer called as she noted the forms of her producer and one of the sound technicians working behind the backdrop of the set. She approached him with a smile as he waved at her and gave one last instruction to the tech before walking into the light. He had been in the television business for over thirty years and she viewed him as a father figure. Although his small form could get energetic at times, some even went as far as to say he was anal sometimes, he knew how to put on a good show and Jen respected him. He gave her a brief hug and looked up into her eyes searchingly. She was only five foot six inches with her low heels on but he still had to look up to see her face. He had a shock of white hair and a grizzled face, and he was definitely short but also very stocky. He used to be a wrestler when he was younger and even had gone to the Olympics in Seoul before he broke his back during his first match. Surgery had fixed his spine and he still liked to keep in shape despite his grueling schedule. “Listen, Jennifer,” Bob said as he took her arm and led her back to the make-up room. “I know that you hate this guy, for whatever reason. But I've met him and I'm telling you that he's actually a good man with a pretty decent sense of humor.” “Bob, I don't hate him. Heck, I've never even met the man!” “So, listen, just go easy on him, okay?” Bob paused, waiting for her response, then asked again when she didn't respond. “Okay?” When she heard the sternness in Bob's voice coloring the last word she mutely nodded her head, the resentment for her guest tonight boiling up again within her instantly. Her dislike would have to be managed, however, for Bob brooked no arguments or protests when he made up his mind about something. She assured him that he had nothing to worry about, that it wasn't anything really personal, just a general dislike for the man's reputation. He nodded and patted her arm as he thrust a copy of her script into her hands and gently pushed her into a side room to have her make-up applied. An hour and a half later Jennifer emerged with makeup concreted in place and color applied in strategic locations. She had a good idea of the kinds of questions she was going to ask and with her navy-blue suit firmly bound armor-like around her, she was now a Professional. Her shoulders were straight, her back was straight, and her face was straight. She plastered a smile on her face as she passed the end of the hallway and entered the set to applause from the visitor seating area. She waved at the seats and took a quick head count as she stopped to explain the rules of the show. There were only about twelve people present, although many people were still at work and might be showing up later tonight. The aides had appropriately seated them close to the center aisle on three of the raised steps. She walked to the head of the seats and spoke to them. “Although you've all signed the release forms, allowing us to include you in tonight's show, I'm sure most of you are like me and didn't actually read what you were signing.” Most of the audience chuckled and nodded their heads. “So, just a couple things I need to point out to you. First of all, you will notice screens at the front corners of this seating area. Those will light up to give you cues from time to time, and I want you to do your best to accomplish those. For example, if you see this . . .,” she pointed at both of the prompters where the word 'laughter' was lit in green on the screens. The audience laughed. After a moment the screen blanked and the word 'applause' appeared in red and the people responded accordingly. “Now, unlike real tv we won't be taking any commercial breaks for you to use the restrooms or get a snack from the kitchen. We will, however, be allowing a few pauses for commercials to be added for the view-at-home audience, what we call 'teasers'. I'll preface those, but just be aware that they'll be coming at various points through the show. Also remember that this is a two-part show. This afternoons portion is a fire-side type chat with Ian Michael Mann, and we'll use sound bites from it to preface tonight's live section of the show. Your tickets that you should all still have will allow you to come back for tonight's portion and be guaranteed a seat for the live broadcast. Okay, that about sums it up. Other than that, I ask that you please turn off your cell phones or any other devices that the guards didn't already catch you with. If I don't hear it, I won't tell them that they missed it, and that means you get to stay on the show. Don't make any comments unless I specifically ask you for them, and please, enjoy the show!” Jen strode to her seat as the people once more applauded. She plugged a little ear-piece into her right ear and spoke into the microphone pinned inside her lapel, asking for a sound check. The prompters voice came through her earwig receiver without being too loud and she gave a thumbs up at the window crouched in shadows in the back wall. She knew that Bob waved back even though she couldn't see him, because that's what he did every show at her signal that she was ready. Jen seated herself and blew out the butterflies that still made her tummy feel a little unsettled before every show, and glanced at the script laying on her desk to make sure that it was in place and easily viewable. Her brow furrowed briefly as she remembered who she was going to be interviewing tonight but she quickly smoothed her complexion. “Okay, Jen, here we go.” The prompters voice tickled her inner ear as he cued her up for the opening teaser. “In three, two, one . . ..” “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the July Third edition of Today Tonight. We have a great show for you, including the first television interview with a man that New York Times has labeled this year's most eligible bachelor, as well as the biggest play-boy. We also have music from The Tumbling Foxes, and an update from the scene of Prince Chris and Princess Beth's wedding. But first, these words from our sponsors.” The shows music played briefly as the cameras scanned across the audience applauding and waving, trying to stand out on the television so they could show their friends later. A boom camera that had been previously hidden in the left corner of the rafters now swooped down to get an overview of the set. The producer in the booth upstairs marked the time on the recording so that it would be easier later to go back and insert the commercials into the show. Then he motioned to the prompter who murmured to Jennifer that they were ready for the body of the show. She motioned to the crowd and they quieted down. “Welcome back! What an exciting night we have planned for you tonight, starting off with the interview that many of you have been waiting all week for. This is the first ever t.v. interview of the man that some people call a modern-day Doctor Livingston. Please join me in welcoming Ian Michael Mann, the author of the best-selling novel Blood Knight, to Today Tonight!” Jennifer stood up and applauded briefly before sitting back down behind the faux wood desk; the audience stood on their feet giving him a thunderous round of applause as he jogged in. He had cleaned up and had makeup applied, and out of the corner of her eye Jen noticed that he was wearing beige slacks and a tan semi-formal shirt. Some of the audience started shouting and stomping on the floor chanting “Bare it all! Bare it all!” Jennifer's head snapped up at the unexpected chant and looked to the audience as Ian grasped his shirt in his fists and started to strain the top button. The crowd booed and hissed, some shouting to the negative, and they took up the chant again as he laughed and flashed a winning smile. “Bear it all, bear it all!” With a sudden roar he jumped into a pose with his hands above his head, his palms facing the audience and clearly displaying the bear paws tattooed on his palms with claws running outwards towards the squared tips of his fingers. Jennifer flinched in surprise at his unexpected roar and recovered herself quickly, glad that the movement would be edited out later if she had been caught on camera. Then she took a closer look at Mr. Mann and actually recoiled so hard that she fell out of her chair with a resounding crash. Her feet flew up above the desk and her skirt slid down to her thighs. The rolling chair skittered out from underneath her collapsing body and bumped to a stop against the guest chairs. This Ian was the man whom she had been talking to on the street outside, the one fixing his motorcycle! He hastened over to help her up but she refused his outstretched hands and righted herself, a flush covering her face. She retrieved her chair and rolled it back over to the desk before plopping down into it with an embarrassed frown. Bob shook his head and noted the time of the recording again before scribbling it down on his clipboard, although he saw the junior producer doing the same. That was one part of the show that he was determined would never make it to air tonight. “Camera Three, medium zoom,” Bob murmured into the small microphone in front of him on the desk, watching the view on the monitor change appropriately. Ian sat down on the plush chair beside Jennifer's desk and leaned back with his legs crossed, his right ankle resting on his left knee, and his hands loosely folded across his right leg. He shook his blond hair away from his forehead with an unconscious gesture that annoyed Jennifer. In fact, his entire pose annoyed her. She had interviewed well established movie stars and they had sat far less comfortably than this man from nowhere who hadn't really accomplished anything and was only here to prove the station was changing their image as a gossip-mongering show. She ground her teeth beneath her smile and glanced at her script before looking over at him and adopting a conversational tone. “Well, welcome to the show, Ian. I've seen and heard you referred to by several different names. Do you prefer being called Ian, Mr. Mann, I.M., or something else?” “I'm not picky. Ian is probably easiest, though.” “Okay, Ian it is. You've been writing travelogues and travel articles for years, most of them about places that you, yourself, have traveled to and experienced. That sounds like an exciting job, since you get to go to exotic places like Africa, the Antarctic, even Alaska. How'd you get into that line of work?” “It was actually surprisingly easy, and I wish I had done it years earlier than I actually did, to be honest with you. I was working as a tour guide in California along the Big Sur coastline and one day I had a gentleman on my tour who wrote for a travel magazine. They paid for his trips and an additional small stipend for the articles and he made money on the side as a photographer in the places where he visited. He pulled me aside after the trip and asked if he could interview me over lunch, his treat, and that he had some more in-depth questions to ask me about the area. I obliged, and after our lunch I thought 'Hey, he's coming to me and asking me about this area in order to write an article. Who knows more about this area than someone like me who has spent most of his life here and done a lot of research on it?' That's really how I got started, and I've been doing it ever since I got my first article published.” “Did you need any special experience for that kind of job?” “For writing articles or being a tour guide? Well, it really doesn't matter which job because I didn't need any experience for either; the desire for exploration overcame any handicaps I may have had. I've always loved traveling and seeing new places and learning new things, so it seemed a job made in Heaven and tailor-suited for me.” “So what prompted you to write Blood Knight, the novel, when you previously only wrote articles for magazines?” “Oh, that wasn't the only thing I wrote, it's just all that I had published for a long time. I've always dreamed of writing a full-length novel, and I have a wealth of experience to draw from.” “I'll bet you have 'experience',” Jennifer muttered, almost too low for the microphone inside her lapel to pick up. “I'm sorry, what was that?” Ian asked. When Jen shook her head, both producers shook theirs as well and noted the time to make sure her voice hadn't actually been recorded. Ian continued on. “Since I've always wanted to write a long story, I just decided to do it. It took some time to polish it, even though I had a lot of it already written down in bits and pieces on scraps of paper and stuffed in my filing cabinet. I also spent three years trying to find a publisher, but finally I got it accepted and I sure can't complain about the success of it. I'll just bet the other publishing companies that rejected me are kicking themselves about now!” “Well, we sure don't want to spoil the plot for anyone who'd like to read it, so we won't give away too much. Are you pleased with its apparent success?” “Very. In fact, I have two book signings coming up soon at Barnes & Noble over on Eighth Street and in Greenwich Village this next week. I'm pleased that people seem to be enjoying reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I always love getting to meet the people who're reading my book, or have already read it, and see what they have to say.” Jennifer looked down at her script while her mind furiously nagged at her that this guy simply couldn't be as good-hearted as he seemed. It had to all be an act and she had to show the world who he really was. It was her duty for all of the women out there. She looked up at him with a sudden fire in her eyes that he noted carefully and steeled himself for what must be a difficult question. “So, tell us, Ian. How do you respond to critics that hold the opinion that the evil goddess in your book was simply an outpouring of misogynistic tendencies and feelings of bitterness towards women?” Bob sat in the booth, dumbfounded, as did the prompter who flipped through the script and turned a mottled red. They both slowly turned to look at each other mutely before Bob finally turned back and carefully noted the time in case he had to delete that part of the recording. The assistant producer sat as if he were carved out of stone with his eyes wide and his mouth partially open. “I hope you know what you're doing, I really do,” Bob muttered as he marked the time from the display down on his clipboard so hard that his pencil broke. He dropped the damaged instrument on the floor and slid another one from the table in front of him. Bob then turned and slapped the junior producer on his back to bring him back to his senses and whispered for him to pick his jaw up off the floor. The audience sat breathless and even Jen sat shocked, as if she couldn't believe that she had actually said that aloud. Ian's only outward sign of his emotion were his knuckles turning white where his fingers clasped each other. “Jen, you don't mind if I call you Jen, do you? First of all, it's good to see that you've read my book and done some research on it. Secondly, I must say here and now that I do not hate women. I doubt you'll find a bigger lover of women in the city!” The crowd chuckled appreciatively and several of the younger females in the crowd yelled out John's name with attendant cat-calls. With that the tension in the room seemed to snap discernibly and Ian was back with smiles on his face and in his eyes. The prompter blew out his anxiety and let it loose in the booth where it seemed to be drawn in by Bob. A vein started coursing up the back of his neck and his jaw took on a tic. “I simply believe that making the evil deity a female made sense and it was actually intended as a compliment towards women. It was a nod towards some of their more honed qualities; namely those of shrewd planning, fast action based on emotional deduction, and the ability to remember past transgressions. What more could you ask from an evil entity?” Jennifer flushed but she had to acknowledge the quick-thinking that he had performed to reach the answer. This guy was no slouch in the mental department. She was sure Bob was furious at her since neither he nor the prompter had said anything to her in regards to the last question. Although she knew she was pushing her luck she figured she might as well continue at this point. If worse became worst then she might be fired and they would have to take sound-bites from Mr. I. M. Mann and edit her questions to suit the answers appropriately. “Well, despite all of your writing, this is the first interview that you've ever granted. Why haven't you given a formal interview before? There have to have been several offers for it.” “Sure. I don't know, I'm just kind of a private person and never really wanted to put myself out there to be picked apart.” “Well, since we have you captive here, I'm going to take the liberty to allow people to get to know the man behind the literary mask, if that's okay with you.” “Well, sure, Jen. That's why I'm here,” is what he said, but Jen sensed a bit of apprehension in his response. “So what about your reputation as a play-boy around New York; indeed, even around the world, if some reports are to be believed. Some sources say that you're quite the heart-breaker and that you don't treat women well. This seems like it would play into your writing on an instinctual basis.” “Well, I'd certainly like to see these sources of yours. Although I must hasten to point out that if I did indeed treat women improperly that soon I'd be a pariah at social events. The invitations haven't stopped flowing in yet, even if I do decline most of them. Besides, the point of writing stories is that they aren't about you, they're about the story itself. So while I may have some experience in some of the things I'm writing about, it's certainly not an autobiography, or reflection of my love life.” Ian stopped and took a deep breath, then smiled brightly into the camera that was shooting from over Jennifer's left shoulder. Bob hurriedly barked a couple directions at the camera man over the set headset so he could get the shot framed properly. This was the perfect shot to frame and draw the viewing audience in closer to the interview, although he was quickly feeling the beginnings of heart-burn brought on by Jen's line of questioning. This was most definitely not in the script and he was hoping that the questions would be seen as deep and probing rather than antagonistic when viewed later. “I admit that I have garnered a reputation as a ladies man,” Ian continued. “But it's not because I'm the love-'em-and-leave-'em type of guy.” “What kind of guy would you classify yourself as, then?” “Well, unlike many in this decade, I actually believe in true love, and The One.” The capitalization was easily heard in his tone and the visiting audience perked up slightly as Ian finally uncrossed his legs and leaned forward to look at Jen again. “I'm searching for my soul mate. I just have certain rules for dating and if someone doesn't meet my requirements, or if they violate one of my rules, then I don't see any point in continuing. I see it as doing both of us a favor.” “How can breaking lots of girls hearts be doing them a favor,” Jennifer fired back at him. “They wouldn't like to be stuck with someone who doesn't want to be with them. Who would?” Ian responded. “Well, I take that back. I know a few who would accept that situation, but those are mostly just deluding themselves in favor of a supposed security, usually never facing the fact that someday that person will be gone anyway. So by ending relationships when I'm sure they won't work out, I can maintain an attitude of being a gentleman and not lead a girl on. If she doesn't have what I'm looking for in a potential mate, then why should we continue to date?” “So, for example, you wouldn't date a girl who wasn't a brunette, or who weighed more than a hundred pounds?” The rancor was audible and Bob blanched as he prepared to end the show right then and there. He was actually reaching to push the prompter out of the way and announce the end on the public address system when Ian responded. “Actually, you have it all wrong. I won't date anyone who isn't a red-head, between 101 and 102 pounds, with green eyes and between five foot three and five foot five. Oh, and she has to make over two-hundred thousand dollars a year and still have time to sail the world with me!” The viewers laughed at his dry response even though the 'laughter' cue hadn't been lit. Ian smiled condescendingly at Jennifer although his tone remained well moderated and level. Even Bob grinned at the irony of hearing those words coming from a guy's mouth. “No, no, not at all, I'm just kidding,” Ian said. “Look, here's an example. One of my rules, rule number two, to be precise, is 'Never Date A Girl When It Doesn't Count'. You see, there once was this girl I was dating, by the name of Jamee . . .” I met Jamee because one of her friends was flirting with me. Her friend, Calista, had approached me one summer afternoon when I was doing life-guard duty at a pool. I was younger at the time, barely twenty-three, and was she was just chatting me up when Jamee came over. She was what most people would term a “band geek” and was still in high school, albeit her senior year. Calista started putting down Jamee in front of me, trying to make herself appear better, I suppose. Unfortunately for her it had the reverse reaction and I started to defend Jamee. She was chubby and definitely not what anyone would call beautiful with her hazel eyes, disheveled long hair, no make up, and a t-shirt and jeans that were not cut to be flattering. But there was something in the way that she looked at me when I verbally stood up for her that made me catch my breath. Calista left after about thirty minutes of trying unsuccessfully to impress me and Jamee decided not to go with her. I offered to take her home if she wanted to wait till the end of my shift which was over in four hours, and wait she did. She sat near me the entire time and we talked, got to know each other a bit. At one point she said she was going to go for a walk and I thought that was the last I was going to see of her, but she returned shortly with some food from the Jack-in-the-Box around the corner. She had bought me some food as well since I had mentioned earlier that I hadn't eaten since breakfast. How could I resist her kindness? I offered her money in repayment which she wouldn't accept, and after I locked up the pool I gave her the ride home that I had promised her. When I dropped her off at her parents house I walked her up to her door and turned to leave. She caught my arm and looked at me. Actually, I don't even think she was looking at me so much as she was looking through my eyes and into my soul, and I couldn't muster my defenses in time to keep her out. “Have you ever been kissed before,” I asked her. “Yes,” she breathed as she moved closer to me. I leaned in and kissed her, more softly than the summer breeze kissing our skin. Her lips touched mine electrifyingly and I felt a shock run straight through my entire body, originating from my lips. Her arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me close and mine encircled her in return as the kiss grew harder. I found eternity in that kiss and felt as if I were an ethereal creature, simply floating. After what was both a lifetime and a single moment she pulled away and looked at me once more before running inside her house without a word. I stood rooted to the spot for long moments before exhaling finally and winding my way dizzily to my truck and driving home. Three days later she appeared at the pool again, having walked all the way from her house when she couldn't get a ride, just to see me. I took her home again that evening and gave her my number as we held hands outside her front door. “If you ever need me, for any reason, feel free to give me a call,” I told her as I slipped her the piece of paper with my hand-written number and name on it. I was surprised when I got a call from her the next day, asking if I'd like to go out with her and her friends to a movie that night. She asked me to meet her group at the movie theater and I agreed, although I felt a little uncomfortable. I wasn't sure if it was because of her age or just being around lots of people when I didn't know her very well yet. We sat through the movie like any couple after a few minutes, holding hands and sharing a popcorn. After the movie she told her friends that I would give her a ride home without asking me first (though of course I would have said yes anyway) and we stopped to a park to talk while I pushed her on a swing. Finally I stopped pushing her and we went and sat at a picnic table, sitting on the table with our feet on the bench. It was obvious she was into me, as I was definitely liking her, and I told her that I wanted to meet her parents and make this as legitimate as possible. She agreed. We, as a pair, showed ourselves to both sets of parents, although I approached hers first asking their permission to date their daughter since we were about four years apart in age and she wasn't yet legal, although her birthday was in a few months. Both sets of parents agreed, with reservations, and we were officially a dating couple. It was great, and we did almost everything together. She had only kissed one boy before and hadn't really had a boyfriend. I had a couple girlfriends in my past, of course, but she didn't mind. We liked a lot of the same movies, music, and activities. I liked watching her perform at concerts in the park with the city orchestra, and she would hang out with me when I had lifeguard duty. I really liked her, and her kisses never ceased to become liquid fire and course through my body. After six months I thought that I was perhaps falling in love with her. Despite the fact that we had been together for half a year and that she was now legal we kept our physical making out to a minimum. We kissed, held hands, cuddled, but not much more than that. She didn't want to rush things and I was perfectly in agreement. I wasn't in any hurry to corrupt her and thought that we might have a long time together so I didn't feel any need to push for what I could get. Then, one evening, we were talking while sitting in my truck at a drive-in movie waiting for the movie to start. “We had fun last night,” she said, referring to her little group of close friends. “We had some rum that Calista had in her room, and Calista had dared Kevin to masturbate in front of us until he got hard and to show it to us. He tried but couldn't get hard, even after Calista tried to help him. It wasn't until her mom knocked that it happened!” I was shocked to hear her talking openly about such things, since she had always been so reluctant to even imply anything related to sex before. I must have given her a strange look, or perhaps a confused one, because she hurried on. “Oh, don't worry, it was just a dare, so it doesn't matter. Plus, we all were a little drunk.” I just shrugged, and the movie came on so I dropped the subject. I had almost managed to forget about the incident when three weeks later she called me. She was over at Calista's house and her mom was out of town so they had the house to themselves. She invited me over but I already was previously engaged since I had promised to help my mother move some new furniture into the house to surprise my father. The next morning when I took Jamee out to breakfast I asked her about their sleep-over. Apparently the two girls had invited their usual group over and done some more drinking and played truth-and-dare again. This time she raved about how much fun it was. “What made it so much fun,” I asked her. “Well, Calista was dared to finger me, and she did. Oh God, Ian, it felt so good! I can't believe how good that felt, and that I've never tried it before! I wonder how it would feel if you did it,” she finished with a mischievous grin. “Wait, you let Calista finger you? In front of the other three friends who were over?” She nodded and didn't seem to understand why I was upset. I reminded her that she had told me that she wouldn't let me touch her inappropriately, even in the privacy of my apartment, but she would let herself be exposed and touched like that in front of others. “I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of it. It only happened once, and anyways it doesn't count because she's a girl and everyone else there was my friend. It's not like I did it in front of strangers!” she protested. “Plus, we were all drunk!” I shrugged again and let the matter drop since she obviously didn't want to understand what I was trying to explain to her. Our relationship kept growing, although I was starting to have reservations. She kept hanging out with the same friends, which worried me. About a month later she called me to talk, and I could tell from the sound of her voice that she was a little tipsy. She was talking too loud and a little too fast. “Hey Ian! How're you baby?” “I'm doing fine. Just packing for the trip tomorrow. What're you doing?” “Oh, just hanging out at home. I'm home alone.” I heard giggling behind her and asked her who else was there. I could hear her drop the phone and then heard her rustling around for it while she was telling someone to leave her alone while she was on the phone. I couldn't help it and I started to get jealous. “Who is that,” I asked when she found the phone again. “Oh, that's just Kevin.” “Kevin? As in, masturbating Kevin?” I had already dropped the bag I was carrying to the front door in preparation for departure the next morning and was putting on my shoes and preparing to drive over to her house. “Yeah. Didn't I ever tell you he's gay? Well, he is. I guess that's why he couldn't get hard when playing with himself a while ago; cuz we were all girls there! He's a good friend though.” “I see.” I was dubious. “How long is he going to be there for? Do you want me to come over since you're alone?” “No, I'm going to sleep soon and he's just leaving.” “Well, okay, if you say so,” I responded doubtfully. We talked another minute or two and then she hung up to go to bed, after assuring me again that she was kicking out Kevin. He may have been gay, but her getting drunk with another guy when her parents weren't home disturbed me a fair bit, especially in light of the previous happenings when I wasn't around. I may not have been the best influence on her, since I finally gave in to her recent demands that we start going further physically during our make-out sessions, but that was a sad commentary that I was probably a better influence than her other friends. I left to go camping early the next morning with this burden weighing on my mind. I had invited Jamee to go with my friends and I but she had a concert that she was playing in over the weekend so she wasn't able to go. Although it was fun getting on the beach and doing some surfing and hanging out with my friends that I had just graduated from college with, I just couldn't get Jamee out of my mind. Unfortunately the cell service down on the Point was non-existent, so I went two days without talking to her. Finally I was able to call her when I got back to town two days later and had dropped my friends off at their respective homes. “How was your weekend, babe?” I asked her. “Oh, it was pretty good. How was camping, did you have fun?” “Lots, but I missed you and was thinking about you nonstop. How was your Friday night? Your performance this weekend?” “Oh, fine. I kept looking for you in the crowd since you're always there but then I kept remembering that you were camping and it made me sad.” “Well, it's okay, I'm home. Would you like to come over and I'll make you dinner?” “Sure, but Calista is here too. Can I bring her with me, since she's the only one who can give me a ride right now?” “Yeah, I guess,” I agreed after hesitating. I had really wanted to spend some time alone with my girlfriend after being apart for a few days but was willing to put up with her best friend for a dinner. I started the preparations for some simple tuna casserole and had it in the oven by the time the girls showed up at my apartment. I welcomed them in and they sat down at the table as I offered them their choice of drinks. I served them both sodas and brought one for myself too and sat down next to Jamee. She took my hand and leaned over for a long kiss. As we broke away I looked over at Calista and could read on her face that she was jealous. I wasn't prepared for what came next, though. “Jamee slept with Kevin,” she pouted. “What?! Is that true,” I asked, shocked, looking over at Jamee. “Yeah. He spent the night at my house cuz he was too drunk to drive home after you and I got off the phone.” “It's more than that, she actually had sex with him!” Calista protested. Well, at that point I was so dumbfounded that you could have blown on me and I would have fallen over, stiff as a board. This was the pure virgin girl who had never done anything more than kiss a guy before she had met me, although I had to silently amend that with a 'supposedly,' and here she was having sex with a guy who wasn't her boyfriend when she wouldn't go that far with me. I asked Jamee again if that was true and without the courtesy of even looking ashamed she answered with an affirmative. “But he's gay, so it doesn't count. Don't worry honey, I'm still a virgin! I'm saving that for you.” “Go home,” I told her. She looked as if I had slapped her across the face. She held on to my hand tighter as I tried to stand up and pull it away. She started to cry. “But why? I didn't do anything wrong. He's gay, so it doesn't count. I had to get him drunk just so he'd do it with me so I could try it out to see if I liked it. Why are you making me go? Are you mad at me?” I finally succeeded in yanking my hand away from hers and pulled her chair out from the table. Calista was already on her feet with a malicious grin on her face. Jamee got up reluctantly, still trying to wrap her arms around me and trying to protest that she hadn't done anything wrong. “Double-yoo tee eff,” she finally said as I herded her towards the front door. “Eye dee kay what I did to make you mad but if you're going to be like this, I'm leaving!” I heard from her later that night when she called asking if I wanted to come pick her up and drop her off at a party that was across town since she couldn't find another ride. I refused and told her that we were broken up and that I didn't want to hear from her again. She broke down and bawled on the phone and kept asking why I was breaking up with her, since she loved me and wanted to marry me someday. I explained that having sex with someone other than me was cheating. She became indignant once more and started to say that it didn't count because Kevin was gay, so I hung up on her. “So you see,” Ian concluded. “I took the incident to heart and because of that experience it eventually became my second inviolate rule, which was never to date a girl to whom 'it didn't matter'. I think that's a pretty sound rule, and certainly one that everyone can understand.” Jennifer took a moment to digest the story she had been told and tried to decide whether he was telling the truth. It certainly seemed like Jamee had been in the wrong, but perhaps Ian was coloring her view and not telling everything that happened. Well, either way it didn't really matter. “Surely not every woman that you've dated believes that those kinds of actions don't count or don't matter,” she came back with after a pause. “There have been a few,” he admitted. “I have a bit of a stubborn streak sometimes and don't always learn my lessons the first time. There was another girl named Kami. She and I had been dating for about two months when she went to New Orleans for Mardis Gras. She returned with a whole new suitcase full of beads. When I asked her where she had gotten them all, she said that guys really liked to see her topless. That was pretty much the end of that relationship. It took me twice, but I finally learned the lesson and made the rule.” “Well, we'll have more of this interview with author Ian Michael Mann after just a short break.” Jennifer interrupted, as she got a cue from the prompter. “Feel free to use the restroom or stretch, and we'll be ready to continue with the taping in about two minutes.” The audience applauded half-heartedly in their surprise at the abrupt break. The prompter was instantly back on his microphone and telling Jennifer that she needed to calm down or they were going to remove her and re-make the entire first part of the show. Bob came striding out from the side of the set where he had been waiting, safely hidden from the view of the cameras, and apologized to Ian in a low voice so the audience wouldn't hear. “It's okay,” Ian responded as he shifted positions to view Bob better. “Why the unexpected questions, though? Did I miss something on the outline you sent me?” “We're just trying to dig more into your past so we can give our viewers a better idea of who you are. If it's too hard for you, maybe you shouldn't have come on TV,” Jennifer responded calmly, ignoring Bob's warning look that he shot her. “Well . . . it's okay, really. The show must go on, I guess,” Ian said to Bob. Bob nodded grudgingly and walked off the set again towards the door to the stairway leading to the control room. Once he was in place again, and the few audience members who had left, returned, the prompter cued Jennifer and she started the next segment of the show. She flashed a brilliant smile at camera two at the prompters direction. “Welcome back to our exclusive interview with Ian Michael Mann, the author of New York Times best-seller Blood Knight. We were discussing your views on women before the break, and what leads you to be so cynical towards them. What about other parts of your life, though? Could you tell us a bit more about that?” “Certainly, Jen, although I don't think that 'cynical towards women' is the right term. What would you like to know?” “We'll come back to your women in a moment. I've heard that you live on a boat, is that true?” “Why, yes, it is. I live on The Foaming Grizzly, which is a Sunreef 62 Modern catamaran. It works out well for me because I can take her out and get to many ports around the world without having to pack and go through all the hassles of using an airport. It allows me more freedom than being tied down to one building, as well. If a storm comes, or if property taxes rise, I just move to a new port. If I get tired of living in one place, I just raise the anchors and head off to a new part of the world that has a coastline. It's ideal, and like my travel writing I wish it hadn't taken me so long to figure out.” “That does sound intriguing,” Jennifer put forth with a furrow in her brow. “It even sounds like it could be fun if you aren't susceptible to being seasick. Have you ever had a woman out there? How do they handle living aboard a boat?” “Well, I've never had a woman who lived on the boat with me,” Ian said. “In fact, I haven't ever lived with a woman that I was romantically involved with.” Jennifer rolled her eyes. Bob sighed while making another notation on his clipboard of the tape time so he could make sure that the look was left out of any of the shots that he decided to use in the final version of the show. “Really? I find that extremely hard to believe.” “It's true. I feel that sex is just psuedo-intimacy, and living together is usually an excuse to just conveniently have sex and for older girls to play house. Mostly sex is a way that many people try to achieve intimacy and share their emotions. Unfortunately they almost always manage to fail miserably.” “Okay, we'll put that aside for a moment. So, how did the many women that you've brought out to your boat enjoy it?” “I've actually not had many women on my boat at all. It's my sanctuary in a way, and I like to keep it uncomplicated aboard. Well, that actually is a perfect segue for another one of my rules. It's 'Never date a girl who doesn't have some practical knowledge.' You see, there was this girl I once knew, named Lisa . . .” She was the first girl I had ever brought out to my boat, The Foaming Grizzly. She was a nice enough girl and we had been on a few dates together already. During one of our dates she had said she liked sailing, so I figured I'd take her out on a day cruise around Westchester. It was a beautiful day to be on a boat, with only a few wispy clouds in the sky, the sun dancing on the water, and just enough breeze to keep the day from being overly warm. We set out around eleven in the morning and moored about half a mile off the coastline just north of the Half Moon Bay Marina where I keep the boat docked currently. The waves rippled along placidly under the boat without disturbing it too much and we could see the city from where we sat, sparkling like a rare gem suspended between the pale blue sky above and the darker blue of the water below it. I spread out a blue table-cloth over the little wooden table I had moved up on the bow and we enjoyed meatball subs together, which she had said was her favorite food. After lunch we bathed in the suns rays for a bit while our food settled and then went for a quick swim. We came back on board and dried off in the sun, talking about random things from our childhood, and Lisa went to put on her make-up and get back in her high heels, although she only put on a gauzy wrap to cover her bikini. It was while she was “freshening up” that I found out we had a problem. When I tried to start the engines, they wouldn't even crank. I checked the fuel tank and it was almost full, so I knew that wasn't the problem. I checked a few more items that might have caused the problem, with no luck, but then I found it finally. “Ah ha!” I exclaimed from my position on my back underneath the steering console. “Found the problem.” “What is it?” Lisa asked from where she was now reclining on the sofa to my left a few feet away. She was getting a little worried, although I assured her that we weren't in any danger. “Oh, just a disconnected wire.” I crawled from beneath the console and stood up, dusting off my butt out of habit, rather than necessity. “Is it serious, do we need to call for help?” Her voice rose in pitch as her worry started to become panic. “No, no, it'll be fine. This is something I can do myself, I just need my tool kit and a couple minutes and we'll be fine, I promise. It's just going to delay us a couple more minutes.” I went to the rear locker and removed my red toolbox from where it nestled amidst a jumble of spare wires and miscellaneous parts and returned to the main cabin. I set the box down on top of the console I was working under and removed a soldering iron, a small spool of flux, and a pair of wire strippers. “Here, plug this in, will you?” I handed her the soldering iron before I laid down on my back and slid under the console with the spool and wire strippers in my hand. “How do I plug this in?” “Uh . . . just like you plug your hair-dryer in? Just plug it in and set it down on the counter top, if you will. It's going to get real hot, real fast, so don't put it on the couch or anything,” I added as I shook my head and stripped the insulation from the disconnected wire. “Oh, will you hand me a flat-head screwdriver?” I heard her rustling around in my tool box before she handed me a tool. I looked at it, and it was a sail-punch. “No, a screw driver. A flat-head, regular screwdriver please. I need to take this screw out to reconnect the wire to it's lead.” I handed her the punch back and she replaced it with a phillips-head screwdriver. “Okay, look,” I said as I slid back out from under the console and stood in front of her. “This is a phillips screwdriver. See the star tip? A flat-head screwdriver is this one, here. It's flat on both sides.” She made an “o” with her mouth and nodded. I chuckled and slid back underneath the console and took out the screw that I needed to and set the screwdriver and screw down to my right leg where I wouldn't lose it. “Alright, now hand me the soldering iron please.” I held out my open left hand from beneath the console and she placed the hot soldering iron point-first into my hand. “Yeeeeouch!” I exclaimed as the pain seared through the palm of my hand and shot straight up my arm and into my brain where it exploded in spectacular flashing lights. I dropped the soldering iron and it promptly found a new home nestled on my inner left thigh. With a bellow issuing from my throat so loudly that must have echoed across the water all the way into town, I reflexively tried to sit up through the console above my head and, with a solid thunk, found that aluminum is harder than my head after all. I grasped my injured head with my injured palm while using my uninjured right hand to grab my sore thigh. I rolled over onto my left side and found the soldering iron once more as it ground into my hip. With a low moan I knocked it away and crawled out from beneath the console with somewhat less grace and dignity than I had entered the cubby with only moments before. Lisa was standing as still as a statue with her blue eyes wide open and her jaw lower than I had ever seen it before. Her left hand was holding her throat and the right was pressed against her chest and she gasped and looked at the blood that was starting to trickle down my face and the angry welt on my hand and the two holes burned through my swim-trunks. She watched me jerk the cord for the soldering iron out of the socket she had plugged it in to. “My goodness, are you okay? What did you do,” she asked with wide-eyed innocence. I didn't deign to answer her as I stalked into the kitchen area next to me and pulled open the freezer door at the far end. I grabbed the ice container with my left hand, forgetting momentarily it was injured, but the pain of the plastic biting into the burn quickly reminded me. I dropped the container faster than my brain had told me I was hurt and ice scattered across the floor of the kitchenette and under the control console I vacated. Lisa shrieked and jumped up on the sofa to escape the cascade of ice as it slid across the wooden deck, promptly falling backward on to her butt when her high heels caught in the cushion of the sofa. Her wrap went over her head, trapping her, and she tried to maintain her position before gravity won and she slid off the couch onto the floor. I couldn't contain myself any longer; I just slid down the fridge door to my butt and sat among the scattered ice, laughing, trying futilely to gather the slippery, quickly-melting ice up and place them on my burns. Lisa must have finally wrestled free of her wrap because she looked over the kitchen counter at me sitting on the floor and her face was furious. “You made me get hurt, and now you're laughing at me for it! I'm going to the cabin. Call me when we're back on shore!” With that she stormed off below deck, her high-heels clattering on the wooden boards and her steps somewhat unsteady down the stairs to where the cabins were located. I heard her stumble once more and then try to slam the cabin door shut, not realizing it was thin and too light-weight to give her the satisfying loud noise she was hoping for. It took a bit of time, but I iced my wounds and administered proper first aid to myself and bandaged myself up. Then, after a bottle of medicine . . . “Wait,” Jennifer interrupted, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of being able to perhaps portray Ian as an addict. “You took a whole bottle of medicine? What kind was it?” “Smirnoff. One of my favorite kinds of medicine,” Ian exclaimed. Some members of the audience groaned, others laughed, and Jennifer drew a pretty little pout across her face. Ian noted yet again how attractive his interviewer was before continuing on with his story. “So, I patched myself up and cleaned up the mess that had once been ice from the freezer and now was mostly puddled water on the floor of the main cabin. I plugged back in the soldering iron and, without Lisa around to help me, I soldered the starter wire back to its lead, screwed the holding bracket back in, and the engines started right up. “Lisa never came back up on deck, even once the engines started, so I just turned on some Bon Jovi on the CD player and enjoyed the smooth ride back to port. I had dull aches radiating from my leg and hand, but my head wasn't hurting unless I touched it. The Flying Grizzly sailed grandly into the marina, looking far better than me, and moving more adroitly as well. After I tied off at the dock I went below looking for Lisa. She was sitting on the very edge of the bed in one of the guest bedrooms with her arms crossed tightly across her chest and her legs crossed at the knees, her top leg bouncing impatiently. She looked up when I entered.” “ 'Are we there yet?' ” “ 'Yes, we just docked. Come on, I'll give you a ride home.' ” “ 'Don't bother, I'll hire a cab.' ” “With that she walked out, and I didn't see or hear from her again,” Ian concluded. “That's when I made dating rule number six, 'Never date a woman who doesn't have some practical knowledge.' ” The audience cheered and laughed and several mentioned “high heels on a boat” and “hot soldering iron” very distinctly. Jennifer pursed her lips and couldn't find a way to fault him on that story either. She heard the prompter laughing through the connection in her ear and her lips compressed tightly. She was going to show this guy as a fraud and a stereotypical male if it was the last thing she did. “Well, that's certainly an interesting story, Ian. How do you find all these women anyway? What do you look for? What are you looking for? “Well, we already briefly touched on this earlier. It may not seem like it, and I know some of the papers certainly have portrayed me as a womanizer. Some of the feminist rags out there certainly love taking me to task over what they view as 'wanton ravaging of the female race' as a whole.” “Wait,” Jennifer interrupted, prepared to be righteously indignant. “'Feminist rags'? What exactly do you mean by that?” “Well, the magazines you pick up at the grocery store while you're waiting in line, that promise to give you insight into mens' minds, or have articles like '128 sex tips that will make him love you more' and stuff like that.” “I see.” Jennifer gloated to herself silently. Finally! Here was the kind of stuff that she was looking for out of Mr. Mann. “But the whole reputation as a womanizer . . . that's not what I'm after! I just believe that there are certain traits in girls that I don't like, and how am I going to know whether a girl has a certain characteristic or not by just looking at her. If I were to think that she has those traits just by looking at her, then I'd be called judgmental and shallow, wouldn't I?” “So you think you'd be judged judgmental for not liking a girl,” Jennifer returned. “No, I think I'd be labeled judgmental for not dating a girl just on my perception of who she was. Overall, though, I'm just looking for the one woman that I can fall head-over-heels in love with. I'm looking for someone to marry and settle down with and make a family with. Unfortunately, the likelihood that I'm going to find that one perfect complimentary woman without searching for her and getting to know her is almost zilch, right? So until then I just have to go by the crazy-cute scale.” “The crazy-cute scale?” “Sure! Doesn't everyone know about the crazy-cute scale?” Some of the audience laughed and gave him the thumbs up sign, others had a blank look on their faces. “Well, the crazy-cute scale is sort of like a graph.” He drew a line in the air horizontal to the ground with his index finger. “This is the base line, where you measure how crazy a girl is.” He drew a second line starting from the same point as the horizontal line but this one was perpendicular to the ground. “This is the axis where you measure how cute a girl is. Now, you must understand that it's not just a hotness scale, or how physically attractive the girl is. Cuteness includes every endearing quality or characteristic, including actions, thoughts, states of being, etcetera. Now, let's say that a girl has a crazy score of four.” He pointed to a spot in the air that would correspond to the number. “She must usually have a three point five or higher cuteness rating in order to remain a viable alternative for a guy. Her point on the graph must be around the median line.” He used his index finger to draw one final line, starting at the same point as the two plotting lines and drew it right up the middle of the graph at a 45 degree angle. He then plotted an imaginary point on the air graph and noted it as the rating of the girl with a craziness score of 4 and a cuteness score of 3.5. “Now, if you have a girl who's not above the median line, she must be close enough to be acceptable, or she must do something to increase her cuteness rating.” “What if a girl isn't acceptably cute and crazy? Or perhaps a better question is 'what does acceptable mean to you?' ” “Well, if a girl is too crazy, then she isn't really worth a guys time. It's an unconscious decision, usually, but it is part of a males way of making a decision about a girl. A girl can have a cute score of 8 just based on her physical appearance and attitude, but have very few other good qualities and be a complete airhead. Now, let us say that she is also very clingy, to the point of being a stalker. Being kind of a bimbo can count either as cute or crazy, depending on the guy who's sizing her up, so that part of her is we'll just throw out entirely from the ratings. Being clingy can likewise influence either one of her scores, depending on the severity of it. Some guys like a girl who's clingy. However, since in this imaginary scenario she's basically a stalker, that's an immediate and drastic increase in her crazy score and puts her in severe danger of hitting the 'No-Fry Zone' of the graph.” Jennifer threw up her hands in aggravation and rolled her eyes. “And what's the no fry zone,” she asked. “The No-Fry Zone? Ah, well, that's the danger zone on the crazy-cute scale when you dip too far below the median line!” He motioned to the lower corner of the graph on the right hand side and pretended to shade it in with his finger. “You see, there was this girl I knew once. I don't remember what her name was now, so we'll just call her 'Whatsername'. . .” Whatsername was a girl that I met on the internet, quite by accident. I didn't know who the girl was originally, but I had sent an e-mail to my friend with a copy of a story I was writing and mistyped the e-mail address. It went to Whatsername instead. A couple days later I got an e-mail back from her saying she liked my story and asked who I was. It was then that I realized it wasn't the person I had intended the story to go to. However, I responded to her and we began a lively back-and-forth correspondence via e-mail. We seemed to have some similar ideas and outlooks on life, and I enjoyed passing the time with our messages. Later that week I had a Friday off work and decided to ask her if she wanted to meet up. To my surprise she said yes (this is before meeting people from the internet became more widely accepted and there was still a big taboo on it). I told her I'd come on over and pick her up and we'd just hang out for a while. I spent about thirty minutes getting ready for our date, and really took my time to look good. We hadn't seen pictures of each other yet but I wanted to make a good impression on this girl I was developing a crush on, just based on our conversations. I followed the directions she had given me and pulled up in front of a modest house located in the middle of town where she lived with her parents. I parked and walked to the front door and knocked apprehensively. Whatsername opened the door and her cute score instantly shot up to a seven based solely on her physical attractiveness. After we introduced ourselves I asked her if she was interested in grabbing lunch with me, since there was a Carls Jr. just down the street and I hadn't eaten yet that day. She agreed, I opened the door and helped her into my powder blue Toyota pick-up truck, and off we went. When we arrived there was a long line of cars in front of us, so I shifted into neutral and we talked for the few minutes it took us to get to the drive through. Her cute score just kept climbing until we reached the ordering box. I asked what she wanted and placed the meal order for her, and then ordered what I wanted. Instead of getting fries with my meal I asked them to substitute onion rings. Whatsername gave me a really strange look and was quiet for a moment while I got the affirmative from the gal taking our order. She continued to be quiet the couple of minutes that it took to get to the pick-up window, then, with one car left in front of us, she spoke. “You're not really getting onion rings, are you?” “Well, yes. I ordered them,” I returned. Then, a little confused, I asked her why. “Well, I don't like them,” she responded with sort of a snotty tone. “I'm sorry. Are you allergic to them or something?” “No.” “Well, I didn't order them for you, I ordered them for me. I'm not going to try to make you eat any.” “You are not getting those onion rings.” “I do not respond well to ultimatums,” I responded with an icy calm. Whatsername turned and looked me straight in the eye as we pulled up to the window. She glared at me and her lips pursed outward as the look turned into a scowl that marred her pretty face. She made a great show of crossing her arms and making a “hmph” sound as she completed the action and rigidly faced forward. “It's either the onion rings, or me,” demanded this girl that I had been on our first date with for about fifteen minutes. I chuckled, and took our food in exchange for some bills from my wallet. I handed both of the sacks with the meals to Whatsername before slipping the drinks into the drink holder between our seats. I shifted into first gear and drove out of the drive-thru, heading back down the street. “What's going on,” she asked in a confused tone as I pulled up in front of her house, got out and moved to the passenger side of the truck. I opened up the door of the truck and gently removed my bag of food from her hands and tossed it up on the dashboard. I offered her a hand to help her out of her seat, and then reached back in to retrieve the soda she had ordered. She stood on the sidewalk in front of her house with a look that managed to mingle distress with dire warning and project it at my person. I struggled to restrain a guffaw. “Thanks for the date, Whatsername. I hope you enjoy your lunch and have a good weekend!” She walked away towards her house slowly, looking back frequently as if unsure what was happening. I shut the passenger door and hopped back in the drivers seat of truck. I reached across and pulled the bag of food from the dashboard and placed it on the passenger seat as I watched as her walk towards the house turned into a run that culminated with a slamming of her front door. Finally the laughter broke free of my longs and I shook with gales of merriment. When I could control my giggles I drove off down the street back home. “Those were the best onion rings I had ever eaten, too,” Ian concluded. The producer quickly switched on the green cue sign that read “laughter,” although most of the audience were already holding their sides with tears starting to emerge from their eyes as they were overtaken with peals of laughter. Even Jennifer cracked a grin in spite of herself. “So that's when I came up with the 'No-Fry Zone' of the crazy-cute scale. If a girl can deliver ultimatums to a guy that she's known about a week and only been on the first date with for about a quarter of an hour, then she's far too crazy for any amount of cuteness to redeem her. I'm not saying she was a bad person, but Whatsername definitely presented too much crazy for me to wish for an ongoing relationship where I would have to deal with it constantly.” Jen sighed and glanced down at the script on the table in front of her. This was definitely not going as she had planned, but she wanted to save some of the real hard questions for later when they did the live portion of the show. She was sure that she could trip him up then, although with as eloquently as he seemed to speak, and the way he won the crowd over so easily with his stories, she was going to have to be in top form. She really hadn't expected him to be so smart and funny and eloquent just based on the short bio sketch she'd read about him that the studio provided, and it definitely hadn't come across in the newspaper and magazine articles she'd read about the man. “I'm sorry, what'd you say,” Jen asked as she realized that the man sitting across from her had been talking to her. “I asked how old you were.” “Oh, well, uh, I'm . . . twenty-eight,” Jen stammered for a moment before recovering her composure. Being interviewed on her own show? The nerve of the man! “Well, is there any last stories you'd like to entertain us with before we break for a few hours?” It was hard to keep the ironic tone out of her voice. In the control room Bob rubbed his chest and wished he had some antacid handy. “There are plenty of stories I could tell you, I'm sure. Maybe the audience has some questions for me, though?” Jen sat, dumbfounded, as the man across from her seemed to be taking control. She started to say that it wasn't allowed but was interrupted when Bob spoke into her ear from his position thirty yards away in a closed room thanks to the magic of technology. After listening to him for a moment, she reached under the desk and pulled out a wireless microphone. There was some minor feedback in the sound system when she flicked the power button on too close to her own mic that was pinned just inside her lapel. “Okay, here's your chance to get to ask Mr. Mann some questions,” Jennifer said as she stood up and approached the audiences seats. Cameras swiftly changed positions as the producer barked orders into the crews communication system. The audience also looked stunned, but thoroughly delighted, at the turn of events, and several were already starting to wave their hands in the air. Ian sat back with his arms crossed across his chest and a smile on his face. He watched Jen's shapely form sway across the floor, and his smile became a loud guffaw when she felt his gaze and turned back to give him a dirty look. This was not the first time that Jennifer had been leered at, nor even was it the hundredth time she'd been stared at by an attractive man. If it hadn't been for her friend Lindsay, she might even have put on a bit more of a show with her walk; but her conscience would not let her succumb to this mans charms. But there was something in the way he stared at her that wasn't quite uncomfortable; it was more of an appraising glance. There was definitely a hint of predator in that look though, as if he were sizing up his next meal, and that made Jen shiver. She turned her attention back to the audience which was now directly in front of her. “Okay, we'll take five questions. Keep them clean, and remember that this is only a taping for the later show, so anything inappropriate that you say will be edited out.” Jennifer stepped up on the seating platform and looked around her. “Who wants to go first?” A girl of about seven or eight years old approached her from the left side of the seats. The adults that were in her way moved their feet and legs to allow her through and smiled at her benignly. Her long chocolate braids bounced as she jumped down the stairs to where Jennifer was standing and she offered her hand to Jennifer to shake it solemnly. Jen cracked a smile at the girl and then stooped and held the microphone so the girl could talk into it. “What's your name, sweetie?” “My name is Marissa,” the little girl replied. Then she smiled up at Jennifer and exposed the green braces on her teeth. “What's your question for Ian, Marissa?” The girl blushed suddenly, and her smile became shy as she directed it towards Ian where he still sat in his chair on the set. She wiggled her fingers at him in hello and blushed harder when he imitated her actions. Marissa gasped when he stood up and walked over to where she was standing and stood on the studio floor and looked her in the eyes. Her brown eyes widened as he smiled brightly at her. “What did you want to ask me, Marissa,” Ian prompted her gently. “This is great stuff,” Bob exclaimed in the control room. He directed the camera crew to move to new angles in order to best display this shot. It was an unconscious human moment, and it would give great play to the TV viewers of the show tonight. “Well, I was wondering why you have those marks on your hands,” Marissa finally said, her small voice captured perfectly by the microphone. She blushed harder when Ian held his hands out for her inspection. “These are kind of what a bears paws look like,” Ian replied as Marissa started to trace the tattooed lines with her small fingers. “I got them a few years ago to remind myself to always seize hold of what I wanted in life. I could sit around and wait for things to come to me, or be given to me, or feel that I had the right to demand of the government and people around me that I get what I want, but that's a futile sentiment. Do you know what would happen if a bear were to sit in its den and wait for food to be delivered to it?” Marissa shook her head and her banded braids flew about her face. Ian smiled and sat down on the raised platform next to the little girl. Bob furiously whispered commands to both the camera operators and Jennifer. Jennifer sat down on the other side of the little girl, opposite Ian, and held the microphone up by Marissa's face so that every word would be taped for the editors. “The bear would starve and die. So these bear paws and claws remind me that I have to grab a hold of life, I have to never let go of what I want, or life will be so bland and I will get old faster than I realize, and I will starve to death.” “I don't want you to starve,” Marissa said shyly as she sat down on the riser next to him, her feet swinging and kicking in the air in front of her. “Would you like to share lunch with me and my mommy after you're done?” “Marissa,” a mortified woman hissed from a few rows behind her. “It's okay,” Ian returned. “I'd be delighted to join you, but you have to ask your mom first, okay? And I'll only go if you let me treat you two beautiful young ladies.” She nodded and looked up at the woman who was, herself, quite red at this point. She nodded mutely when Marissa asked her permission, and collected her daughter back into the seat next to her after Ian agreed to have lunch with them after this portion of the show. Both Ian and Jennifer returned to their feet as those present applauded. Jennifer ground her teeth and picked out a rough-looking man to ask the next question. He approached the front of the stage in cut-off jean shorts and a t-shirt, clearly exposing full sleeves of tattoos down his arms to his wrists. “And what's your name, sir,” Jennifer asked as she added in her mind. “And please, God, be rough on him after what we just saw.” “Yeah. Uh, my name's Charlie. I, uh, heard you, like, ride a motorcycle and keep it on your boat. Uh, what kind do you ride?” His voice was as gruff as his appearance, and Jennifer's smile cracked a little at the tameness of the question. “Pleased to meet you, Charlie.” Ian shook hands with the man. “I do have a motorcycle. It's parked outside at the moment, actually. It's a 1966 Honda CB77 Super Hawk. It's great because, unlike my old Blazer, I can just drive it right aboard my boat when I'm in port, strap it down, and sail off with it. It's nice and light and I can drive it pretty much anywhere in the world that I wish to sail to. Now granted, it's not as safe as most proper vehicles on the road, and it sucks for taking a girl or groceries home in the rain, but it's sure fuel efficient!” Jennifer snorted as the audience laughed at the idea of Ian trying to bring home a date in a cocktail dress on his motorcycle in the rain. Charlie plodded his way back to his seat and perched gingerly on the chair while an attractive blond girl in her twenties and a baby doll shirt made her way down with her brunette friend in tight jeans. Jennifer mentally rolled her eyes while she pasted a smile on her face, figuring the two girls were going to ask Ian for his number, or a date, or some such silliness. “Hi,” the blond introduced herself. “I'm Tiffany and this is Tasha, we're from Ohio. Go Alliance!” Both girls cheered into the microphone for the town they were from. This was more like what Jennifer was used to expecting and so she smiled and looked over at Ian. She expected to see him ogling the nubile young girls as they bounced around, but he instead had a patient smile on his face and was scanning the rest of the audience. His attention snapped back to the girls as soon as they settled down and began to speak again. “So, like, we were wondering, like, what was up with Tabrith, in your book?” Ian waited for them to continue, but the girls just stood there staring at him expectantly. Jennifer shuffled her feet and looked back and forth, and finally broke the silence. “What do you want to know about the character, Tiffany?” “Well, Tabrith has a very complex and deep relationship with Glennon, but soon she delivers him up to her father at his behest. So you move the story into exploring the ironic dichotomy between the love one person has for another, even if it's unrequited. Why did she commit such a heinous act of betrayal to someone who loved her so unconditionally?” “That's a very good question,” Ian answered as he looked over at a flabbergasted Jen. “Why do you girls think she betrayed him?” “Well, I was thinking that she betrays him simply because she's obeying her father as a dutiful daughter would.” Tasha spoke with a melodious voice. “That would explain later why she tries to approach Glennon after the battle under God's Thumb.” “But,” Tiffany broke in. “I think it's just because she she's unsure of herself and her relationships, so she'd rather sabotage them than see herself get hurt.” “Perhaps you're both right,” Ian answered. Tiffany and Tasha pranced back up the stairs to their seats after thanking Ian, arguing between themselves over their opinions about why the characters acted the way they did in the Blood Knight. An older man with white wispy hair and a long white beard approached slowly, leaning carefully on a cane as he navigated the stairs. Ian jumped up on the platform and offered the man his arm to help him down to where Jennifer waited with the microphone. She observed that he was wearing a clean, albeit older, brown suit over a white shirt with a polka-dot bow tie. His dress shoes were worn and shiny on the toes. After a minute they made it to the bottom and the man nodded his thanks to Ian. He reached a shaking hand to the microphone in Jennifer's hand and raised it tremulously to his lips. Some of the liver spots on the back of his hand matched the black color of the mic he was holding, but when he spoke it was with a clear tone and well enunciated words. “My name is Brian. I just wanted to say that I enjoyed your book and have read it several times now, finding new subtleties in it all the time. However, I've also gone back and read some of your travelogues that you have written, and thoroughly enjoyed your writing and graphic depictions in them. It seems to me with a boat and whatnot that you're pretty well off from the sales of this book, but are you planning on traveling still and writing travel articles?” “Thank you, Brian, for coming here and for your support of my book and your question. Yes, I am fairly well off at this point, I think, but traveling is my first love. I think I will always enjoy it and writing about my experiences, as well as introducing people to new cultures and places.” “Thank you, Ian,” Brian replied as he slipped a crisp white card from his breast pocket and pressed it into Ian's hand. “If you're ever in Dubai, look me up at my offices there. I'd love to show you some of the sights around there.” Ian smiled and nodded, slipping the mans card into his hip pocket and helping Brian back up the stairs carefully. He walked back down with the microphone that Brian had forgotten to give back to Jennifer and looked around. “One more question,” he asked aloud to those seated. Everyone looked around at each other, and then started to shake their head to indicate that they didn't have any other questions at the moment. Finally, one black man stood up and approached him. Jennifer held out the microphone and asked for his name. “Well, my name's Brian, too,” he said with a small accent. “I was just curious what's the funniest thing that's ever happened to you since you started writing.” He shook Ian's hand and moved back to his seat. Ian looked around at the expectant faces of the people around him, thought for a moment, and then laughed. They all smiled back at him in anticipation of the story to come. “There once was this girl I met, named Bella . . .” Bella was a feisty red-headed girl that I met about a year ago in a coffee-house. Yes, yes, I know writers hanging out in coffee shops are clichéd, but I was there with a friend of mine who loved this particular place, named the Brew Pot. He loved going there for the “ambient mood” of the place, and thought that it helped him work better. Bella was there with a girl friend of hers and they were sitting at a table near ours. She kept giving me the eye, so after a few minutes I walked over and introduced myself. Her friend excused herself and ended up sitting with my friend that I had just left, and I took her seat. “I'm Ian Mann.” “I'm Bella Sait. You're cute.” “Thanks. It's a pleasure to meet you, Bella!” We talked for a while about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness (i.e. where we grew up, if we were single, and what the weather was like outside), and she just started gushing over some lilies that the barrista was setting out on the tables in preparation for some event being held there that night. “Oh, aren't they gorgeous? The lines of color in their petals make me sad though. It's like they're sliding down into a pit of a black hole, where they'll be kept and never returned to be enjoyed by anyone!” “That's a pretty good description, very poetic. Do you read much?” “Oh, no, not me! Reading is a foolish enterprise . . . it leads to dangerous ideas and gives you no solid experience to draw upon for those ideas! I think books are so stupid, don't you?” Obviously I didn't think that books were stupid, nor were they particularly dangerous, unless you happened to have a book of the complete works of Shakespeare dropped on your head from a second story window. When I asked her why she felt that way she took great delight in giving me a half hour dissertation on why books were the bane of human existence and how they led to every major downfall of human society in history. “I think that people should feel free to express their thoughts without anyone censoring them, in any way they choose,” she concluded breathlessly. “Don't you think that writing stories or poems could be people expressing their ideas freely?” “Oh, no! It's all a matter of control by corporate society to keep us from thinking at all! They force us to think the way they want us to think. Really, the only thing I really believe anymore is the news, because they're always unbiased and factual! I think I'm a nihilist though.” “Do you even know what being nihilist means?” “Yeah, it means you stand for freedom of speech from the control of the government and you're a rebel for changing society. By the way, I forgot to ask what you do for work.” “I'm a writer,” I said as I stood up and gathered my jacket from where I'd hung it on the back of my seat. My friend and hers had left together a few minutes before, so I walked outside and hailed a taxi back to the marina. The audience roared with laughter and Ian smiled and held up his hands, palms outwards, to ward off the appreciation of his story. Several people nearby reached out to shake his hand or pat him on the arm or shoulder. One older woman in the front row had tears in her narrowed eyes from laughing so hard and she stood up and kissed Ian's cheek. “Okay, well, thank you all for your questions,” Jen said as she moved off the platform. Ian jumped down first and offered his hand, but she declined it. The two of them moved back to the set and the cameras wheeled around to follow their progress. “We're going to take a break now of three hours. If you come back with your tickets at that time you will be readmitted and we'll have the live broadcast featuring the band that we talked about earlier, questions from some of the viewers at home, and more of the interview. I hope to see you all then! Thanks once again.” With that, Jennifer switched off the mic in her hand and set it back under the desk, turned off her wireless mic and unpinned it from her lapel and removed the receiver from the back of her skirt. She dropped them both on top of her desk for the crew to later pick up and take back to her makeup room and watched as Ian did the same with his ensemble. He looked at her, as if he was going to say something, but she spoke first. “I have to do some voice-overs and help them get the taped section ready for tonight's show. Make sure you're back here at seven o'clock sharp for make-up and everything.” When he nodded, she moved off quickly, her heels marking a sharp time on the concrete floor. Ian looked across the floor of the set to where little Marissa waited with her mother, looking back at him, before turning back to watch Jen's charge away from him. He held up one finger to his lunch dates to signal that he would be a moment longer and got a nod in return before running down his interviewer and cornering her just inside the hallway leading to the make-up rooms and offices. He put a hand on her shoulder to slow her progress and she turned around to give him a venomous look. He pulled his hand off her shoulder and held his wrist with his other hand in front of him calmly. “Do I know you,” Ian inquired. Jennifer shook her head negatively and aggressively turned to go before his next quiet words halted her once more. “You do not know me, but you are risking your job and causing your producer consternation with some of the questions that you have asked me. What are you after?” He looked at her piercingly and caused her to shift her feet uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze. There was no accusation in his tone, just an intense curiosity. At first she was abashed and thought that perhaps he really didn't deserve the treatment she was giving him, but then anger rose at herself for feeling ashamed. Several smart retorts came and went before she ever opened her mouth to speak finally. She made up her mind to make the next segment even worse on this man. “The truth, Ian,” she practically spat. “I won't be satisfied until you admit it.” “Admit what,” he rejoined with equanimity. “The truth, Mr. Mann!” “It would probably help if I knew what truth you were searching for.” “The truth about you!” She shook her head in frustration. His chuckle appeared to be birthed of genuine amusement but infuriated her even further. She balled up her fists and her ears flushed a dull red. She shook her dark hair back from her face and snorted at him. Her eyes narrowed. She mentally prepared herself to attack this infuriating man. Then, just as suddenly, it was all gone. He moved too fast for her brain to communicate a warning to her body, and suddenly she found herself embraced in a warm, gentle hug. His arms were strong and she could feel his muscles move through her infallible professional armor. The skin of his cheek was warm where it grazed against hers. Involuntarily, her arms rose from beneath his to encircle his torso and reach up his back. His sincere preemptive strike against her will stymied her attempts to be furious and a sob of frustration and released stress rose from nowhere. It lodged in her throat before it could escape as he pulled away suddenly. With one last look at his sea-storm eyes and soft smile that begged her to just realize that it was going to be all right, she stormed into her make-up room and shut the door firmly. For a moment he stood where she had left him and debated going to knock on her door and pursue her farther, but finally he turned ponderously away and returned to the two that he was to have a late lunch/early dinner, or lunner, with. Before they had even exited the studio, Marissa was holding his hand and laughing at yet another one of his stories. Her mother was smiling over at the two of them benignly, then involuntarily clapped her hands in delight at his punchline as the elevator doors sealed them from view. Before the trio had exited the building, Jen had already dried her hot tears and was punching out a number from memory on her cell phone. At 7:03 one of the nameless interns stuck their head into Jennifer's changing room to tell her that Ian was back in make-up and informed her in an awed tone that they'd run out of extra chairs to set out for the visitors who had shown up. Even without any chairs being available, there was another double handful of people who elected to stand in the back or sit on the steps just so they could see the show. Jen jumped up in surprise and followed the intern to peek out at the set where she saw it was jammed with the largest live audience that she had ever heard of in this shows history. Although the seating stage had been arranged to hold forty people, there now must have been at least sixty crammed in seats and there were indeed several people standing in the back by the doors. Unlike the relative placidness of the afternoons taped portion there were people scurrying around the set arranging rearranging cameras, cables, lights, furniture, and anything else that was remotely mobile. The laborers had already rolled out a second platform adjacent to her interviewing “office” where the band for the night was tuning up their instruments and running through a practice set for the amusement of the guests. The voices washed over her like a wave and she smiled in anticipation. This was certainly going to be a show to remember! Large screens were being set up on the fringes of the set so the live audience could see what was being broadcast to the viewers at home. On her way back to her dressing room she poked her head into the green room. Ian was backed into a corner of the green room (which was actually a pale off-white) trying to fend off several stylists and make-up personnel who were vainly trying to ply their art. His arms were held up and flailing in front of him vaguely in the direction of whomever got too close. They were all talking over each other trying to calm him down but their raucous voices intermingled so no words could be made out. Their screeches got higher and higher as his bellows rose over the top of them. “Blast it, I said no. I had my hair done this afternoon and I haven't messed it up so it doesn't need to be done again. Bloody 'ell! Woman, if you get near me again with that paintbrush of yours I'll break it in half!” The woman to whom the latter part of his speech was addressed had tried to approach him from his blind side with a small applicator to try to highlight his cheekbones. She skipped back nimbly as he tried to tear the offending item from her fingers while her assistant tried to sneak in from his other side with some cream designed to enhance his skin color on television. He ducked as the intern narrowly missed him, causing her to leave a smear of cream on the wall, and suddenly he was in the open, breaking for the door where Jen was watching. She opened the door fully and stood blocking the entrance with her arms crossed over her chest. Ian stopped in surprise so suddenly that two of the hair dressers bumped into him before they could skid to a halt. Jen waved a hand at the advancing horde behind Ian and they backed off respectfully as she approached the subject of their attention. “What's the problem,” she asked with a smirk. He started using his sleeve to wipe off some of the makeup that a few early lucky shots had managed to land on his face. “Look, I don't need all this gunk on my face,” he growled. “Torturing me with chemicals was never part of the contract I signed when I agreed to do this!” Jennifer laughed and excused the pantheon of make-up artists who scurried out to the prowl for their next victim. Ian was still growling under his breath and smearing the daubs of cream base over wider areas of his face as he tried futilely to erase the scars of the traumatic experience from his countenance. She took his hand and led him to the counter in front of the mirror that took up the whole right wall where she dabbed some cleanser on a napkin and started wiping the vestiges off his face for him. “So how was your lunch date,” she asked him jovially as he stood fidgeting under her ministrations. “Quite good. Sarah, that's Marissa's mother, and Marissa were great company. They took me to some hole-in-the-wall local pizza place a couple blocks down that tossed the best pies I've ever tasted!” “Rugios? Yeah, I love that place myself. Despite the fact that its owner is such a great baker, it's almost never busy. It's only known by the locals, as far as I know, and doesn't do any advertising.” “Those are usually the best places,” he said as he critically inspected the work she had done removing the make-up. “Hey, that's loads better. Thanks.” “Remember, this is going to be a live show now. We'll keep the questions and answers shorter than this afternoon.” “What, no ambushes set for me this time,” he asked as he smiled at her. She smiled back and said she'd send someone for him when they were ready for him to come on. They were going to do a news segment and introduce the band first so they could play some music before they brought him out. Ian thanked her once again and sat down on a chair in front of the mirror where he could watch his back in case any rogue make-up agents tried to ambush him. He kicked his feet up on the counter and pulled a worn paperback book from his motorcycle saddlebags that lay on the floor by his chair. She glanced at the cover curiously in the mirror to see what he was reading before she exited and saw that it was a collection of short stories by the writer Charles Frost. A lot of the stories were intellectually deep and she hadn't finished the book herself, although she had a pristine copy in her apartment that she dipped into from time to time. It appeared that his copy had been well read and used. She looked back at him once more in the mirror as she shut the door and saw him chewing on his lip as his brow furrowed in thought, and she smiled once more. About an hour later Ian was staged in the wings of the set as the band finished playing a rousing cover of “Best of What I Got” and received a standing ovation from the people present. He looked over the people and took a deep breath before letting it out. The young intern who was standing with him looked over and gave him a sympathetic smile. “That, ladies and gentlemen, was the band Tumbling Foxes, and you can pick up their self-published CD's at many local music stores, or download digital copies of their music and lyrics directly from their website. Now, that which we've all been waiting for is upon us. It is time to meet the author behind the newest sensational novel Blood Knight. Please join me in welcoming Ian Michael Mann! The intern turned and offered his hand which Ian shook before striding out on the floor of the set. The band began playing an upbeat riff and the attendant crowd jumped back up to their feet and applauded and hollered as Ian stepped up on the set with Jennifer and shook her hand. He whispered for her to be careful how she sat down this time as they separated and her smile slipped imperceptibly before they both seated themselves. After a couple of moments the audience quieted and sat with the help of a couple crew members standing in front of the seating dais, flapping their hands for silence. Jen rotated her chair so she could speak directly to those present and camera two in front of her. “Ian and I had the opportunity to chat a little bit earlier about some of the characters in his book, as well as his personal life. We've put together some of that interview for your viewing pleasure. You can see the full episode on our website. Here is part of what came up in our earlier conversation.” The screens that were positioned around the set came to life and speakers began to recite what the television viewers were seeing on their sets. For about three minutes all audiences were shown an encapsulation of the taped portion of the show with Ian answering questions from Jen, as well as a couple sound bites of the question-and-answer session with the earlier audience, most notably Marissa, who squealed from her seat in the front row at seeing herself on TV. When the volume stopped the screens switched back to showing Jennifer and Ian sitting on the set. “We'll be right back with the live interview of I. M. in just a moment. First, these words from our sponsors,” Jen concluded. The boom camera swept from left to right over the guests who responded to the “applause” cue enthusiastically when they saw themselves being shown on TV via the live-feed screens around the room. The Tumbling Foxes launched into another song to keep the impatient crowd occupied, and several clapped in time with the beat. Up front, Jen rotated her chair to face Ian and leaned over to whisper to him. “Okay, we've got about four minutes before we're back on air. Do you have any last-minute questions before we start? We're just going to cover a series of basic questions to ease into the interview, then we'll start working up to more in-depth questions, okay?” Ian nodded, then leaned back into his cushioned chair with his legs crossed at the ankles and his hands clasped on his stomach. He looked out over the crowd and recognized a couple faces from earlier. Marissa and her mother Sarah sat in the front row. Marissa smiled and waved at him and he wiggled his fingers back at her. Sarah's husband had made it from work and sat beside Sarah, holding her hand. Tiffany and Tasha sat on the extreme left of the seating area and also waved at him. He flashed a smile back at the two of them and noticed that both girls were waving copies of his book. He pretended to scribble in the air to let them know that he would autograph them later and the two girls blushed and hugged the books to their chests. The elderly Brian was also seated in the front row on the other side of the aisle from Marissa and her family. “Welcome back, everyone,” Jen exclaimed. “We're bringing you the first-ever official interview with Ian Michael Mann, writer of the Blood Knight novel. Tell us, Ian, how hard was it to write this book for you?” “Well, Jen, it was more of a labor of love. I don't think of it as particularly hard, although it was in progress off and on over a period of almost ten years. I basically just had to tie down some loose ends and proof read it. The hardest part was really trying to find someone to publish it.” “Are you pleased with the acclaim it's acquired?” “Oh, more than pleased - I'm ecstatic! I'm surprised, but I'm glad that so many people seem to like it.” “In your foreword you say that you wish to return to 'the age of great writing'. What do you mean by that?” “Well, I think that early American penny-dreadfuls and dime novels were so well received because they told stories, not because of the language they used. It seems that today so many people want to use colorful language to describe nothing, rather than finding something that's worth describing. I just like to think of myself as a story-teller and I hope that others will enjoy my work because of the story, not because I'm a great word-smith. I try to keep it accessible to everyone who has an interest in reading it by using the common every-day language that we all use.” “So you've had a hard time getting the story published. Was there any particular reason for that?” “A lot of editors like to work on developing the story with the authors, and being able to have say in what they think people want to read and what they don't. It's a way of them ensuring that they'll turn a profit, too. It's a business, after all. My manuscript was fully formed by the time I got around to sending it in to various publishing houses. I welcomed their editing and proof-reading, and implemented some of the changes they suggested, but the story was my own.” “You mean that it's based on you?” “No, no, not at all. The story is fictional. I just meant that the story was one I had developed in my head, and much of it didn't change throughout the revisions.” “And do you have plans on writing a sequel to the story?” “I've actually been asked that quite frequently, including by the publishing company. I may consent to write a parallel story, or perhaps a series of short stories about what happens to the main character, Glennon, that is left out of the book. However, that story is pretty much already told and I'd like to move on to other things.” “So you have an idea for your next book?” “If you want to call it that.” Ian laughed self depreciatingly. “I have a series of about twenty stories in various stages of being written at any given time. I have no idea which one is going to get published next, but I hope that at least some of them will see the light of day in peoples hands someday.” “According to your autobiography online, you have lived most of your life making do with very little income. With the success of your entrance novel you've acquired a fair bit of money in proceeds, breaking into the status of “millionaire”. Do you feel like this has changed you any?” “Well, yes and no. Obviously I'm able to procure certain material goods that I wasn't able to previously, like my boat. I've never believed in going into debt so I don't usually make purchases on credit which has helped me a lot. Now that I've got money I'm able to own some of the things I've always wanted to. But I'll still eat sausage and cheese and bread for meals sometimes, and I'm more likely to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch if I'm hungry than I am to order a take-out steak dinner somewhere. “I think the biggest sign of my new money is my boat,” Ian continued after musing for a moment. “Other than that, my life really hasn't changed a whole lot. I'm pretty much the same guy I was before, except now more people know me in this country.” “So you're well known in other countries?” “Depends on who you ask!” Ian chuckled. “In some areas of some countries, yes, I'm fairly well known. When I write my travel articles I like to spend time getting to know the locals, and I pick up more from them than I often will from reading tour books or anything else. So, many areas that I've been to remember me quite well, and I carry on correspondence with people around the world that I've visited and gotten to know.” “Well, thanks Ian,” Jennifer concluded. She swiveled to face camera one to the left of her. “Remember, if you'd like to have a chance of asking Ian a question feel free to log on to our website and send in the questions by clicking on the video camera icon. Or you can try to call in if you have our phone number. We'll be back momentarily with Ian, and we'll start to get personal!” Jen grinned mischievously and the look in her eyes promised the viewers that the tame line of questioning had almost run its course and soon they'd get to the juicy bits that the viewers were surely expecting. Ian smiled benignly as the camera zoomed in on him and the producers flipped switches to broadcast the dead air that would allow each television station to broadcast their pre-loaded commercials over. A couple of the audience stood up from their seats and stretched, while one or two offered their seats to people who were standing in the back so they could have a rest. These were gratefully accepted and a few more people, after seeing this, also vacated their seats courteously. Ian looked across at Jen one more time. Her sparkling brown eyes shone like polished agate and her highlighted-blond hair fell free from her head to bounce and curl around her shoulders. She wore rather conservative earrings of blue opal stones set in either silver or white gold, perhaps even platinum, that hung just below her earlobe and swung about when she moved her head. Her lips were just shy of full, and were starting to develop some lines around the corners of them; smile creases, he was sure. Her smooth neck had one blemish, a small mole on the left side just above her collar. His eyes returned to hers and he could see the crows feet that were starting to develop on the outside corners of her eyes, visible despite the make-up she was wearing. As if aware of his scrutiny, she turned her head abruptly to capture his eyes with hers. Her face seemed to soften for a moment, only a fleeting moment, and then hardened once again and she was back to being the collected professional again. His gaze frankly confused her. He was not checking her out or undressing her with his eyes as so many men did. He seemed genuinely curious about her and it was almost as though she wasn't simply a female to him, but a person. She had expected a male pig, one who was rough, uncouth, overtly sexual, and irritating. Well, he was definitely irritating, but she had enough sense to realize that most of her irritation with him came because he refused to fit neatly in any of the roles she was trying to mentally force him into. “Alrighty, Jen, we're almost back from the break. This is good stuff, keep it up!” The voice of Bob penetrated her hazy thoughts and she composed herself before plastering on her rosy television smile that would make a jack-hammer break if it tried to chisel it off her face. Her shoulders squared and she looked out at the audience briefly, her eyes scanning, suddenly doubtful. Her brown orbs lighted on a pretty, petite woman in the third row of seats. She was about five foot nothing in her stockinged feet and weighed maybe one hundred and fifteen pounds soaking wet. She was wearing a muted purple pull-over and a black skirt that came to just below her knees when she was sitting down. She also had a pair of black high-heeled boots strapped to her small feet. Although Jen's smile didn't falter, her doubt grew larger and, for the first time in a long time, she started questioning whether she was doing the right thing. “And we're back,” Jen said as her head snapped up and looked at the instructed camera. She swiveled and looked back at Ian, facing her fully body towards him. “During our talk this afternoon we were chatting a little bit about your love life. Some of the newspapers and magazines have really ripped into you by saying that you're just a play boy, one who uses women and then leaves them. You denied those allegations and said that you have certain rules that you follow in determining who would make a good potential mate for you.” “Yes, that's correct. I just don't feel like I should lead a girl on, pretending I like her when I don't think we have a future. I think that leads to more heartache for everyone in the long run.” “That's an admirable sentiment. What led you to develop these rules though?” “Well, a lot of the time they're just unconscious. I don't think about them, they're just there. We all have certain things that we like or don't like in the opposite sex. We just don't always know what these qualities are and so this leads to a lot of confusion sometimes. Like when you think you know what you want, and then get it and find out that it doesn't make you happy at all. My rules, as you called them, are simply me making conscious decisions about what I do and don't like so that I can keep from confusing myself or spending time and energy chasing something that I don't really want.” “Okay, but what started you on this journey of self-discovery, or conscious rule-making?” Ian paused a moment and looked at Jen, as if trying to discern her motives, or perhaps wondering how honest he should be and how deep she wanted to dig. Finally he gave a slight nod, as if he was agreeing with a voice that she couldn't hear, and leaned back with a sigh that sounded almost like he was surrendering. “There once was this girl, Jen, named Angel. I truly believed she was the love of my life. She was my first real love, although I'd had crushes before. We spent several years together and, although much of it was long distance since we were young and were both still living with our parents, I knew she was everything I wanted. We finally got engaged, quietly, and I thought that I knew who I was going to spend the rest of my life with.” “What happened,” Jen asked quietly as Ian's pause lengthened into pregnant silence. The live audience was quiet, almost as if they were holding their collective breaths, waiting to see what was going to come next. The now-audible buzzing of the spotlights was the only sound on the set as everyone appeared to be afraid of breaking the spell that was causing Ian to tell his most personal secrets. “She disappeared,” he shrugged his shoulders and looked down at his feet. “I wasn't totally blameless, perhaps. One of our mutual friends lived close to me and we went to a New Years Eve party together. It was actually Angel who insisted that I take her out. But at midnight our friend kissed me and what was worse was that I kissed back. That was all that happened, and I called and told Angel about it before I had even left the party because I was feeling so bad about it. But she said she forgave me and that was a year before she went away. One day came and I just never heard from her. I didn't know if she was dead, or had moved on to some other guy, or anything other than that her phone no longer worked. Her parents phone number was disconnected too, so I couldn't call them and see if they knew where she was. A couple years later I ran into a friend of hers online that said she lost touch with Angel about the same time as I did. I never stopped looking for her, doing online searches, looking on some of the social networking websites out there, but I've never found her to this day.” He looked up finally and Jen could see the pain in his blue eyes. It mirrored the emotion that he tried unsuccessfully to keep out of his voice, and Jen actually felt sorry for him. To have that uncertainty and pain, and to carry it with you for so long . . . that had to be one of the worst feelings in the world. Yet underneath it all Ian seemed to be carrying something. Maybe it was hope that one day he would find Angel again, or maybe hope that he'd find someone to take her place. It might even be the ache of a heart that had a lot of love to give but had yet to find anyone who truly deserved it and wanted it. She couldn't quite figure out what it was but the subtleties roared at her when she realized something was there. She was interrupted by a voice in her ear. “Well, it seems that we have a caller waiting on the line to speak to Ian. Please welcome Jessica to the show,” she exclaimed. The applause cues were lit and the audience responded appropriately, if half-heartedly. Ian sat up straighter and folded his hands in his lap again as the dulcet voice came over the invisible speakers. “Yes. Hi Jen, hi Ian! Great show tonight so far, by the way.” “Thank you,” both Ian and Jen spoke in unison, then shared a surprised look between them at speaking together. “Hey, I just had a quick question for Ian and then I'll watch the response off the air. I watched the interview you did earlier today with Jen on the website and I was just curious, why is Jen so hostile sometimes? And why do you put up with it? Thanks guys, I'll watch your response on TV.” “Thanks Jessica,” Ian responded quickly while Jen spluttered. “Jen, here, is an interviewer. She's just trying to get at the tough questions that she thinks everyone wants to know. It's my first interview and so she's trying to discover the truth, despite all the rumors that have been circulating in the gossip rags and newsmakers, er, newspapers.” He looked over at Jen, who just nodded at the camera in front of her and snuck a look of gratefulness at him. Ian nodded back slightly in acknowledgement and Jen turned back to the cameras. “Thanks for the question, Jessica. Stay tuned right there and we'll be back with more of your questions and this live interview with Ian Michael Mann!” “Jen!” Bob was on her earwig and his voice sounded a little strained. “We have a woman on hold right now who claims to be one of Ian's ex-girlfriends. She wants to address him after the break.” “I'm not so sure that's a good idea,” Jen whispered back as she turned her back on the audience. The wooden frames that were supposed to be windows to the city loomed large behind her and she could see the green wall behind it over which was being inserted a live picture of the city outside before the show was broadcast out to the viewers. The bookshelf with its cardboard boxes made to look like books loomed in the corner of her vision. They had never bothered her before, but suddenly they did. It's all about perception, she suddenly thought. What you saw wasn't really there, but unless you could touch it or see it up close, you'd never know that. “It's too late now,” Bob replied. “You've opened a can of worms, now you have to fish with them. You'll have to take this call from Ian's supposed ex-girlfriend, and God help us all.” Jen swung back around and shot Ian an apologetic look. He returned her look with a quizzical one, but she just swiveled away to face the audience again. They were buzzing among themselves, talking and speculating about what was to come next. Two people were in the back talking rapidly at a harried intern staff member who was in the back, shaking her head. The couple was gesticulating wildly and almost hit a man who was standing nearby. Suddenly the crowd began to applause as the cues were once more lit and Jennifer welcomed TV viewers back to the set. “Welcome back to the interview with Ian Michael Mann. Next up, we'll take a call from Liz from mid-town. How're you doing tonight, Liz?” “Great! Thanks for having me. Listen, Ian, I know that I hurt you very badly in the past, and I'm sorry for that. I wish I could have given you what you needed, but I had to stand up for my fellow sisters-in-arms. I'm sure you understand. You males are just so . . . intrusive. You're what's wrong with society today and although I don't hate you, personally, I just had to make a decision to abide by my conscience.” “Who is this,” Ian asked after a glance at Jen. “Liz.” “Liz who? Do I know you?” Ian seemed genuinely confused and Jen began to think that perhaps the woman was just a prank caller after all. “Liz Washburne, silly. Summer of 95. Look, I'm really sorry that I'm the cause of so much pain for you, and even more sorry that it's led to heartbreak for so many of my un-liberated sisters out there. I know it's all my fault and I feel simply awful about it.” “Liz Washburne, Liz . . . Oh! Now I remember you,” Ian exclaimed with a laugh. The audience and Jen looked at Ian as he laughed. This wasn't a chuckle, or a giggle, this was a body-shaking, belly-bouncing, tears-rolling-from-the-eyes laugh. People started to look confused. Was this woman the “Angel” that Ian had spoken of? Was what she said true? If it was, then why in the world was Ian laughing? There was an audible click over the speakers as the phone was disconnected. “So . . . who's Liz,” Jen queried. “Liz was . . . Liz was,” Ian was trying to speak but his laughter kept getting in the way. Finally he calmed down enough to speak coherently. “Liz was a girl that I once knew. We never officially dated, although we did go out a few times. She was really starting to enter the feminist movement and joined every feminist and lesbian club she could find. She wasn't a lesbian, mind you, but she felt that she had to join those clubs in order to be a better female. I thought it was just a phase since the movement was getting so popular back then, but I guess it wasn't.” Ian chortled some more and wiped a few errant tears from his eyes. Almost every eye in the room looked to him expectantly. “So you two didn't date at all,” Jen asked. “Nope! Even the couple times we went out to see movies it was never a date. I almost never saw or heard from her as it was. The only reason I remember her is because she was so into hating men because that's what she thought she was supposed to do, but whenever she needed someone to listen to her complain about her boyfriends leaving her, well, she called me up. She could never figure out why they kept leaving, although she kept basically telling them that they were evil because they had penises. She'd tell me how awful males were and how much she wished we would all just die while she was online looking at personal ads or one of the numerous date-sites that she had memberships for. She was always looking for the next guy who would break her heart so she could be justified in disliking men even more. Man, that girl was all drama! After a few months of hearing from her randomly I just told her to stop calling. She did, for about two weeks until her next romance blew up in her face. Then she called me in the middle of the night to complain about men, and I just ripped into her. I felt kind of bad afterward, but I was tired and sick and had been asleep, and basically I'd just had it with her. I told her off for being selfish, self-serving, and a poseur. I explained that guys didn't want to be around someone who always put them down and was so shallow. She hung up on me after cursing me out and saying that the only thing she actually needed from a man, she had a glass model of in her bedside drawer. She called me a few times over the next year, when she felt like she was alone in the world and needed someone to talk to and mostly spouted how independent she really was and that she didn't need anyone. After a while she stopped and I didn't hear from her again until tonight.” There were polite chuckles in the audience as the laughter cue lit up and a couple of the people present had sheepish grins on their faces. Jen pursed her lips and looked down at her script. She shuffled two pages from the front to the back of the stack and gave Ian a side-long glance from under her bangs. He still had a grin on his face but his eyes were the entrance to a haunted darkness as ghosts in the form of past girls fluttered over the surface of his orbs. The prompter gave her another cue. “Okay, well, we have one last call for you, Ian. This one's from Cathy in California. Welcome to the show, Cathy.” “Thanks Jen.” Ian inexplicably groaned aloud and rolled his eyes at the nasal, husky tone that blared through the speakers. Jen flicked her gaze over to him quickly, noticing that he was slumping down in the guest chair and had his arms crossed over his chest. He looked like nothing more than a petulant little child with a pout on his face. “Hello, Ian Michael,” Cathy continued. There was a tone in the womans voice, some undercurrent that Jen couldn't quite put her finger on, and Ian returned a grudging greeting to the woman on the phone. He sunk even lower in his seat until his butt (a nice one that she'd like to grab, Jen admitted to herself) was almost off the cushion. He mouthed something at Jen that she couldn't quite make out and then Cathy spoke up. “Ian, I was just wondering when you were going to call me again? I've been so lonely out here in California without you, and you just abandoned me the last time you were here without a word! I mean, I need someone to help put me to bed every night and you just walk out and leave me here all alone? You don't return any of my calls, you almost never write . . . I have to see you on TV if I'm going to see you at all! And who's going to get my drugs for me if you're not here?” Silence reigned throughout the studio. Jaws were dropping across the audience, and even Jen's face was bone-white. Between her two painted lips there was a gash that looked like a gravedigger had left his mark as her mouth opened wide enough to be mistaken for a trap. Her mind working furiously, Jen wondered how to follow up with this call. Finally it was a perfect chance to unmask Ian and show his true colors to the world. She hesitated for two more heartbeats, then just as she was about to speak, Cathy from California broke in again. “Ian Michael Mann, you answer me right now, young man!” “Can I call you back after the show, mom” Ian whispered deflatedly, his face more red than Jen's lips. “Okay, but you make sure that he does it this time, understand young lady?” “Yes Cathy,” Jen said, surprising herself by answering. There was a click as the live phone line went dead. Jennifer paused for a moment, trying to collect her shattered thoughts. “Well, I guess mothers are mothers, no matter how old you get!” Ian didn't answer, and his cheeks burned hotter as the audience burst into applause and gales of merriment. The operator on Camera Three burst into guffaws and doubled over. He sobered up and returned his camera to position as Bob barked at him frantically from the control booth while pushing two buttons to change the broadcast view to a different camera. The prompter was wiping tears from his eyes and had one hand covering the stationary mic in front of his face so his laughter wouldn't broadcast to Jen. Jen wrapped her arms around her middle and started to laugh loudly and strongly. The only person who wasn't swept away in mirth was the woman Jen had singled out with her eyes earlier in the crowd. For some reason she smiled but didn't laugh, and her smile was more wistful than amused. “We'll be back to finish our interview with Mr. Mann after these final words from our sponsors. Don't you dare miss what's coming up next,” Jen managed to gasp out in between peals of laughter. “Gee, I'm glad you enjoyed that,” the guest chair said. “Oh, grow up Ian! Mothers are just like that.” “Yeah, I guess,” the guest chair replied just before Ian's head appeared from within its embrace and he sat up straighter. “Okay. You said you wanted to refute these accusations that the papers have made against your character.” Jennifer leaned forward conspiratorially. “This is going to be your chance. I'll lead you through a couple more questions about your romances and then you can say whatever you want to say in the last couple of minutes, okay?” “Thanks, Jen. I really appreciate this, and I do want to set the record straight finally. Hey, do you think the band would mind if I played some guitar with them for a couple minutes while we're on break?” Jen was taken aback as he abruptly changed topics and left the staged office area to wander over to talk to the Tumbling Foxes who were preparing to play another song for the amusement of the crowd. Some of the audience quieted a little as they noticed Ian's movements. After Ian whispered to the band for a moment, the drummer nodded and pointed a drum stick behind the false set wall to his left. Ian nodded and moved behind it, reemerging with a rosewood Alvarez acoustic guitar that he was attaching the strap to. As he positioned himself and plugged a spare line into the guitar, the band watched him and Jen whispered quickly at Bob to roll the tape so they could use this footage, whether it turned out that he could play or not. He looked around at the Tumbling Foxes and then out the audience who were now almost completely silent except for a couple murmurings. He raised his hand to everyone, then lowered his head towards the lead singers microphone and began to sing. “Where it began I can't begin to knowin', but then I know it's growing strong. Was in the spring, then spring became the summer, who'd'a believed you'd come along? Hand, touching hand, reaching out, touching me, touching you . . ..” He lowered his hand to stroke the guitar strings and the band kicked in behind him in full compliment. “Sweet Caroline, good times never seemed so good!” Some of the members of the audience began to sing along with him, and the band members all grinned and crooned into their respective mics. The lead singer came over and stood on the left side of the microphone that Ian was singing into, sharing it with him as their voices rose and twined together. Suddenly there was a rustling sound and most of the visitors to the show stood up as one and began to clap along and sing. “And when I hurt, hurting runs off my shoulders. How can I hurt when I'm with you,” Ian continued singing. “One, touching one, reaching out, touching me, touching youuuu. Sweet Caroline!” The audience, the band, and even Jen joined in with “doo doo doo” to go along with the beat of the music in the appropriate places. The band and Ian picked up the pace, adding a harder edge to the song and several people in the front row actually began to dance in the space in front of their chairs. “This is great stuff,” Bob shouted at the prompter who was rocking out in his chair, swinging his arms around and moving his feet underneath the desk. Bob directed cameras in order to get the best images of Ian, the band, and the crowd, all at the same time. He kept a close eye on the break timer while muttering “great stuff” over and over again to himself. Just as the band played their final notes, the countdown reached zero on the monitor and Bob switched back over to the live feed, after having the prompter give Jen her cue. “Welcome back,” Jen said enthusiastically as Ian gave the band high fives and handed the guitar to the lead singer. He hurried back to the guest chair with a flushed look that had nothing to do with embarrassment from his moms call, and a wide smile on his face. “For those of you who weren't here with us in the studio, you missed Ian demonstrating yet another one of his myriad talents; this time he played us a song. We'll have it posted on our website soon for those of you who weren't here to experience it, or even those who are here and want to rock out to it again! Thanks for that Ian.” Ian nodded as he plopped down in his chair and plucked at his shirt a few times to cool off. He started to speak and nothing came over the speakers, which had Bob worriedly knocking on the window of the sound booth next to his control board. Ian blushed and reached around behind him to turn on the wireless transmitter that was on his belt and his voice came through his hidden mic perfectly this time. “Sorry, I turned that off so we wouldn't get feedback when I was singing. Anyway, I just was saying that it was fun, and my pleasure! Thanks for having me on this show tonight, I've rather enjoyed the experience.” “Well, it's not over yet. So, we've talked a bit about some of your previous romances, and we've mentioned that some of the articles about you have portrayed you in a negative light. Why do you think they do that?” “Well, in short it's because everyone seems to love gossip, no matter whether they call it entertainment news or star watching, or whatever else. So whether a publication is under the heading of The Enquirer or The New York Times, they all thrive on shoveling various forms of gossip to the public who eats it up as fast as they can swallow it. Sometimes they aren't too careful about whether the articles they write are factual, or a figment of a reporter or editor's imagination. The people involved in the articles are all biased and have axes to grind, no matter how well they try to keep them hidden.” “So you're saying that none of the articles about you have any basis in fact?” “Ye . . . well, no, I'm not saying that. Obviously a lot of articles have some facts, or basis in facts. But the ones about my love life are usually base canards.” Jen felt a moment of misgiving, but this man was just too slippery. She thought that there was definitely some attraction between them, but whenever she tried to nail this guy down on something that he didn't want to talk about he just slipped away as if he were merely water. Her jaw hardened in resolve and she looked out over the audience in attendance before looking back at Ian. “So you aren't the love-'em-and-leave-'em kind of guy, eh? You've never done that to anyone?” “Not to my knowledge.” “I see.” Jen looked once more out at the people seated across the set from her. Several of the more astute and perceptive members leaned forward as they sensed something big about to happen. She reached under her desk and removed the wireless microphone that had been used earlier in the day when the guests were asking Ian questions. Jen stood up and walked around to the front of her desk, right up to the edge of the small platform that she and Ian were seated on, and Ian looked at her back confusedly. She took out the earwig receiver that had been tucked into her right ear this entire time and slipped it in her the pocket of her suit jacket. “Ladies and gentleman, we have a member of the audience that has an . . . intimate, knowledge of our guest. She consented to come here tonight to confront Ian about his past.” Ian was on his feet now and had taken several steps forward, a look of consternation on his face mingling with the already-present emotions of confusedness. The crowd was chittering among themselves and looking at each other, trying to figure out who this mystery person might be. The blood vessel in the back of Bob's neck just about burst under the sudden surge of pressure, but he gave orders to the camera operators just the same. The prompter was flipping through his pages of the script looking for this event, but he and everyone else working on the show tonight knew full well that this hadn't even been discussed, let alone approved. “I'd like to introduce you all to Eva Zareta, one of Ian's ex-girlfriends.” The woman who had been sitting in the back of the audience stood up and worked her way carefully down the stage. She appeared unsure of her footing and almost tripped down the stairs once. Luckily a man sitting in the aisle reached up to steady her. There was a gasp from Ian who was behind her still, and Jennifer smiled maliciously at the thought of payback. Maybe if she exposed this guy once and for all as a casual heart breaker then she could warn the nice girls away from him and keep them from getting their hearts crushed like her old room-mate Eva had. Jen reached up and helped Eva down to the set floor and handed her the microphone before walking with her back across to the stage and motioning her friend to the second guest chair. Jen seated herself on the edge of her desk facing the two of them, noticing the contrast in big Ian standing up and her diminutive friend seated. She frowned as she saw there were similarities, however. Both of them looked rather red and neither of them could take their eyes of each other for long moments. Finally her friend looked over at Jen forlornly and quietly spoke. “You didn't tell me about this.” Jen shrugged and glared daggers at Ian. This will teach you, she thought with glee. Then she noticed that although Ian was seating himself carefully beside Eva, he hadn't yet taken his eyes off her and conflicting emotions were causing him visible distress. Although this wasn't exactly the reaction she was expecting, she decided to take delight in his pain. Maybe with a little bit more digging she would get him to rage and holler and cause a big scene on live television. “So, I take it you two remember each other,” she said dryly. Both of them nodded mutely while looking at each other. “Do you still want to claim that you've never intentionally broken a womans heart, Ian?” “I . . . I looked everywhere for you,” Ian said. Jen looked confused at his answer. “Pardon me,” she asked. “I couldn't stay, Ian. We were in the right situation, but I was in it for the wrong reason. I knew that if we were to ever be together I needed it to be completely right, and in a position where I could tell you the whole truth.” Although Eva's sad tone surprised Jen, her words surprised Jennifer even more. “Wait, you left him? I thought that you said he walked out on you without a word?” Jennifer was thoroughly confused at this point. She remembered distinctly Eva breaking down and telling her the story over two empty bottles of wine a couple years before when they were sharing an apartment. Eva had talked about Ian, and then wound a tale about how a person had led the other on for well over a year before finally callously throwing everything away and walking away. At the time Jen had thought that person was Ian, which would support the bitter tears that Eva cried for hours. Eva's words didn't seem support that theory up any longer. “Eva, I just . . . I don't know what to say,” Ian said through tears that were starting to fall from his eyes. Jen was even more shocked. This was certainly not the way she had planned for this whole thing to end! She thought she heard crashing noises in her head as if a wrecking ball was tearing down the walls of the plan she had constructed during the interval between the afternoons interview and the live portion of the show. Bob was once more issuing orders to the cameramen but in quieter tones, trying to frame the two important people on stage perfectly. “So, Ian, what's the story on this one,” Jen asked him with a forced light tone in her voice. She watched as he reached out hesitatingly and finally stroked Eva's cheek with his finger tips. Several people in the audience released breaths that they hadn't realized they'd been holding and a couple women pulled out Kleenex from their purses to dry their eyes. Jen looked from one to the other of her guests and sighed heavily before moving slowly to her chair and slumping down in it. “Ian, I just couldn't stand the way things were between us. My parents were pressuring me from one side to dump you and date the boy they had hand-picked for me. You wanted to get married. I had all that pressure at work with the promotion so soon after high school. It all just was too much for me and I . . . I couldn't take it.” “If you didn't want to marry me, you should have just told me,” Ian said as he dropped to his knees in front of her. “No,” Eva shouted as she clasped his palm to her lips. “I wanted to marry you, I just didn't know how I could balance that and everything else. So I got scared and just gave up on everything. I'm so sorry. Do you think you can ever forgive me?” “Angel, I love you. I never stopped. There's nothing to forgive. But . . . well, do you think that maybe we could talk sometime? Someplace a little bit more private, maybe?” They both looked around, realizing suddenly that they were on live television still and that all the cameras were pointed directly at them. Eva snuffled and wiped tears from her eyes as best as she could, smearing mascara across her cheeks in the process. She smiled through her tears and nodded her head. She held out her arms to him and he swept her up in a bear hug, pulling her out of her chair and spinning her in a circle. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, and hung on for dear life, squealing a little as he squeezed her tight to him and starting to laugh as the memories of their past found root in the present. The audience was on their feet yelling, cheering, stomping their feet, and catcalling the merged couple that was spinning in circles on the set to a song only they could hear. Ian finally set down Eva and she clung to his hand fiercely. They looked out at the rowdy audience and waved at them together before Ian tugged at her hand and they both walked off the set, talking together with their heads close together. Bob hit a canned voice-over ending to the show as the cameras kept rolling to provide pictures for the television viewers. On the floor the shows theme music started to play as the boom camera started to sweep over the audience who were getting themselves together and exiting the seats, talking excitedly. Few were more excited than little Marissa who clung to her parents hands and talked shrilly about what a wonderful show this had been and how she'd liked meeting the nice man. Old Brian sat in his seat as people filed around and past him with a twinkle in his eyes and a beatific smile on his face. Jen sat slumped in her seat until the spotlights were all turned off. The sudden absence of over-bright lights made her lift her head and look around. Bob was standing at the edge of the set staring at her steadily. “I love my job,” Jennifer keened plaintively.

Rebecca Hurbi--Novella

2008-12-02T15:35:00.000-08:00

Author’s Note: I have made changes from page 9 onwards, mostly the bullet taking out scene and Catherine’s dream sequence, so it would probably be good idea to reread that section. I made a few minor changes to pages 1-8, but you could probably get away with not rereading them if you don’t want to. I apologize for not ending with more a cliffhanger but I ran out of steam and figured I should turn in what I have. Thanks for your time!

P.S. Please let me know where you find inconsistencies because I am bound to have missed some things when I went back and changed stuff.

P.S.S. For anyone reading this on the blog, I hope you appreciate all the stupid line breaks I had to put in this thing! :)

Rebecca Hurbi ENGL 471 December 1, 2008

He was bleeding all over the snow when she came across him. Sprawled on his back, his limbs at awkward angles, he looked as though he had collapsed. A good five mile walk from her cabin, lacing through trees and around hills, helping him would be difficult. She stood for a long time and watched him breathe and bleed sluggishly into the snow. The thought drifted to her that she could leave him here.

Her feet began to go numb and she wiggled her toes against the cold. She studied her feet, buried in the snow. She studied him. His clothes were wet and molded to his body. His hair, black with melted snow, curled where it lay against his forehead. If she were inclined to, she would have considered him handsome, even injured as he was.

Deep in the woods of a forgotten corner of Montana, it was a surprise to come across anyone, let alone someone injured as he was. The woman puzzled over his prone figure. A hunting accident most likely, though hunters were rare in this area. Still, the deer and elk population were thick enough around here; it might tempt some hunters, despite its remoteness. Though he wasn’t dressed as though he were out hunting. His clothes weren’t even suitable for hiking. He was dressed as though he were heading out to a bar, or a club, not the wilds of Montana.

She shook her head at his prostrate form. He had no business being out here in the first place, but he especially had no business being out here if he couldn’t even dress for it. Out of curiosity she moved closer and tried to figure out what was wrong with him.

He bled from his shoulder, she could tell that much. To know more she would have to touch him, and pull away his shirt to discover what had brought about the interruption of her daily walk. Eyes closed, he looked dead except for the slow bleeding of his wound and the slow rise and fall of his chest. Clearing her throat as though she had a bad case of bronchitis, she watched his face, but no flicker of eyelashes betrayed any consciousness.

Crouching beside him the woman watched again for any sign of movement. When she felt sure he would not be moving under his own power anytime soon, she reached out, her hand hovering over his face. His breath, visible in the cool afternoon, floated around her fingers and curled through the air. Moving to his injured shoulder she wrinkled her nose against the blood that had pooled there. Pulling her pocketknife from her jeans, she used the blade to lift up his shirt where the blood was densest. A particularly large hole marred the fabric.

Eyes flying to his face she sat back on her heels. Just what sort of person was he, lying in a forgotten stretch of woods with a bullet hole in his shoulder? With no hunting gear in sight?

Before she had time to obsess, she leaned forward and began running her hands over his torso, his hips, and down his legs. She could feel the feverish warmth of his skin through his clothes. If she hadn’t seen him lying in snow she would have thought he was fresh from basking in some hot dessert sun. She was thorough and found one gun nestled in his back, another tucked in his boots. Both were loaded, the safeties on.

Her hands had blood on them. The guns too, where she had touched them. Scooping up clean snow she scrubbed until her hands began to go numb and were only red with cold.

Realizing her breath was coming in sharp pants she made a conscious effort to breathe evenly. A few minutes later her shaking stopped and her pulse no longer pounded in her ears. Only a minor episode this time, and she let out a relieved breath.

Knowing full well he hadn’t shot himself in the shoulder, the woman gave the surrounding area a sharp look. There was no sign of a struggle and only his footprints in the snow. She listened for a sign of anyone else, but could only hear the chickadees calling and the wind in the trees. Though it was possible there was someone else in her woods, she felt certain whoever had shot the man had gone.

The guns were lying where she had dropped them in the snow. She picked them up as though they were something that might bite her, and threw them, one at a time, into the woods. She threw them hard and turned away before she saw where they landed. Better lost and buried in the snow than used against her. Unless she were at point-blank range she couldn’t hit the side of a barn, and she knew it. The man before her, at least for now, was no threat to her.

She stood suddenly and paced a few feet away. This was foolishness. Even if she wanted to help him, how would they get to the cabin? She couldn’t carry him. She might be able to make a rough stretcher out of thick branches, but five miles through the woods dragging a man behind her would be slow going and very physically exhausting. There were several hours until the sun set and, if she could, she wanted to be snug in her cabin with a roaring fire before the cold really set in. She couldn’t go for help. The nearest town was over 100 miles away as the crow flies. The winding dirt road added even more miles onto that, and the small town didn’t even have a hospital. The closest hospital was a good 200 miles away from where she stood now.

Feeling the unwelcome weight of responsibility, the woman paced in the snow, driven to uncharacteristic wasted movement. On her third pass the man shifted, a small cry forcing its way past his lips, but he seemed caught between consciousness and unconsciousness. He sounded very young in that moment, and scared. His vulnerability, his helplessness, made her feel a flare of protectiveness despite herself.

Ignoring his slow rising into consciousness, she used her knife to cut off strips from his shirt and tied her makeshift bandage onto his shoulder. When she was certain it was tight enough, she rocked back onto her heels again. Now to get him up. As far as she could tell, it was only his shoulder that was injured. She couldn’t find any other lacerations or broken bones. Which meant there was nothing wrong with his legs and he could damned well walk.

Pausing in a moment of uncertainty, she considered that he may have some sort of neck or spinal injury, in which case moving him could cause further injury. She considered her options for a few moments and decided to risk it.

Patting his cheek with one hand she said, “You need to wake up now.”

He was already coming around, so it only to a few more increasingly harder pats until his blue eyes were blinking fuzzily at her.

“You need to stand up now.” Before he had time to realize how much he was hurting, she grabbed him under his good shoulder and hauled him to his feet. As out of it as he was, he still tried automatically to help her, though he almost toppled over as soon as she had him vertical. The sudden pain of standing brought him mercilessly back to full awareness. His breath hissed out of him, and she could almost see the force of will it took him to keep his pain silent. His good arm was slung over her shoulder and he was leaning most of his weight against her.

Watching his face she saw the minute changes as he shifted from bleary confusion to alertness. She felt his body tense where it was pressed against hers. He turned his head and stared at her with wary blue eyes.

“Who are you?”

Narrowing her own eyes she noted that he seemed to know where he was and what had happened to him.

“I’m the one helping you,” she said, actually feeling a little indignant when faced with his distrustful stare. Sure she had waffled a bit, but she was helping him. It should count for something.

“Thanks for the help. I’ll handle it from here.”

To her complete surprise, he straightened and tried to pull away from her. He actually made it a few steps before she moved from where she stood rooted and followed at his side, waiting to catch him when his strength gave out.

“What do you mean, you can handle it from here? You’ve been shot, in case you haven’t noticed.” The sarcasm came easily. She couldn’t remember the last time she had talked to someone, but some habits never really went away.

“It’s not that bad,” he gasped and swayed a little. She moved closer to his side but didn’t touch him. “Bullet barely nicked me. Camp’s not far away. No need to trouble yourself.”

Staring at him in disbelief, conflicted between relief and her own stubborn nature, she wondered if he really did have some sort of brain damage. For one, the bullet had most definitely done more than nicked him. She was fairly certain it was lodged in his shoulder.

“And how far away is your camp?”

“Ten miles.” He made it a few more slow feet without her help.

“You won’t be able to make it that far.” She left the idiot unspoken, though implied by her tone.

“Please, leave me alone. I don’t want or need your help,” he clipped off his words between breaths.

She stopped and crossed her arms. He ignored her and kept moving, slow shuffle step after slow shuffle step, distracted by the pain in his shoulder and no doubt weakened by blood loss.

Fine then. She stood there until his back disappeared into the trees.

~~**~~

She followed him, after a few minutes of internal debate. The temptation to walk away and forget him was a strong one, but she knew he needed someone to help him whether he recognized it or not. He needed help and she was the only one here.

Liam was actually headed in the general direction of her cabin; it was no hardship for her to trail him when she was going that direction anyway. He impressed her by making it nearly two miles unaided, most of the last mile on sheer will alone.

When his legs finally gave out she caught up to him where he panted in the snow, crushing some unfortunate saplings. His fall had jostled his shoulder and the wound began to bleed again through the cloth. She crouched beside him and applied pressure to her thoroughly ruined shirt, ignoring his hiss of pain.

“Told you to leave,” he gasped out.

Feeling the inane urge to stomp her foot and insist he wasn’t the boss of her; she put more of her weight into slowing his bleeding instead. The man took a deep breath and released it through clenched teeth.

“You’ll regret helping me,” he whispered, almost under his breath.

Feeling that anything she might say in response to that comment would be too melodramatic, she said instead, “My cabin is not far from here. I will fix you up there and then you may go wherever you please.”

He shook his head but gave up trying to convince her not to involve herself.

Waiting for his breath to even out, she lifted her hands from his bandage to check the flow of blood. Satisfied that it had slowed, she applied pressure once more to continue helping it along.

Lifting her head from inspecting the bandage, the man caught her eye. “What’s your name anyway?” He was still breathing unevenly, but the rest, however brief and cold, had helped.

Wanting to shift away from him, but needing to maintain pressure on his wound, she settled for shifting her weight. Pausing a moment too long, the woman glanced into the trees and then back at him, answering, “Catherine.”

He waited, but she fell back into silence. “I’m Liam.”

Catherine nodded to acknowledge she had heard him. “If you have enough breath to talk, we can get going. It’s going to be dark before long and I would rather spend the night in my cabin than in the woods.”

“A cabin? You’re not out camping or something?”

Stifling a flare of irritation, Catherine said curtly, “I live here.”

Liam’s eyebrows twitched. “You live out here? You’re fifty miles from the nearest house, let alone town!”

“Yes, I am aware of that.” Seeing that he was about to open his mouth and ask more questions, she cut him off. “We need to get going now. It’s going to drop at least ten degrees once the sun sets.” Though he still, even with all the time he had spent in the snow, showed no signs of hypothermia, or even as though he felt a slight chill.

“Right.” With a groan Liam pulled himself upright and she helped him the rest of the way to his feet. Liam swayed, but was able to steady himself by leaning against Catherine.

“Next time—” he ground out as they began walking. “Next time I go for a walk in the woods I want to do it without a crater in my shoulder and a few gallons worth of blood loss.”

Crunching through the snow beside him, his good arm over her shoulders, Catherine snorted. “Wouldn’t want to make things too easy.”

He paused, forcing them to a stop, and looked down at her. “So there is some personality in there.”

Catching herself, Catherine got them moving again. “No,” she answered him.

~~**~~

Catherine sat Liam on her bed and he slumped as much as he could without causing more pain. He looked around him but Catherine couldn’t be sure how much he was taking in. All talking had stopped after the first mile. The last two had been agonizing and were dealt with in silence. Catherine felt a huge wave of relief, thankful to be back home.

Coaxing the banked coals in her woodstove back to flame, she tried to see the cabin as Liam might.

She had come across the cabin three years ago. As much a part of the forest as the trees were, it was possible to pass within twenty yards and never know there was a dwelling so near. Catherine sometimes liked to imagine that the cabin had grown in the forest like one of the trees. It was pure chance that Catherine had come upon it. A forgotten cabin in a forgotten nook of the world.

It had been someone’s home, or at least someone’s getaway. It had been at least ten years though, since someone had used it last. Catherine had shooed out the rodent population, repaired the damage done by animals and weather, and made the small cabin hers.

The twin mattress she had wrestled through the woods on a small trailer attached to her four-wheeler lay against the back wall. There was a table and some counters built into the walls, made from the same logs that the cabin had been built with. The woodstove was opposite the table and between it and her bed, Catherine’s one real indulgence: a makeshift bookcase she had constructed herself, the shelves brimming with worn paperbacks.

Catherine dropped onto her lone chair, a smoothed stump that stayed tucked under the table when not in use. Every muscle ached and, not for the first time, she longed for running water. Most modern amenities she could do without, but nothing could quite replace a hot bath at the end of a long day. She allowed herself a wistful sigh before pushing herself to her feet.

She filled a pot with some of her drinking water and set it on the stove to heat, knowing she was going to need it later.

Going over to where Liam sat on her bed, Catherine knelt down and pulled her first aid kit out from under the bed. She called it a first aid kit, but really it was a fully stocked trauma kit she had bought when she first came out here. It was actually designed to be used by policemen and EMT’s and it hadn’t been cheap, but she had known it would be worth the money. She was very aware, especially right now, how far away the nearest hospital was.

The trauma kit was the size of a large purse and held a multitude of supplies. Catherine scanned through the inventory list and began to pull out the things she though she was going to need. Sterile dressings, gauze, blood stopper, antibiotic ointment, pvp iodine, hand sanitizer, ibuprofen, the instrument kit containing two different types of scissors and forceps, and a pair of rubber gloves.

Liam began to look unhappier with every item she pulled out and set on the bed. She ignored him until she had everything she thought she’d need.

“Here,” She handed him four ibuprofen pills and rose to get him a cup of water, but he waved her off and swallowed the pills with a grimace.

Taking a breath, Catherine used her pocketknife to cut away the makeshift bandage, rather than attempt to untie it and jar his shoulder anymore.

Catherine grimaced. His shoulder was a bloody mess. Liam looked down at himself and appeared disgusted. “No wonder it hurts so bad.”

Shaking her head Catherine began to cut his shirt off him, ignoring his protests.

“What are you doing? I’m not going to have anything to wear!”

“Your shirt is ruined anyway, and I would rather not jostle your shoulder and get it bleeding again, if it’s all right with you. Now hold still or I’ll cut you.”

“On accident or on purpose?”

Catherine had to pause and take several breaths. She used her irritation at Liam to stave off the shaky feeling she was starting to get as she her hands got bloody from handling his shirt.

“You ready?” Catherine kept her voice steady and tried not to think of how bloody this was going to be.

“I think I would rather have bleed to death in the snow.” He was eyeing the tweezers and the latex gloves.

“You survived being shot, you’ll most likely survive this.” Catherine squashed her growing sympathy for theadditional pain he was about to go through, not wanting it and knowing it wouldn’t help right now. “I don’t think it’s very deep. I’ll have it out before you know it.”

“Somehow I doubt that. But you’re probably right on how deep it is.” Liam fixated on the wall behind her, not looking at either his shoulder or the bed.

“You’re lucky the shooter only had a handgun and wasn’t close enough to do real damage. If he’d had a shotgun, or could aim a little better, you’d be dead.”

Liam’s gaze darted from the wall to her. “How do you know so much about guns?”

She smiled at him. “Why were you being shot at?”

His lips pressed together. “Hunting accident.”

Catherine’s eyebrows shot up. “You hunt with .22’s? How odd. Must not be very good friends either, to leave you for dead.”

Liam’s voice was cool, “I never said we were good hunters.”

“Apparently not.”

Catherine observed the tense way he was holding himself and decided they’d put off the inevitable long enough.

“Come on, might as well get this over with.”

Liam nodded and clenched his jaw as she snapped on the latex gloves and began cleaning the area around the wound. When Catherine was satisfied it was clean enough, she opened the sterile plastic bag that contained what the inventory list had called splinter forceps.

Catherine took a deep breath and braced herself. “This is going to be the unpleasant part,” she warned him.

“Get it over with,” he ground out.

Nodding once, Catherine set about prying the bullet from his the upper part of Liam’s shoulder. Blood welled up almost instantly, and Catherine had to feel her way to the bullet.

Liam kept up a steady stream of expletives he forced out through clenched teeth. His knuckles where white where he held on to the edge of the mattress.

“Almost there, almost there,” Catherine bit her lip in concentration, then cried out in triumph as she pulled the bullet free.

Liam sagged, his eyes closing. Setting down the forceps and bullet, Catherine grabbed him by his good shoulder and jostled him. “Come on Liam, I still need to clean and bandage your shoulder. Don’t pass out on me yet.”

Opening his eyes, Liam looked like he wanted to glare at her but couldn’t find enough energy to do so. “Good boy.”

She knew if he were in the hospital he would be getting stitches to close the wound, but she had to make do with butterfly bandages. She applied the blood stopper and a thick layer of antibiotic cream before bandaging his shoulder as best she could.

Clearing the bed off, she had him lay down and he was either asleep or passed out within minutes. Catherine took all the bloody bandages she had used to clean the wound and threw them in a trash bag that she would burn later, stripping off the bloody gloves and tossing them in the trash bag as well. Glancing around for anything she had missed, Catherine realized she had forgotten his blood-covered shirt on the floor. She stuffed that into the bag as well and took the whole thing outside.

Catching sight of her hands she shuddered all over and ran outside. She made it about ten feet from the door of the cabin before she bent over and emptied the entire contents of her stomach into the snow.

When she was done, she scrubbed her hands clean with snow for the third time that day. Remembering the hand sanitizer, Catherine ran back to the cabin and grabbed it, carrying it outside. She rinsed her mouth out with snow and spat it out, then cleaned her hands using the sanitizer. She ignored the smell that made her stomach churn, and the burning sting as the alcohol in it found a small cut she had on her palm.

Trembling now with the after effects of having to dig a bullet from someone’s shoulder, and the blood...the blood everywhere...Catherine breathed as she had been taught, as slow in and out. As she calmed down she realized the sun had almost completely set and she was freezing.

Going back inside to her warm cabin, she found Liam as she had left him, still unconscious or asleep, though it was beginning to look more and more like a deep sleep.

Catherine picked up the forceps and the bullet, careful not to get any more blood on her hands, and dumped them into the heated water, along with some soap. She let them cook for a while before fishing them out with a large spoon.

Catherine added more wood to the fire. She cleaned the cabin, putting everything back in the first aid kitand tucking it under the bed. She dumped the bloody water out in the woods, away from her cabin where she wouldn’t see it, though she did, perversely, keep the bullet. It was clean of blood and it gleamed in the moonlight that filtered through the trees. Catherine tucked it in the pocket of her jeans.

When the pot was clean she put it back in its place on the shelf. Pulling a blanket from the foot of her bed, she tucked it around Liam, deciding she’d done all she could for him, for now.

Despite everything that had happened today, it was the warmth that spread though her as she watched him sleep that surprised her the most.

Backing away from him as though he had threatened her, Catherine rubbed her face with her palms, smelled the alcohol on them and lowered them instantly.

“Christ.” Weariness dropped her onto the stump beside her bed. As she watched him she whispered, “I should have left you.”

The dreams that night were unwelcome, but expected.

~~**~~

The bed of the truck is warm against her side. It had been a sunny day; she had stared into the blue sky when she walked to and from her classes just a few hours earlier. She thinks of her textbooks and wonders if they are still where she dropped them on the sidewalk. She wonders if they will be found or if someone will take them and not think beyond their apparent luck. The rumble of the truck’s engine slows and she has to brace herself as the truck turns. Another turn and then the truck is stopping and all she can think about is how perfect the sky had looked.

Cool metal warming against her skin, biting into her wrists. The knot in her stomach tightens and rises to her throat, makes it hard to gasp out a plea. He smiles at her, a lopsided smile. One of his teeth is crooked, crossing over another. She has never seen cold brown eyes before, but the way he looks at her grows icicles inside. They stab in soft places and the coldness spreads.

There is gravel digging into her side, but she does not feel it. There is wind against her skin and it is quiet. Her hands are free and rest within her line of sight, motionless. The memory of metal is on her skin, circling her wrists, hurting in a distant way. She can hear a cricket, and farther away, an owl hoots into the fading night. She can see her hands. There is a clump of dandelions. She sees the green and the yellow. She sees the green and the yellow and the red, red, red of her hands.

~~**~~

Catherine woke up with tears on her cheeks and a sob rising in her throat. She strangled it ruthlessly, pressing her hands against her chest. When she could force herself to uncurl from the fetal position, she wiped her eyes on one of her blankets and practiced breathing.

Her heartbeat slowing, Catherine watched Liam sleep. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His face, relaxed and unlined, showed no sign of pain. He looked only a few years older than her, and Catherine wondered, again, what he was doing so far from where he belonged.

Catherine’s eyes were drawn to one of Liam’s hands resting on his stomach. For a moment, a slow heartbeat, she sees someone else’s hand. The skin changes from warm honey to pallid white. She sees the distinctive scar running across the back of his hand and the way his nails are so carefully even. She can almost hear the coughing rumble of the engine.

Catherine shook herself and rose from the bed of blankets. She had slept fully dressed, and only had to pull on her hiking boots and a warm coat before she opened the door and plunged outside.

The cold was a shock after the warmth of her blanket cocoon and Catherine relished her body’s instant attention to the present. Pulling a pair of gloves and a hat out of her pocket, she put them on and felt the muscles in her shoulders unknot a little.

Heading in the opposite direction of where she found Liam, Catherine set a ground-eating pace. There was just light enough to see where she was going, though for the first half hour at least, Catherine had no eyes for the woods around her. All her attention focused on the burn and stretch of the muscles in her legs and how the chilly air made her lungs ache.

Her body warmed and loosened and Catherine began to take more notice of her surroundings. Without realizing it, she had headed to one of her favorite places: a tree that had once been three separate saplings but they had grown together over time. Catherine had never seen anything quite like it and could spend a long time watching the spiral of the trees and trying to trace one individual tree from its base to the highest leaf. She found that the attempt quieted something inside of her.

Leaning against her tree she could feel the cold of the trunk through her coat. She paused for just a few minutes before moving on. She had no patience for sitting today; she felt spurred on by the restlessness coiling low in her belly.

Catherine lost her steady pace and walked faster, the trees growing into a blur around her. Michael’s face teased along the edge of her mind. The look on his face when he saw her lying in that hospital bed haunted her. She had never seen him look at her with pity before, never like that, the pity and the shame. He had taken her hand in his, careful to apply very little pressure, and she could not recall a time when she had felt more distant from him.

~~**~~

“Everything’s going to be ok,” his voice is as soft as his touch. He has never, for as long as she has known him, treated her like glass the way he is now. Michael always treats her like someone who can take all he can dish out and more, but this...softness is not like him. She hates it.

Anger brings tears to her eyes and he misinterprets it. His callused fingers stroke her hair, careful to avoid the bruising on her face, careful not to touch her too hard.

“I love you and we’re going to get through this,” his voice is soothing but she knows him too well. She can see the uncertainty in his tight lips, in the creases of his eyes. “We’re going to—everything’s going to be ok.”

Every time he repeats it the lines around his eyes deepen. To her horror she sees tears begin to fill his eyes and it’s too much. She cannot handle his weakness anymore than he can handle hers.

Her voice is rough and painful but she forces a quiet whisper, “I’m really tired, I’m just going to sleep for a while, ok? I don’t want you to stay here and be bored. Could you let my family know and maybe keep them company for a little while?”

She would say anything for him to leave, for her family to not come through that door again. Anything to be left alone.

He hesitates but must see something in her face because he nods and pats her hand. “Sure baby, anything you need. I’ll let you rest and come by tomorrow.”

Catherine stretches her lips upward in an attempt to smile and whispers, “Thanks Michael.” Turning her head away from him she closes her eyes and relaxes her limbs as though she were going to fall asleep before he even leaves the room.

The room is silent but for the low hum of machines. After a few moments she hears his footsteps recede and the quiet thunk of the door as he eases it shut behind him.

Catherine opens her eyes and stares at the wall. She stares until her eyes burn, but nothing can erase that look on his face.

~~**~~

Pain bloomed in her hand when she slammed her fist against a nearby tree, pulling her back.

Catherine leaned against the tree, resting her aching head against cool bark. The walks were not helping today. She hated these days. She knew no amount of walking today would ease the familiar restlessness, the flow of memories. Pushing off from the tree, Catherine turned back and headed for the cabin.

The sun was up when she finally reached the cabin door and so was Liam. She opened the door to find him shirtless, but wrapped in the quilt from her bed, sitting on her stump stool and staring at the wood stove.

He glanced at her rosy cheeks and tousled hair but kept any comments about her appearance or where she had gone to himself. Pointing at the woodstove he announced, unnecessarily since she could feel the coolness of the cabin herself, “The fire’s out.”

Sighing, Catherine pulled out her tinder box and began to get another fire going. She glanced over at him.

“You probably shouldn’t be up you know. I’m pretty sure your body could use a break.”

“Nonsense,” he fiddled with the quilt and scrutinized the cabin. “You miss all the excitement when you sleep all day.”

Catherine snorted. “I’m not sure what you think you’re going to miss, but I do know you’re going to get in the way. Go back to bed.”

Liam ignored her sharp tone and smiled instead, not moving from his perch.

Catherine was able to coax a fire in the wood stove and turned her attention more firmly onto Liam. She realized he was swaying a little where he sat and he looked flush. Rising from where she had crouched in front of the stove, she pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. He beamed placidly at her and chuckled a little when she snatched her hand back, cursing.

“Jesus, you feel like you’re literally burning up. Time to get back to bed.”

He leaned against her and she could feel the shivers running through his body. She felt the feverish humor drain out of him.

“Do you think we are punished in this life for the bad things we did in our past lives?” He asked her without warning, suddenly serious.

Surprised, Catherine met his eyes, only to find Liam staring at the floor. A flippant answer was on the edge of her lips when he looked up. There was something in his face that was familiar. A pain that could be seen in the way he held his head, the cast of his eyes. Catherine paused and considered what he had said.

Keeping a hand on his arm to steady his swaying, she said slowly, searching his face, “I don’t know if I believe in past lives. But if they do exist...if we all have lived many lifetimes, the chances are we have all done horrible things. To ourselves and to each other. Meaning we all deserve the bad things that happen in our lives.” Her voice quieted but she maintained eye contact. “I try to believe we don’t deserve the bad things that happen to us. I try very hard. I like to think we deserve happiness more than pain.”

His voice rough, Liam asked, “Why?”

“Why?” Catherine wanted to look away from his eyes. There was an intentness there that she hadn’t earned.

They hadn’t known each other long enough for him to be looking at her like that. “Because... because each life is a fresh start. A second chance. We shouldn’t have to keep paying for our past over and over again.”

Liam shivered hard enough to rattle his teeth but his expression eased.

Catherine hauled him to his feet. “Enough philosophy, you need to go to bed.”

“Yes, Mom,” his good humor restored he stumbled the few feet to her bed and she eased him down, careful not to jostle his shoulder. His short expedition upright had carved lines of pain and exhaustion into his face and into the lines of his body. As soon as he was horizontal Liam’s eyelids began to sink shut.

“Do you think we pay for the sins of our past?” Catherine asked, her hand resting near his on the bed.

Liam gave a short bark of laughter and closed his eyes. “Over and over again.”

Catherine watched him fall asleep, smoothing the wrinkles in the blanket where her hand rested. She smoothed them for a long time after his breath deepened and evened into sleep.

~~**~~

The smell of the vegetable beef stew cooking woke Liam. Catherine glanced over at him when his jaw cracked from yawning. He was careful, she noted, not to stretch. She imagined his shoulder would object to any movement.

“You can cook?” Liam asked as he eased himself upright, a quiet grunt and the lines in his face betraying the pain he was in.

Catherine snorted and pointed to the empty soup cans on the counter. “Hardly. My cooking isn’t so great and it doesn’t keep well, especially during the summer. I eat a lot of canned food.”

Moving from the woodstove where the soup was heating and she’d been stirring, Catherine closed the short distance to Liam and felt his forehead with the back of her hand. Disturbed by the heat emanating from him,

Catherine frowned to herself.

“How do you feel?” Catherine touched his cheek and then his neck with her hand, half hoping only his forehead was so warm.

He laughed, shallowly to avoid jarring his shoulder. “Hurts like a son of a bitch. And I’m freezing.”

The winter days were short and she had already lit the oil lamps in the cabin in order to see. She felt him start to shiver, his chest bare in the soft glow of the lamps.

Catherine pulled away and grabbed a bowl from one of her shelves, filling it with soup.

“Try and eat something. You skipped breakfast and you’ll heal faster with a full stomach.”

He smiled at the certainty in her voice, but accepted the bowl full of soup that she offered him, balancing it in his lap. As soon as she handed him a spoon he used his good arm and began to steadily spoon the warm broth into his mouth.

Catherine grabbed a bowl of the soup for herself and perched on the stump stool. Her spoon poised over her bowl, she paused, feeling a moment of oddness. She realized, suddenly, how long it had been since she had sat down with someone and eaten a meal, even a meal as simple as this one. The last meal she could remember sharing with someone else was the dinner with her family the night before she had left. Her mom had made her favorite, fettuccini alfredo with chicken, in an attempt to cheer her up. For a moment Catherine tasted the warm chicken and smooth sauce before shying away from the memory.

She looked up at Liam, intent on his soup, and found her distraction.

“What were you doing in the woods?”

His spoon hesitated on its way to his mouth, but that was the only sign he gave that she had surprised him.

Without looking up at her, Liam replied, “I told you, I was camping with friends. We decided to do a little hunting and they accidentally shot me.” He looked up and smiled. “Good thing you came along to rescue me.”

Catherine studied him for a moment. “Are you always such a bad liar?”

Liam finished the last of his soup, his expression smoothing away. He looked at her with steady eyes and said, “No. Usually I lie quite well. I’ve just gotten tired of it I think. It doesn’t come as easily as it used to.”

Setting her half empty bowl on the counter, Catherine rose and took his empty bowl and set it next to hers to be cleaned later. She sat back on the stool and rested her elbow on her knee, her chin on her hand. “I found you miles and miles away from the farthest place I’ve come across hunter or campers. You’re dressed in nice clothes, not the type you’d wear anywhere but to a nice bar or club. You were shot, but not with one of your guns unless you reloaded the gun with another bullet after you ‘shot yourself’. And carrying around two handguns you sure as hell aren’t out here hunting anything that runs on four legs.”

They stared at each other for a long minute. “You’re right,” Liam said at last. “It was a bad lie.” With that he laid back down, pulling the blankets up to his neck, and turned his head towards the wall, closing his eyes.

Catherine tapped her fingers against her lips. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a small cabin. You’re not going to be able to avoid me for long. But feel free to take some time to think up another story to tell me. Try and make it more believable though.”

Liam breathed steadily at her, to all appearances already fast asleep. Catherine shook her head before scooping up her bowl and finishing her soup.

~~**~~

It wasn’t until Catherine went out to use the outhouse for the night and to get firewood that she smelled the snow on the air. Catherine paused, inhaling, and looked up. It was too dark to make out any clouds, but it was what she couldn’t see that worried her; no stars and no moon.

Catherine grabbed the armful of firewood, enough to last the night and into the morning, from the large stack she had against the long side of the cabin. After dumping the wood inside by the stove she went back out and brought in two more armfuls.

The clattering woke up Liam, who had fallen asleep not too long after Catherine had finished eating. He stared at her blearily but didn’t ask any questions.

Stomping her feet by the door Catherine knocked off the snow that had accumulated on her boots. “How are you feeling?” She felt the concern, that had been prodding her since she had felt his fever, jab harder.

“C-c-cold.” She could hear his teeth chatter and she said a few words that would have earned her a smack from her mother. Casting a worried look out her lone window at the clouds she couldn’t see but knew were there, Catherine ducked outside and grabbed another armful.

When she came back inside she added more wood to the stove and opened the vents more than usual, allowing the fire to burn hotter. She put another couple cans of soup in the pot to heat up, chicken noodle this time, hoping it would be easy on his system and get some liquid in him at the same time.

Catherine chucked off her boots in the front of the cabin and slung her coat on the hook by the door. Liam had closed his eyes and lay on her bed shivering miserably.

“I’ve turned the stove up and I’ll put more blankets on you in a minute, I just want to see how your shoulder is doing first.”

Liam opened his eyes to glance at her, then closed them again, too far gone in pain and fever to care what she did at this point.

Catherine hesitated, then perched on the side of the bed, carefully lifting the blankets from his wounded shoulder. She peeled the bandage away from the wound, earning a hiss of pain from Liam, and inspected the wound. The area was hot to the touch, though not much more than the rest of him. It had begun to heal, Catherine noted with some relief.

Snagging the antibiotic cream she had left near the bed, Catherine smeared a liberal amount over the stitches. She dug the first aid kit out from under the bed and felt grateful that it at least had bandages she could use. A few minutes later Liam sported a new bandage and Catherine had put everything away. Liam was breathing easier now that the bandage changing was over, and Catherine tucked the blankets around him, pulling the extra blankets she kept folded next to the first aid kit out from under the bed and settling those over him as well.

It was as she watched him sleep under all her blankets that she realized she didn’t have any blankets to sleep with, not even one to put over the splintery wood floor.

Ed's novella

2008-11-10T07:11:00.000-08:00

Louise fell asleep. She awoke when John got up. She could here him peeing and rubbing her eyes she slowly rolled to her side and rose from the bed. She ran her hands through her hair and stood up and went to the coat rack in the corner and put on her robe. Louise went downstairs and poured a glass of water and went to the windows of the front room. As Louise took a sip of water she glanced over to John's house and saw in his driveway a state trooper vehicle. Looking at John's door she saw a trooper at the door, knocking.

“John,” Louise shouted up to the loft. “John,” again, louder.

Louise saw John come to the railing at the edge of the loft.

“What's up?” he asked.

“Uhh,” Louise hesitated knowing that what she was about to say was going to alarm him. “The State Troopers are at your door,” Louise said. It was so matter of fact. It was the kind of situation where Louise thought that there out to be some way to warn a person of impending anxiety, of the possibility of bad news. Louise remembered when she was a child, seven years old, when her father had come into the kitchen of their house to tell her mother that her father had died in a car accident. He had tried to tell Louise something, he had probably wanted to tell her to go get something for him so that he could be alone with her mother, but Louise's mother had turned and seen the expression on his face before he could get the words out. Louise remembered her mother asking her father what was the matter and the silence that followed as her father tried to tell her the bad news. He finally told Louise's mother that her father had died when Louise's mother had insisted that her father say something. Louise could still remember the quiet after her father spoke. Then the fear that had occupied the space between the belly button and backbone was replaced with an empty feeling. Louise's stomach was getting that empty feeling.

“What did you say?” said John not really wondering what she said but wondering what the troopers were doing at his door and fearing the answer.

Louise could feel John stand beside her. Wordlessly John quickly put on his clothes, slipped on his shoes and ran out Louise's door. Louise went upstairs and put on a pair of pants and a blouse and went back to the windows to see what was going on.

Louise saw John passively listening to a trooper. It seemed like it was a long conversation but as soon as it was over the trooper left and John went to go into his house but as soon as he opened the door Bear shot out and ran out into the street headed for Louise's house. Louise could see John shouting at Bear and he even started to go after the dog but decided not to and went back inside. Louise went outside donning her windbreaker as she went through the door. Louise had let out Willow hoping that her dog would attract Bear and make it easier to take Bear home and just as Louise hoped Willow found Bear but instead of making it easier to catch him both dogs took off up the hill. Louise let them go and went over to John's house. Louise turned onto John's walkway and was startled when John emerged from his house.

“John is everything okay?” Louise asked painfully aware that there was nothing all right.

John looked at Louise his face tight with anxiety and his body tense with the need to get somewhere. John paused for a moment and looked at Louise. He seemed to be searching for something to say.

“Alice has been hurt and she's in a coma,” John blurted out. “I have to get to the hospital. Christ Bear's on the loose.”

“John go to the hospital. I'll take care of Bear until you get back,” said Louise.

John nodded his head in thanks clearly emotional over the news that Alice was badly hurt. “You don't need to keep him in your house just bring him back to mine and check on him once and a while,” said John clearly relieved that he didn't have to worry about Bear. “Bear's food is in the kitchen in the cupboard by the sink.” Louise could see that he wanted to say something more but instead told her he'd be in touch and left.

Louise stood in the street for awhile at a loss for what to do. On the one hand she thought she ought to do something but it was clear that she had no role in this emergency of John's. Louise decided that getting the dogs would give her a chance to calm down. She turned to go uphill where the dogs following the habit they'd developed over the summer, had gone. It had been only an hour or so since Louise and John had taken the dogs for a walk but that hadn't deterred the dogs. It was warm even though there was a slight breeze blowing and a cloud here and there. Louise was sweating by the time she got to the top of the hill where the dogs were wrestling and growling playfully with one another and Louise stopped and watched the dogs for awhile. Louise was upset that she couldn't help John but she had become the kind of friend that could only be a silent partner. She could only wait. Finally the dogs seemed to tire and when they came back toward her as a silent request to head back she turned and followed them. Louise had been walking, not noticing her surroundings except for the labored breathing of the dogs and was surprised when she saw she was at her house. Willow was waiting at the door while Bear had continued on to John's place. John had the habit of taking Bear back to his house before coming over to Louise's. Louise and John had discovered that Willow and Bear were too much to handle indoors together so John left him at his house feeding him before he left. Bear apparently acted as if John had been with them and had run over to John's and sat on the front porch barking. Louise let Willow into the house and then went over to John's. As she approached Bear wagged his tail excitedly and stood up and when Louise got to the door Bear started to jump up and down in excitement. It suddenly dawned on Louise that John hadn't left her the keys to the house so she grasped the door knob and turned. Louise let out a breath of air as the door knob turned. She opened the door and stood in shock at, she supposed the living room.

[Put in a description of what Louise sees]

Louise left John's house filled with questions and she had no idea when she would get the chance, or if she even would, ask John about what she'd seen. Louise sat on her couch and leaned her head back. Willow sat at her feet and rested her head against Louise's legs. Louise was so tired that thought was impossible so she closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths before relaxing.

Louise, Willow and Bear developed a routine over the next few days: an early morning walk, short and business like for the dogs, followed by feeding. First Louise would feed Bear and pay him some attention and then he would go to his spot in the front room and lay down. Louise thought Bear was waiting for John because he would lay with his head facing the door head resting on his paws, left one cross over the right one. At first Louise felt a pang of guilt when she left him like that especially when he would blink rapidly as she left as if expressing some measure of loneliness. But when Louise opened the door Bear would close his eyes and move his head forward, almost imperceptibly, signaling, Louise thought, that it was okay for her to leave. Then Louise would take care of Willow who'd seemed to pick up on the high emotions swirling around. Willow would follow Louise around the house more attentively than she'd ever had. And when it came to the noon day walk it looked like she was looking for John whenever Louise let Bear out for their noonday exercise. Louise did not have adjust her schedule much during the mornings or afternoon, but in the evening she would have to be sure to take the dogs out early in the evening, rather than waiting for Willow to demand to be let out, so that she could make sure Bear would not make a mess in the house.

It was about a week later that she saw John come home. It was about noon, the time when they would normally take the dogs for a walk. She watched as John opened the door and Bear, who must have heard John coming, jumped on John in a frenzy of happiness, jumping to a fro and barking. John smiled and knelt down and roughed up Bear in the way that Louise had seen as John's way of showing affection toward Bear. Then Bear started running, turning at the road toward the top of the hill. John followed walking slowly. He never looked at Louise's house. Louise sighed and wondered if John had decided that he couldn't see Louise anymore. She wouldn't be surprised, she had, in fact, been preparing herself for the end of their affair, if just not seeing each other anymore could be called an end. Louise continued to watch John and just before he went over the crest of the hill the phone rang. Louise thought about letting the message machine get the phone but decided against and answered it herself.

“Hello,” Louise said quietly.

“Hello, is this Louise Dean?” the voice asked diffidently.

Louise didn't recognized the voice and answered it was and was about to ask who was calling when the speaker continued.

“You don't know me, thought we did meet briefly once a few months ago, but I wanted to talk to you. My name is Alice Brand, John's wife?” the voice said.

Louise was frozen and she felt her mouth open involuntarily and her mouth became dry and her cheeks felt hot. Louise tried to say something but nothing would come out. The shock of hearing John's wife at the other end of the phone had somehow immobilized her. Louise suddenly felt that her affair with John had compromised her and her residence in the neighborhood and this only added to her guilt of having been involved with John. Louise wanted to hang up the phone but something in Alice's voice kept her from doing that.

“Hello, are you there?” asked Alice. Louise detected a note of desperation.

“Yes. Yes, I'm here,” said Louise.

“I know it must be strange to be getting a call from me, but I wanted to talk to you before they discharged me from the hospital. It's supposed to happen sometime tomorrow so I don't have much time. Visiting hours don't end until nine o'clock and I would very much like it if you would come up to my hospital room so we could talk. I promise this isn't an ambush or some kind of set up. I want to talk about John.”

Louise was confused. She was pretty sure most women don't seek out their husband's lover to have a chat about them, not without an ulterior purpose. Yet Alice's voice did not seem to harbor any evil intent. At least Louise hoped she was a good judge of Alice's intentions, at least with respect to Louise's good bodily health. Louise was still unable to think of why Alice would want to talk to her, especially about John. Was she going to beg her not to take her man like in the song or was she going to give Louise her blessing? Louise had no idea. On the other hand if Louise went to talk to Alice she might be able to find out why John had decided to cheat on his wife and Louise might also find out why John and Alice's house looked like it did.

“Ms. Dean?” Alice asked a note of hope in her voice.

“I'm here. Just thinking,” Louise said. Louise wanted to stall for time. She still wasn't sure if she should go and visit Alice. Her curiosity was great but she was embarrassed too. Her actions would no longer be an anonymous act either through a lack of knowledge of an affair by Alice or through not knowing Alice. One had already fallen and the other would fall when they spoke. Louise was nervous.

“Louise? May I call you Louise?” Alice asked.

“Sure,” said Louise.

“Louise I'm in room 335 and John won't be back until visiting hours tonight: he has some work to catch up on and now that I'm going to okay he feels better about leaving me alone for awhile. Lunch ends at one so if you choose to come and see me I'll see you say at one thirty?” Alice said this in a rush and was somewhat breathless Louise noted when she finished.

“Okay,” Louise said.

“Good,” Alice said with a sigh. “I hope I'll see you after lunch.”

The dial tone came on and Louise realized she still had the phone at her ear. She hung up and sat down on the couch. Turning her head toward the television she glanced at the cable box to check the time: five after one. Louise wasn't sure what to do. Alice's voice wasn't vindictive or threatening. Just the opposite. She sounded interested in Louise. That didn't make any sense. Yet it was the only way Louise could describe Alice's demeanor from what she heard of her on the phone. And there was the naked curiosity Louise had about Alice and John. Not to mention the guilt. What would Louise say if Alice asked if she loved John? Louise didn't but what would Alice think then? The clock said one fifteen. Louise didn't know why exactly, but she got up and went upstairs and put on some clean clothes. Coming downstairs she gave Willow a pet and assurances that she'd be back soon and left for the hospital.

Louise didn't remember anything of the fifteen minute journey to the hospital. The siren of the ambulance as it turned in front of her into the hospital parking lot brought her out of her thoughts. Louise had been trying to talk herself out of talking to Alice, but she couldn't find a good enough excuse. Louise decided that perhaps she needed to talk to Alice in order to confront her own irresponsibility in having an affair with John. Louise parked in the last row of the parking lot which was nearly full of cars. Louise went into the hospital and up to the third floor. The nurses station was just outside the elevator. Louise approached a nurse sitting there and asked where she would find room 335. Louise turned, after thanking the nurse, toward where she was directed and walked slowly to Alice's room. Louise stood at the door and looked in. Alice lay in the bed next to the window her hear turned away from the door. Licking her lips and taking a breath Louise walked quietly into the room.

Brandi's Novella

2008-11-10T03:50:00.000-08:00

Just to let you all know that most of this is was what I had prepared for two weeks ago when I was sick. I made very few changes to the first few pages, but I have added more. Thanks! The earth vibrates beneath me even though I am stationary, as the old black Dodge Dakota chugs up the dirt road to lookout point. During the day I hear the view is breath taking, with the surrounding hills to the east of the city and a winding road out of town to the west. But at night you can’t see any of that, instead the view below is more like moving fire. Each of the city lights blaze upon the backdrop of darkness, as well as a few sparks to the west where others choose to live. We are not there yet; instead we are surrounded by the smell of earth, diesel, and secrecy. This is not the first time we have taken the man made path above the city of Pardee that cuts through ancient spruce trees, and it’s not the first time they have seen us. Like sentinels watching over the woods in fear we may further disturber their slumber. In the past I was always afraid of these trees, of him, of what people would think, but now I am afraid of what new action they might witness. Each sentry standing alone, but still together in the crowded woods trying to protect their sanctuary. Each one looking down upon us, as we speed to the end of the road and the beginning of our night. I keep the window rolled all the way down even though winter is riding steadily on the breeze and tuning my cheeks a hazy shade of red. In the glow of the headlights I can see the dying colors of fall, all orange, yellow, and brown cascading from above. Though I can’t remember if it looked like this two years ago when we first made the trip up the hill. What I do remember is the heavy feeling of fear and anticipation, and coy looks shared between him and me. His rough voice asking me, “So…have you…I mean do you, never mind.” I felt the same way, lost in religious predictability of my life, and wondering what possessed me to follow him. Trying to find the moment when I decided that all the rules that keep my life in order were suddenly nonexistent. How someone you could literally set your watch to suddenly makes a choice to cut deep against the swirling grain. Though it bugs me even more that I can never remember what the woods looked like that night, no matter how hard I try to picture it. I remember feeling like an idiot in a stranger’s truck surrounded by intimidating trees hiding us both from anyone, but the details of everything else is still a blur. I guess it is like any first, if you remembered it clearly you wouldn’t think of it so affectionately. Like the first time you are kissed in school, you don’t want to remember the excess spit or that he tried to drown you with his tongue. Instead you remember that he was cute and for a brief moment he wanted you. The need to be wanted is so strong that we ignore everything else in our lives, and I can’t tell you what he said before I leaped into the truck. He was a stranger than and in a way he is still a stranger. Garret is man of few words, but I have never need his words before. All I needed was to know that he was available to me when I wanted a warm body. Up ahead I can see the last bend of the road, and as we take it the head lights stretch far out into space. Touching nothing and illumination the small parking lot the state made some 20 years ago when tourist came to Pardee to experience nature, instead of coming for the amusement park built 5 years later, and then later torn down because of lack of interest. I can barely wait for the truck to reach its spot upon the hill, where it will rest till we no longer need the space. Like always he pulls it to a stop just slightly to the right side of the lookout, and with shaking hands I heave open the door that grinds from lack of oil and jump down into the moist earth. I take only a second to regain my sense of balance as my feet contact with fresh dirt and I begin to run for the edge of the cliff that has been conveniently lined with cement barriers. Originally the barriers were intended to keep the people who visit this place from missing the edge and going over, but now they are just a starting point. There I stop, bare feet freezing into place as the stone shares its lonely chill with me, and a rush of aromatic air tries to push me back, and I stare out at the fire of lights, at the burning city below. The tarnished driver side door is slammed so hard the body of the truck shakes and the noise resonates out into the vast emptiness. “What in the hell are you doing? Get your ass back from there, now!” “Why are you afraid I am going to fall? You know I won’t.” I half heartily chuckle, “You of all people should know that I have a talent for keeping my balance under pressure. If I put my mind to it, I could do anything on my feet all night.” I hear his heavy boots grind against the ground as he approaches me. I cannot give him the pleasure of turning around, I will not give in just because he is getting closer. In a lower and much more familiar tone of voice he tells me, “I am not worried that you will fall.” There is a long pause as though he is not sure how to talk to me, how to express what he is feeling. And why should he, it isn’t like we are the best of friends, hell we are not even friends. We are two grown adults who happen to… “Just get down. Please.” “Why should I?” My own voice sounds foreign to me coming out as strong and authoritative. Something that I am not use to hearing. “I am more than happy to stand here and look out; it isn’t like I normally take in the view below, after all. Though I must say that I have gotten a good look at the stars up here, we’re old friends.” “Ha Ha Marlene, will you quite fucking around already and come back to the truck.” “Isn’t that what you want to do in the truck? What is the nature lover afraid of a little cold?” “Okay that’s it, if you are going to keep joking around I am leaving. I didn’t come here for this shit.” I shot around on the ledge, “No you didn’t, did you? This place is good for only one thing, just like I am only good for one thing. Stop being such a selfish ass and just chill out. I just want to stand here for a little bit; it is not like you need to entertain me. Plus if you leave me here, they will know.” He spun around in his oil covered Carhartt’s not a large man, but still intimidating. With his finger thrusted out in accusation he screams, “Of the few things I know about you, the number one thing is that WE don’t exist outside of this spot. That you have never told anyone about me, and you made it clear the first time that we owed nothing to each other.” His anger and words only feed my need to make a change, and is just another point against trying to be two people. “Today, today I left a note Garret. Today there is proof of you and me. So you’re not going anywhere, and you are going to sit here and wait till I am done.” “I won’t be witness to you jumping off the edge. So get the hell down from there.” Turning back around to face the open expanse I say, “Who said I would jump? I am just taking in the view and arguing with you.” Wondering why the hell you need to be here to witness this, why I couldn’t just come alone. From somewhere inside of me there is pull, a need to…how did she say it? ~ ~ ~ “Regurgitate that this instance young lady. That was not meant for you that was mine! You are too young to be eating rum balls anyways.” Her small hands holding my face as she tries to get me to open up and spit it out. Instead I do my best to savor as much of the rich candy as I can, as she squeezes my cheeks harder. I know that if I don’t open my mouth soon her nails will claw into my cheeks next, and somehow this act will be my fault. I will lie for her and tell any who ask that is was an accident. That I was playing and accidently scratched my face. They will know I am lying but no one ever ask me any more questions after that. As though the words of a small child are enough of a truth to turn and look the other way. “Give it back. That was my gift, you spoiled little brat.” Her hand comes down from above as she strikes me. White hot anger flares in her eyes and then she is sobbing into those pale small hands. “Every time I get something nice you have to go and ruin it.” I try to touch her, hoping that she wills stop crying but instead she shoves me away. “Get out of my sight. It is your fault that its gone, it is your fault that he’s gone.” As I walk away her sobs get louder, and I feel guilty for taking the last piece of candy. I wish I could regurgitate it so she could have it back, but it is too late there is nothing left. ~ ~ ~ I can hear him shuffling even closer to me now. His voice is so near, it reminds me of an intimate whisper among lovers, “Well if you aren’t gonna jump, why not take a few steps back, and enjoy the view with me from here.” “My ass is not what I came up here to stare at.” Turning only my head and shoulders towards him and giving him my best come fuck me look and I whisper, “But feel free to keep an eye on it for me.” This action has become second nature when I am around Garret. To pray upon his weakness, in order to ensure my enjoyment. Even if the night does not end with a bang, I still know that I have gotten what I wanted. That I could get him to bend to my will, because when he is with me he is following a basic need. That drive inside us all to create something out of nothing. His deep sigh tells me he will not leave, at least not yet. Though I really want to know why I just didn’t come here alone. Instead I have dragged him along to be witness to…what exactly? What in the hell am I doing? Maybe I should just go back to the truck and have Garret take me home. Go back to the house and relax so that I don’t have to be inside my own head. If it wasn’t for snapping yesterday, I wouldn’t feel this way, like everything inside me has been carved out. I can’t figure it out; she has never made me that angry before. I have always been good at being just another person people talk at. ~ ~ ~ Thick red lips, smeared across porcelain skin, topped with blond victory curls all wrapped into a sleek slate power suit, this is Elizabeth. Not Beth or Lizzy, but Elizabeth. My closest thing to a friend, and the women I am locked in a small room with 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. Our positions in the company requires that we digitalize all the paper work that is coming into our office, and the only thing left to drown out the humming of the scanners is Elizabeth’s constant chatter. Though I would have to admit today I would kill for her to just keep her mouth shut. She has been hammering on all day about how her night was, and her latest crush. One of the new interns in the main office, who looks to be about 22 years old and just barely out of puberty. The boy is so baby face I would suspect he has never had to shave, let alone iron his own shirts. Although Elizabeth has always had a thing for younger men, and I never quite understood why. Rather than seeking out a man with his own career and goals, she has always seemed to gravitate towards a man who needs to be reassured and taken care of. As though she is only interested in playing the mother role for some little twerp, rather than finding someone she actually could have something in common with. She is model beautiful, and she keeps herself healthier than any 29 year old should be. In fact we spent all of lunch arguing about the importance of lots of fiber in your diet, and how I should consider changing my spaghetti noodles to whole wheat if I insisted on eating carbs. Well really it was more like Elizabeth talking down to me, and me nodding to keep her from noticing that I wanted to throw my fork at her. “You know Ted in receiving is looking fine today. You should really think about giving him the time of day before I get my…” I will do my best not to kill Elizabeth. I will do my best NOT to kill ELIZABETH. I only have 15 more minutes until this hell is over. Just turn, smile, and nod politely it is not like she needs an answer or wants one. What the hell. Her perfectly manicured hand is flashing in front of my face. “Hey are you paying attention? I worry about you Marlene; you know you are not getting any younger. You’re like 32,” 28, “and in the past 5 years I have never heard you talk about anyone.” Like you would let me, you chatter box! I know you. One minute you would be listening to me and the next you would be sharing my most personal life details with the entire company. But then again, I know you talk about what you assume to be my lack of life behind my back. “Anyways maybe Ted is wrong for you, he is divorced and only looking for flings.” Elizabeth manages to shoot me a look that says I should be so lucky, even though her desk is almost directly behind mine. “You know he slept with Dana. Really he should have had better taste in all that. After all she is, how do I say this without sounding like a bitch, hmm…pudgy.” She seems to regret her choice of words, or maybe she feels bad about saying it at all. “At least you are proportional, and with me helping you to refine you look you could snag him.” Or maybe I will throw myself into the shredder down the hall. Better yet maybe I should throw you in the shredder. Tic, tic, tic, tic, screw this it is close enough and if I don’t get out of this office I might say something that would get me fired, or worse lose my only friend. Or end up in a prison sentence. “Where are you going we still have 10 more minutes of work left?” The concerned look on her face says that I am not doing what she expects of me, well fuck her. Out comes the whisper of defiance. “Home.” Come on you can do better than that, “I am going home.” ~ ~ ~ Maybe I should have been a little nicer. She didn’t deserve that kind of treatment; I know she can be a bitch sometimes, but she cares. In her own sick little way. When they hired her to work with me, because they decided that putting all the back logged data into the computers would be a good idea I was nervous. I had gotten so use to the silence, but now I can’t imagine going into work and her not being there. She is essential. Even loners have to talk to someone once in a while. “Oh, Jesus Christ! What are you doing?” His cold arms move off my shoulders, but leave behind the comfort of his black winter Carhartt jacket. Chuckling at me he says, “I could see you were shivering from the truck. No need to jump out of your skin.” With a far more serious tone, “Look, I might not be able to get you to move but that doesn’t mean you have to freeze to death.” I can’t help but smile at the gesture, just another sign of his roots. Probably raised by a women who told him that even if the world chose to label the lady with a unkind name, it didn’t mean she didn’t deserve to be treated like one. It is part of his charm to do the unexpected, the little things he does when you think he won’t. Like the second time we meet, and he brought along a picnic basket filled with dinner. He didn’t need the pretense, but he felt it only right. “Would you like me to get you your shoes too? Or would you just rather have the Smart Wools that are under the seat? Or even better you could warm up in the truck.” It is my turn to laugh so hard it burns, “Have you washed them since the last time you found a use for them?” Even the memory of that night is enough to get him excited. Probably doesn’t help that what was planned for tonight won’t anyways. Unlike most men, when he begins to get excited you won’t find the pup tent in his pants. Instead the look in his amber eyes are the first sign, like you’re the minty treat on his pillow before he climbs in for the night. I have to admit that this look makes me melt, and standing on the icy cement, cold at the edge of the cliff is not the best place to be melting. And when you can’t think because that look is drawing you in, you know that it could be a disaster. He decides to be kind and let me go for now. “I’ll grab your shoes beautiful.” He leans in and kisses my lips ever so softly, toying with the hormones that are still throbbing through my body. Creating a haze that slips over me faster than I thought was possible. Just as quickly as it came I shake it back off. “So I will take that as a no.” “Take what as a no?” “I can’t believe that you still haven’t washed those things. By now they should be able to get up and walk on their own.” “I can’t find them. Did you throw them out the window or something?” “The socks? I am pretty sure that you tossed them under the seat. Though I can’t imagine that being to sanitary.” “No. Your shoes woman.” “Why in the hell would I throw my brand new Mary Jane’s out the window? Those shoes are classic and cost me half a week’s salary.” His head shoots above the door. “Why in the hell would you want to spend that kind of money on shoes? Shit never mind, women and shoes never made any sense to me before.” He ducks his head back into the truck to continue looking for my shoes and I can’t help but wonder why he just doesn’t leave me here. “Will you help me look for them? You might have tossed them under the truck in your mad dash to the edge.” “I am not mad. And they should be under the seat.” Thinks that I am stupid enough to move, because the minute I walk over there is the minute he throws my ass in the truck and drives away. Charging down the hill like some knight in shining armor, trying to save the night from some horrible disaster. Well maybe I am a disaster waiting to happen at this point, but it doesn’t mean I am stupid. It is just hard to go to mindless job dressed in the same work clothes, and my hair tied back tight every day. Getting up at 6 am and clocking in at exactly 8, God you really could set your watch to my actions. Even when I step outside my routine it is at exactly the same time. Every Monday, Thursday, and Saturday night at 9:45 pm, I leave the house and go looking for what I need. I can almost guarantee that Garret will be there Thursday night every week, though tonight is a Saturday. Shit I can’t even try to deviate from my schedule, and when I try and plan something spontaneous I end up following the same steps. I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore, there has to be some freedom. God the fire below looks so warm and cozy, and it is so cold up here. All I have to is lean a little further out, and let the wind carry me down. Just closing my eyes I can feel the pull, the need to move further into the warmth of those little fires. “Found them.” Torn from one need to another I turn around to see my shiny vintage shoes. They don’t look very warm, but anything to separate me from the cement would be nice at this point in time. I don’t know how much more abuse my poor feet can take. “Why did you wear these tonight? You always got those old hiking boots on when I see you.” I can see the nostalgic grin on his face as he says, “Well except the first time.” Grabbing the stiff leather shoes from his hands I can’t help but smile as well. “For a man who doesn’t understand women and their shoes, you sure do remember what I like to wear.” Slipping my feet into the frozen shoes, I think about the first night for a moment. “I can’t believe you remember what shoes I was wearing. If it wasn’t for the fact that you never dress up I wouldn’t remember you in that suit, but for all I know you had those clunkers on then too.” “Well hell, you shrunk 3 inches the second night I saw you. Plus how can anyone miss those torture devices you had on your feet. Plus I couldn’t take my eyes off your legs.” “That would explain it I guess. I just didn’t think that high heels were a good choice for my feet up here.” I spread my arms wide with full intention of making a point, but instead I started to feel my inner compass pull me back towards nothing. The next thing I hear is, “OH SHIT!” out of both of us. It takes me less time to turn my head and see nothing beneath me then it would have taken me to jump. And in this moment I can’t help think that I won’t make it. That my right to make a choice is gone, and now I am going to die without anyone ever knowing that I wasn’t who they thought I was. No one would know thatI love to paint, and I spend hours every weekend working on my paintings. That just like old predictable me, you would have found me wearing my Bob Ross T-shirt and ancient paint covered overalls hiding in my back room with the currents left open in order to take advantage of the natural light. Hovering over the smallest detail and trying to work out how to mix the perfect shade of green to accent the vines crawling up a disintegrating iron bench I was working on this afternoon. What would they think of me when they see that bench, and the other paintings that litter the spare room? Would they say I had this untapped talent, or would they say just like that college professor that I should never show anyone my work again? That talent was not something you could learn, but you were born with. Pure and rare talent was fire inside someone to create something out of nothing, and what I did was an abomination to the word art. Maybe they would be kind like the green eyed boy and say that they are sad and beautiful in their own right. What does it matter no one I know will be there in the house after I am gone, and no one I know will ever hear about them. Just as I resign myself to falling and never waking up, a steam of light crosses over me and I can see Garret grabbing my extended hand just in time. This time I have no need to push him away, and instead clutch onto his bulk as he pulls me in. The wind is pushing the scent of diesel trucks that he works on, and a bit of wood smoke towards me, and for a moment I make myself believe that this is right. That these are the strong arms that I come home to everyday after working with Elizabeth. That he is the man I tell everything to, including how while most of the time I want to shove a sock in her mouth she is still my friend. And while he can’t possible understand why he still loves me. But like everything else I have to remember who I am with, and I can’t lean on him. He isn’t that person. “Oh my god, that was a trip.” As I move my body away from his and towards the ground to sit Garret just stands there dumb founded. As though I am not suppose to sound so calm and collected about almost plummeting to my death, as if they teach that type of etiquette. Though no matter how steady my voice stays or still my hands are, it doesn’t mean that I am not scared. It doesn’t mean that I am not falling apart at the seams. “How in the Hell can you act like that didn’t just happen? Woman are you trying to kill yourself, or just see how long it would take to give me a heart attack? I mean if it wasn’t for the damn headlights I don’t know if I could have grabbed you before your ass went flying over the edge. You seem to think that I don’t…” “Headlights? But your truck hasn’t moved.” “It must have been someone else who is actually going to get lucky tonight?” “Quit acting like the kid who didn’t get a cookie. I think for all that I have done for you, and don’t argue with me on this one buddy, I desire a few minute of your time.” “You know you need to back off, you are nothing special. Not like I can’t replace you in minutes if I wanted to. Hell I am being the good guy here, I should have dumped you ass when you ran to take a nose dive. Hell I can’t seem to find a reason for you stopping.” “Ha. The good guy, you only came up here to get fucked. That is all you ever come up here for. Shit I know that is the only reason I have ever used this space for, and you sure as hell are not the only person I have been here with.” “Yeah right, you get your fucking panties in a bunch just talking to another person. Hell come to think of it your mouth has been flapping more tonight then it has since I meet you. Well at least when it comes to bitching.” “Oh go suck your own cock.” Both of us are poised to pounce and I have somehow managed to get back to my feet. I can feel the heat of rage rise from the pit of my stomach out to every muscle. Each hand tensing into fist, and every muscle in my arms and back begging to swing. “That’s what you’re for.” Thrusting another oil stained finger at me. Oh that is it, thinks he can pretend to be the better person, and act like this is my entire fault. Like I need your ass here to listen to me, I would rather jump them put up with your shit. No I should push your hairy ass over the edge and let that be the end of all your bullshit. Then at least one of my problems will get solved tonight. It is not like I need you here for anything else, you’re just another voice talking at me. Hold on woman, breath count to ten. One, drop your arms, two, now the fist, three, deep breath, four, maybe it isn’t that bad, five, let go, six, seven, eight, he is the only person who would care enough to stay, nine, ten. Okay sit your ass back down on the ground, and breath Marlene. It won’t do you any good to get angry at him. “Sorry.” “What?” I look up and see his face flushed from the sudden anger now being distorted into confusion. Like a quickly deflating balloon he sinks to the ground next to me. “Why did that just happen?” “Two years of pent up frustration that we couldn’t sweat out I guess.” “Maybe. Why are we sitting on the ground?” “Just felt like that is where I should be.” Without the blare of our argument, the trees made dark noises with the wind. Scratching and knocking together all around us, and the distant hum of a car engine caught my ear. “What about those headlights?” “What headlights?” “The ones you said you saw. You said there was another car up here?” “Well we are not the only ones who have been to the lookout.” “I know. You’re not the only one I have been here with. You know these trees are far more familiar with me than I care to admit, and they tend to be far more fascinating than my revolving company.” “What?” “Oh wipe that dumb hick look off your face. You can’t pretend that you are the only man on the planet. Least not the only one I am stupid enough to sleep with without getting a name first.” I hate to admit to him that sitting down feels good, and after an hour of standing in one spot was enough to kill my calves and turn my feet purple. I should be happy he keeps the wools socks in the truck, just in case he gets one of his whims to go hunting, but I wish they had were clean. Soon I might have to give in and wear them anyways. “I am not dumb, or a hick for that matter. And who you fuck is none of my business.” “You’re mad I bring them here though aren’t you. That I would take a space that is supposed to be just for us.” “Who said you were the only one.” He heaves himself off the cement edge and walks back to the truck. I don’t know why the thought never crossed my mind. Why did I think that I was the only one who would be bringing others up here? I can hear him rummaging through something, and then walking back. All the confidence in the world plastered across his face. “I am just surprised that we haven’t run into one another. After all this is one of the best places to be away from everyone, and to focus solely on the act at hand.” I can see his smirk outlined by the light of a cigarette that he appears to produce from nowhere. “Sorry did you want one?” “When did you start smoking? And no I don’t want one; they are nothing more than an addictive oral fixation.” From beside me his bombing laugh feels as though he could shake the heavens, and I am not surprised to find him clutching his gut and trying to catch his breath. “You worried about forming an addictive oral fixation?” I know it is childish but at this point sticking my tongue out seems to be the only good answer to his question, that and a playful shove when he finally makes it back to my side after rolling on the ground. I feel light in the chest and the urge to laugh with him, but even with all jokes aside we were still here for a reason. I just need to figure out what it is. “Would you put that smelly thing out already?” “Sorry, bad habit. Every time I try to quite something seems draw me back.” “Sounds like me.” “Huh?” “Every time you try to leave me here, I seem to find a new button to push to keep you here. Every time I say it is last time, I do it again.” “Yeah I guess.” As the night draws on the city gets brighter, blazing below us full of happy families settling in for a good night’s sleep. Each one turning on the security light for the night, so that they can feel safer inside their little worlds. Like a child warding off the boogie man with the night light her father bought her, but her mother would call her a baby for having. Closer to downtown lights begin to spark for different reasons. Being a Saturday night means that all the clubs in town would be packed full of lonely people looking to hook up for the night, and the lights of the clubs are beacons for them to find their next fix. When Garret is not available those clubs are where I go to get my fix. Trolling like a man through the crowds for the nearest fit to my requirements. Must be taller than me but not by much, broad, and able to keep his mouth shut. Sometimes these men are easy to find, standing against the wall just waiting for a woman to say, “fuck me”. When I walk up to them and say just this, they get this look of shock, and then awe, and then the greedy smile of a man who thinks he is getting what he wants. Sometimes I take what I need from them in bathrooms or the parking lot of the club I found them at. But it is the ones that I feel can be trusted for a short while that I would bring up here. For some reason it feels natural to be up here, even if Garret isn’t with. There was one man… ~ ~ ~ “God you’re sexy. Do you taste like you look?” I can feel his sweaty palms stroking my bare arms as he maneuvers his body closer to mine pinning me between him and the car. Looking up I see the look of a wannabe alpha male, and I have turned out to be what he believes is his prize for the night. But this is not the first time that we have been together, and I know that I have all the power here. Pushing his hands off my arms, I step into his space and he takes one step back. “Want to find out?” I walk around the car taking charge of the situation, and like all the men before him he follows. Mitchell always comes across as this egotistical alpha male, but in all reality he is nothing more than a little boy that wants to play with the big boy toys. And while I don’t have to put up with his shit, I enjoyed his eagerness to please. But he would never come close to as fun to be with as Garret. That’s why this is the last night I plan to spend with him, even eagerness gets boring after a while. ~ ~ ~ “I know you are not ready to leave yet, but it is freezing out here and I would like nothing more than to go sit in the truck.” “I’m not stopping you.” I am not stopping you from anything, you could leave now and it would be okay. I will be fine here by myself, because I should have come here by myself anyways. “Actually you are. I feel really bad if I am sitting in the truck with the heater running and you not in there with me. So either you get up and come with and warm up, or we sit here till one of our butts freezes to the cement and we have to have someone peal us off.” “Promise I can come back out here when I can feel my feet again?” “I promise we will not leave till you want to.” As he stands up he drags my arm along with him in order to pull me up. “After all I am pretty sure that you would jump out of the truck while it is moving if you really didn’t want to leave. And I really don’t feel like explaining why the crazy lady broke her arm or something.” “Awe! You know me so well.” “Not really, but I am starting to see you a little better.” I have never heard anyone talk about me like that before, and I don’t quite understand why he thinks that he could know me. Even a little bit. After all, I have done everything in my power to keep him as far from me as possible. He only knows my first name. He calls my prepaid cell so he can’t find me if I don’t want him to. If I decided one day to toss the thing in the trash, or stop refilling the minutes he would never find me. We always meet at the grocery store, and go from there. I don’t talk about what I do for a living, and the only person he knows that I do is someone he doesn’t speak to. The hostess of the party we meet at, and he never talks about her. He loves talk, filling what he feels as awkward moments with useless facts about his life. Like his love of working on trucks, and his distaste of people. How he chooses to live outside of town to ensure that he never has to deal with nosy neighbors. He feels like he is free from all the bullshit of the outside worlds because if it came to it he could survive without the rest of us. For someone who likes to be alone, he still seems to need to be around people. Well women to be exact. If I listen carefully I would catch hints of the other women he sees, and how they compare to me. He once told me of a woman who likes to cook him dinner every once in a while, and his face becomes light with the idea of her warmth. But then again how far can you keep someone who you are sleeping with away from you? It was impossible to keep him out of my life, with that cheesy smile looking down at me the first morning. He was the first person who stopped pretending like I was a coffee table to set your crap down on and started treating me like I really was real. I never knew you could feel like the sun was in a part of your core self, lighting everything in from the inside out. Creating waves of joy that no one could ignore, having your girlfriends ask who he is, even though you have yet to mention his existence. Giving someone the ability to transform your grief into his cheesy smile and walking around with it on your face, breathing life into every cell in your body. Because you no longer have to feel like that outsider viewing life from inside a cold machine, and everyone around you can see that you are alive. He makes you alive, keeps you warm inside. You become so dependent on his presence. Powerless. “Are you okay Marlene?” Whipping the wetness from my face I tell him, “My feet just hurt.” Really everything hurts, and my feet are the least of the pain. I just have to keep going, keep moving forward. Before something moves me. Inside the truck the rumble of the engine and the warm air is comforting, and far less intimidating then the trees and cold outside. I kick my feet up on the dash to feel the rush of heat, leaving my shoes once again under the seat. Beside me Garret fusses with the radio, keeping his eyes just slightly away from looking directly at me. There is still the feeling that I might do something abrupt and throw him for a loop. I wonder if I tried to run for the edge again if he would just get out and stop me. Or would he watch me go over the edge in silence? Is he going to pick a station already or does he plan to keep playing spin the wheel till the air is clear. Country, rap, oldies, classic rock, pop, and NPR? What an interesting line up of programs. Always wondered what the 6th channel was, guess that would answer it. “Excuse me.” Reaching under my legs he fumbles to open the glove box. I bend my knees to get a better look at what he is trying to fish out of there and what do I find, but the pack of cigarettes that till today I have never seen or smelled. There is also an IPod and the cords to hook it up to the cd payer, and that seems to be just what he is looking for. There are also papers neatly folded in a pile and some small bottles I can’t identify in the fleeting light. Part of me wants to push his hands aside and start digging through the glove box to see what they all are, but tonight is probably not the night to start digging into his life. But then again what could I lose if I do; it isn’t like I haven’t portrayed myself as the psychotic woman already. “What else you got in there?” Reaching forward, he pushes my hands away and starts to close the glove box again. “Nothing you need to be digging in.” Watching him hook up his green IPod I want, no need, to open that glove box. The same arbitrary box that has been sitting in front of me night after night, for the past two years. Never once catching my eye or interesting me in its contents. Instead I would keep my eyes on the passing trees growing thicker and larger with every mile we moved away from Pardee, and then my eyes would lock on the sky or down at him. What does he have in there? Maybe I could just…”Get your hand off the latch.” “I wasn’t doing anything.” Give him the innocent look, the one that makes people believe that you would never do, well anything. He chuckles. “That won’t work on me. Though it is a good look on you. Like that night that you were out in front of the head lights. I swear I thought you were going to have to take me to the hospital.” “Why? I didn’t do anything wrong. I was just walking to the truck.” “In a tight red sweater cut so low I thought you would fall out of it, but that was just the beginning after all you weren’t wearing anything underneath.” “I had a skirt on.” “And nothing else. Plus that skirt barely counts as a piece of cloth. There wasn’t enough there to even use as a rag.” “That didn’t stop you. How long ago was that?” “I think little over a year. It was warm outside and it wasn’t this summer.” “Wow. Logically I know we have been, well, we have known each other for two years. But when you put it that way it seems like a long time. I couldn’t even tell you where that outfit is now.” “I can. I ripped the skirt, remember?” I forgot about that. That was an interesting ride back to my car. “We stopped at that station right outside of town that sells crappy tourist clothes. I got you those tie dye shorts. It was that or give you my shorts and you refused to take them.” “Could you imagine if we got pulled over? Trying to explain why the hell I was sitting there with my torn skirt in my lap.” “Hell it didn’t even look like a skirt. But then again it didn’t look like one when you were wearing it either.” “You should see your face.” “Oh I know what I look like right now. You have a tendency to surprise me once in a while. And I have spent more than enough time in the mirror trying to wipe the look off my face, before you can get anymore pleasure out of it.” Leaning into him so I can relax and stretch out in the truck, “Why would you do that?” “Cause woman,” wrapping his arm around me, “if you knew what you do to me sometimes, you would take advantage of it.” I would wouldn’t I. Just like the others, I would take what I want and leave. They are so easy to read, and what they want is written across their faces. You never look at me like they do. I have to work for the same response; well I thought I did anyways. “Hmm...You are probably right. So can I look in the glove box now?” “No. You can pick some music out on the IPod though. I really didn’t know what you wanted to listen to and I didn’t feel like listening to commercials on the radio.” “Just set it to random. I don’t really know what I want to listen to.” “Okay but be forewarned, I listen to everything.” Lying back against Garret with my feet still propped up on the dashboard I realize for the first time tonight there is no moon in sight. The night sky is lacking the light the moon caste down, but that is fine because the stars are brightening the night sky. The closer it gets to the middle of the night the darker everything gets. Just as my eyes close I hear the hum of a song begin. The rhythm is familiar and the cored brings me back. ~ ~ ~ “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.” His beautiful green eyes. “I bet you say that to all the girls.” God his hand feels so strong in my mine. His body is so close I can feel the heat from the concert coming off him in waves. “I see that smile. I love that smile.” He pulls me close, and he smells of Hugo Blue. We picked the sent out together, because he wanted to please me. He didn’t need to, he could smell like gasoline and I would still love him. “How about we make that smile crack your face.” He leans in and his lips caress my cheeks one at a time. He loves to keep me waiting for the kiss, the final touch. Just when I think he is going to give in he moves to my nose, like he is now. But that is okay because I will get the kiss in the end. Feel his lips firmly encapsulating mine, transferring the heat behind the kiss into me. Warming each nerve ending in my body, and giving me a feeling I never thought I would have. I want to wrap my arms around him and never let him go, but we still have to walk home. And that means that we need to keep moving, and we can’t stay in this embrace. This will be have to be just another moment to talk about when we are old and grey. In between the bickering over if it is too hot or too cold in the house. Just another perfect moment we can keep to remember. “You always know what I need. Promise me you will always be here. Just like this holding my hand and making me smile.” “I promise. You couldn’t get rid of me even if you wanted to.” Trust me I will never want to. You can stay by my side forever. You are the only one who can make me feel this way. The only one who can keep me smiling, my lovely green eyed boy. ~ ~ ~ “What type of music do you like? You never say anything about the music. I never even hear you sing along.” “I really don’t listen to music. I don’t have a working radio in the car and I spend most of my free time reading.” And that is all you are getting out of me. “But you were just humming the last song.” “Yeah it is at least what 6 years old. You can’t be in college and not listen to music. I think you would go insane.” “But that song only came out 2 years ago. How could you have heard it 6 years ago?” “It was a local band near the college I went to. I thought it was their best song, and took the time to learn every note. I think I went to every concert they had my senior year.” “You went to concerts. Oh I can see it now, you are sitting in the back of some dusty bar, sipping on your wine. Dressed to kill, but not really talking to anyone.” “I was different back then.” “I don’t believe it.” “That’s your choice.” Guitar riffs float around the cab of the truck creating a calm atmosphere. So much so that I began to fall asleep right where I am, letting the warmth wrap around me. Both of us began to drift. Each beat slowing down. Each lid getting heavier. The truck getting warmer. The night getting darker. Slowly being rocked to sleep with each thump of the bass and purr of the engine. Another song I know floats through my thoughts as I drift away. ~ ~ ~ The sun is blazing today, so I slip my shades down from the top of my head. I ask him if he will put some lotion on my back. His hands knead the lotion in and the knots out easing the burden of my last test, and relaxing me. He keeps massaging my neck even though the lotion is gone. We sit there, staring out at the waves and they keep crashing onto the shore. With each wave I can feel the spray of water wash away some of the heat of the sun. We watch as families play in the sand. One little girl sits beside her father as she covers him with sand. As she giggles her dark curls bounce. He rises up from the sand, reaching for her as she scurries away. Another perfect moment. I wake up choking on my own lungs. The smell of the smoke is too much. I can’t smell anything else. It is so dark, and I can’t find the light. All around me is warmth, burning even. So dark, I just need to find the light. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t see. Where is the light? Where is he? I need to get out. I need fresh air. I can’t even scream for help. I need light. I need something to help me see. Where is the light? Is it getting warmer? He was just here next to me. Where could he have gone? I need air. I need air. I need the light. I need him. ~ ~ ~ Headlights cross my eyes and I jump, “I need to get out of here.” I shove his arm off my chest. I can’t get the door open, why won’t it open? I keep struggling with the handle. I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here. It is too warm, I am suffocating. “Calm down. You’re going to rip the latch off.” “I need to get out of here.” His hand reaches out and undoes the lock. I fall out of the truck. I was leaning on the door so hard I fell out of the truck, but at least I can breathe. I breathe in the cold air, and the trucks noises die beside me. The earth is wet beneath me getting my knees and hands and they soak in the damp soil. It is okay just breathe slowly, you will be okay. You just dozed off, your still here. From above Garret is looking down at me. I don’t have to turn around to know he is there. I can imagine what I look like on all fours gasping at the earth. Trying so hard to breathe, just breathe. I can feel his hand slowly rubbing my back. Slow circles to reassure me that I am not alone. Trying to help me calm down and relax. But that isn’t going to happen, I have been so tense for so long. Ready to jump at the slightest sound. Ready to pack up and leave all over again. Move as far away from everything. “It is okay. It was just a bad dream. Come on get back in the truck and we will clean your hands off.” I can’t stop shaking and it is not okay. It has not been okay in a long time. It can never be okay. The rain that never left came back, soaking not only my knees and hands but now the rest of me. And that dying feeling, that sick pain deep inside refuses to move, and instead it grows and spreads. It naws away at everything inside of me, eating away at everything that is left. It just keeps eating away, and it will keep eating away till there is nothing left inside of me. “It was just a bad dream beautiful. It can’t hurt you. It wasn’t real.” But it is was, it felt like it was. It can hurt me and it does. It hurts more than I want to admit to you. Just keep breathing. The door moves further away from me and Garret climbs out of the truck. He wraps his arms around me, and pulls me close. “Why are you crying beautiful?” I didn’t know I was. I don’t want to tell you. If I don’t tell you, if I don’t tell anyone it never happened. Nothing happened. “Nothing. It is nothing.” “Okay, but can we get back in the truck? The rain is freezing.” “I can’t go back in there. I can’t breathe in there.” “How about we leave the door open then. So that way you are not really in the truck, and you can step out without hurting yourself again.” “I am fine.” “No you’re bleeding and crying. You are not fine.” I watch him fuss over me, looking for something to really concern him. I keep looking at him waiting to see if he finds something to be concerned about. As I look down I realize I am bleeding. But wait, how fascinating, I can’t feel anything. Where is it all coming from? On my hands and pants, spreading and soaking into the earth, and being washed away by the rain again. Maybe I should get up and in the truck. There I could get a better look at myself. But the pain in my chest tightens again. Screaming for me to stay put, but I silence it with the promise of leaving the door open. Just like he said I could, because that way I am not really in the truck, just out of the rain. Nodding to him, he manages to help me up. From under the seat he pulls out a clean rag and a bottle of water to help get rid of the mud that has caked onto and into my hands and feet. I watch him, numb, as he takes care of me. Checking each hand to make sure all my cuts are clean. With each minute passing I can feel more of my panic being washed away, and becoming more of myself again. “Sorry.” “For what beautiful?” His eyes never leaving my hands. “For being a pain in your ass. For jumping out of the truck like a mad woman.” “Which time?” We both laugh, but there is a anxiety to both of us. I am waiting to see what other crazy idea pops into my head, and so is he. I really should think about going back down the hill and have him take me home. I don’t think I could drive the 10 miles back to my house from the grocery store, especially if it is raining. I just can’t go home yet though, I can’t imagine being alone in that house. Walking up and down the halls looking for a spark of life. For the last few years to make sense. For that moment when we no longer feel alone, and you start to feel safe inside your own skin. “Well that should do for now, but you might want to clean them again when you get home.” He climbs out of the mud and walks around the truck to get back in. I put my newly wet feet up on the floor of the truck, curling my toes into the course floor mats. I keep my head down, watching as my feet try desperately to cling to the mat, I whisper, “Thank you.” He is not yet in the truck, and instead of getting in he seems to be muttering to himself about something. From where I sit I can’t hear what he is saying, but I can tell by his gestures that he is not happy. As I watch him throw his fit, I realize that I am the reason why he is over reacting. Digging under the seat I find my shoes and pull them on. I am going to find out what all this is about. He just needs to calm the hell down, it’s not like it is the end of the world.

Update on Workshopping plus Dan's Novella

2008-11-03T16:39:00.000-08:00

Below I've copy and pasted Dan's novella if you want it up here for reference. Hard (paper) copies of Dan's novella and Charles' novella are already on the 8th floor. After posting this I'll make hard copies of Jonathan's as well. Next week we'll discuss all three. A Novella- Dan Zollman 3 November 2008 ENGL 471 A cold front had moved in over the Russian country side near the city of Petrozavodsk. A cold temperatures drove most of the residents in doors, leaving the place barren and still. Occasionally a resident would venture out, moving sluggish, as if they were in an old black and white picture movie, fighting to keep the cold on the outside. There was nothing else to do but wait for the ocean currents and the wind to bring some warmth back into the land. Until then the snowmen would remain unfinished in the square, resembling standing corpses as they lost limbs, eyeballs, and buttons without the children there to maintain them. Only one car moved through the town this early in the morning, its tires cracking harshly against the ice crystals on the road. The iced windows prevented anyone from seeing who was driving but the small clear hole in the front windshield showed that there was at least some warmth inside the car. The small, black volvo moved slowly but deliberately through the town, attracting the attention of the old men who sat at their windows drinking coffee. They were glad that they were not outside in this cold. The Iron Curtain had been lifted for over a decade but that had not let in any warmer air into Russia. Russia was still Russia just as it always will be. It was now a Russia without all of the bells and whistles of the Soviet Union. The Glorious Revolution had backfired on the Russian people but they did what they do best. They lasted. They did not admit defeat and adopt the ways of England, France, or America instead they chose a new strategy and remained unique and independent. One thing was for certain though, the Russia people did not long to return to any of the ways of Soviet Russia. They had been persecuted and humiliated under that regime and they no longer wanted any part of it... most of them anyways. The black car moved down the road until it came into view. The Petrozavodsk paper mill was seated upon a small hill, standing out like a giant playground amidst the country landscape. The mill had been a product of Soviet Russia, who spared no expense in making it a large and unbecoming blemish on the land. The Soviets had grand ideas of making and controlling all of the printed paper in that area of Russia with the Petrozavodsk plant. In its time the smoke stacks would never rest from spewing out the dark particles that came from producing thousands of lies. Whenever someone wished to publish a book, a copy was sent to this plant where it was first read over closely. The plant employed literary experts who could recognize the slightest anti-Soviet tone in a sentence like “the red sun set against a dark sky” which of course called for the fall of the Soviet Union. At this point the book would be highlighted and sent to an authority who would decide either that the book should be edited or that the book should be burnt and the author should be shot, or at least have their hands broke. From this plant came forth some of the most brilliant Soviet propaganda. Posters supporting Lenin and Stalin’s five year plan were printed here. Magazines glorifying the works of the proletariat in creating the large factories were printed here. Pamphlets that instructed citizens in identifying anti-Soviet supporters were produced here. Generic letters to the families of the dead were produced here. The plant had been alive. Now only part of the plant was actually used. The dormitories that had housed the employees were barren, and the printing press lay rusted and broken inside the large warehouse. The plant was only a producer of clean white paper. The grounds in and around the plant were always littered with paper. Much of it was that same old propaganda that was printed during the dying throes of the Soviet Union. During those last few years the plant was still producing but the paper wasn’t going anywhere. The citizens needed a job, and they were ordered to produce paper even if the trucks seldom came to pick up any of their products. The ghosts of the Soviet Union haunted the surrounding area as the wind liberated the paper from its resting place within the plant. “WE ARE SORRY TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON HAS DIED IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY........” “YOUR CURRENT PLACE OF RESIDENCE IS BEING DEMOLISHED, PLEASE RELOCATE TO ONE OF THE COMMUNITY RESIDENCES THAT WE HAVE PROVIDED....” “YOUR HUSBAND HAS BEEN SHOT TO DEATH BY FIRING SQUAD AFTER UNDENIABLE EVIDENCE IN HIS PARTICIPATION IN ANTI-SOVIET MATTERS WAS FOUND. PAY THE FOLLOWING SUM FOR THE BULLET THAT WAS WASTED UNDER PENALTY OF LAW...” Everyone hated the plant, but seeing as it still provided jobs for some people it was tolerated. Parents would send their children out to gather the paper for their fires, trying to get some use out of the hurtful drifting nuisances. The children thought it was fun to collect some of the most rare and personal papers and keep them. They would trade these papers back and forth or play games in which they would imagine themselves issuing the letter to someone. To them it was a game, it was no longer real. The elders would sit inside and watch their lives be reenacted by the children outside, shuddering at the thought of what could be written on those papers. Thankfully the pen had lost its bite. The black Volvo pulled into the parking lot in front of the plant. The sky above the plant was clear that day because there was nothing coming out of the smokestacks. The light was dulled by light ice fog created by the cold, giving everything a grayish complexion. The door opened and a blue heel stepped out onto the ground. The door slammed, echoing in the parking lot, and the figure made her way down the sidewalk, ignoring the cold with her steady pace. The sound of her heels on the cold pavement was like a watch, click-clack click-clack, growing steadily louder as it bounced off the building she was approaching. A few restless pieces of papers took flight as doors to the entrance were flung open. When she entered a room people would adjust themselves. Men sat up straight and women would fix their hair as her tall, slender frame marched across a room, always with a purpose. Her very presence demanded respect and attention, creating a tense atmosphere in every place she visited. Her light blue eyes would almost lifelessly survey their surroundings, pausing to stare people directly in their faces. Sometimes people who did not know her nervously mistook this as a gesture of familiarity and would smile back at her. Kristina Bazhenov did not smile. To Kristina a smile was a sign of weakness, showing that you either did not know what was going on or that you were giving in and submitting your self to another person. She hung her long gray coat on one of the hooks in the entrance way and made her way inside. Her long strands of light blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, adding more definition to the sharp features of her face. Kristina took great pride in her hair, letting it grow long and always keeping it combed. In her purse she always kept an assortment of combs and a small pair of scissors just in case her hair got out of control, which seldom happened. She never missed a chance to check her hair when she passed in front of anything that reflected back at her. Kristina was stunning, unforgettable, and intimidating but she was not beautiful in the “common” sense of the word. Her face seemed weathered, making her seem older than she really was. Her teeth were small, gray, and sharp little protrusions that stuck out haphazardly inside her mouth. If you could not hear her talking she would look like some sort of vicious animal flashing its teeth at you, but people pretended not to notice her teeth. Her voice was low pitched and commanding but she spoke with perfect pronunciation. This was Kristina Bazhenov as she appeared to the world. She entered the main office of Vitally Frolov her manager only to find that he was not there. In fact the whole factory was quiet and cold. Kristina thought that apparently people were using the cold as an excuse to be late, or even worse not come to work today. Vitally is not fit to be manager if he cannot set a good example for the rest of the workers. She would have to let the owners of the the mill know about this incident. Kristina made a memo to herself in the small notebook that she always had on her person. The plant was unusually cold, probably because the giant furnace had not been turned on yet. Kristina moved to the managers chair and sat down, watching her breath rise above her for a moment. She had been at the mill for eight years now, rising quickly through the ranks. What was she really doing here? What would happen when she became manager? She reached out and put her hands on the cold service of the desk, leaving them there. Kristina’s family used to live in Petrozavodsk. They lived there throughout the duration of the Soviet Union and the Cold War with the United States. Kristina, being the youngest member of her family, was brought into the world at the same time the Soviet Union was being kicked out. Her father was a member of the KGB and often had to leave her sickly mother with herself plus her four brothers and two sisters. She had loved her father more than anyone else. He called her his sweet Tina and always gave her the most attention when he was at home. She had loved her papa more than anything else in the world. “Papa, why do you have to go?” She said, crying into the rough wool fabric of his coat. “Sweet little Tina, Papa has to go. It is his job. But don’t worry, I’ll always come back to you baby.” His voice was warm and reassuring. “But what do you do papa? Why can’t I come too?” Kristina asked, her blue eyes peering into his own. “Someday baby, someday you can go too. Until then be a good girl and help your mother.” He tore her off of him and set her on the ground. His car had pulled in to pick him up, and he said some more quick goodbyes to the other members of his family. Kristina stood there sobbing and holding her face in her hands. She heard the door slam and looked up to see her daddy inside the car. She screamed out “Papa!” But he didn’t look back. She was five years old at the time and she has not seen him since that day. Now at the age of twenty-five she finds herself reliving that day. The sound of the door screeching open brought her back to present time. Even in the office Kristina could feel the draft of cold air enter the room. After a minute her red nosed boss entered the room. Vitally Frolov was a middle aged man with a large beard and an even larger belly. His wife fed him well at home, evidence of his meals could always be found hiding amongst the curls of his beard. At first he did not notice Kristina’s presence in the room as he set his coat and lunch box down and began to fiddle with his boots. “Oh! Kristina, I did not see you there. What brings you here so early on such a cold day?” He asked her, still bent over his boots. “Seven O’clock, I believe is the designated starting time for managers at this plant. Why should the cold give us an excuse to be late?” She said, rising from his seat and walking toward him. Vitally’s boots were now off, and he stood on the cold floor in only his socks. Kristina moved in between him and his locker where his shoes were, standing a good four inches taller than him with her heels on. “I am going to my office to sort out the orders for next week. You had better turn on the furnace or the workers will complain and want to go home.” A look of hope flashed in Vitally’s eyes for a moment but she quickly said “but we won’t let them will we?” “No Kristina, we have too much work to get done, we cannot fall behind. I will turn the furnace on as soon as I put my shoes on. And try to get those reports done by lunch so that I an look forward to them. Goodbye. That last statement reminded Kristina that he was the boss. She was always at least ahead of her work and there was no reason for getting the reports done today. She stood there for a second longer, looking down at the defiant little man. He had his victory and she would leave him there to relish in it. “Goodbye!” She replied shortly and then quickly exited the room, leaving Vitally standing by himself. Vitally put on his cold but more comfortable Nike shoes and then went out to start up the furnace. Working in a paper mill invited the habit of blowing out the pilot every day before leaving. This prevented any of the drifting paper from catching on fire and it saved fuel. Vitally made his way down the stairs to the first floor where the large furnace was located. He bent over and grabbed a piece paper, lit it on fire, and turned on the gas while holding the burning paper next to the gas outlet. With a little poof the gas ignited and Vitally dropped the paper. He moved over to the wall and turned the furnace up to sixty degrees. Kristina would not like it to be up that high, but he did not care. It was cold and he was the boss. He made short little hops to quickly go up the stairs that led to his office. The sound of the furnace starting up could be heard throughout the plant. The workers would arrive soon and huddle around the vents, putting work off until their hands and feet warmed up or until Kristina came out and saw them. Kristina gave a short “hmmph” of contentment as she heard the heater start up. Vitally would have to get used to listening to her. She had chosen an office that was far away from the most active part of the mill. It was colder back down the corridor, but she liked it back there. This was her favorite part of the mill. She opened the door to her office, a small room covered in paper. Kristina, like the children, had also taken to collecting interesting pieces of the past. Many of the old Soviet posters that hung on the wall were illuminated by the glow of the small desk lamp that she turned on, the motionless faces of the figures on the wall stared on in silence. Kristina’s desk was littered with paper and on one side sat two stacks of books. The books were old and weather beaten, it was impossible to see the print on most of the covers and several of the books did not even have covers. These were the old manuscripts that had been sent for review but ended up getting backlogged into the piles of books that the plant had received. Kristina would collect these books and bring them back to her office in her spare time. She had read through the interpreted works of philosophers from around the world and she had the privilege of being the sole reader of many great pieces of fiction. When she was finished with a book she stayed true to the old government and tossed the book in the fire. Something felt good about erasing the words of these people. It silenced the doubts in her mind. Kristina had come to the paper mill not because she loved paper or any thing to do with it. She came because it had been affiliated with the Soviet KGB and it had been a key player in subterfuge and propaganda. She would be like her father, a woman devoted to the old government up until her dying breath. Her father had been a man of action, he served faithfully and made the ultimate sacrifice for his country and his family. Kristina could not see any higher honor than this so she committed herself to leading a similar lifestyle. Unfortunately for her, not everyone held the same view. It was hard enough being a woman in a land ruled by men, but it was even harder to be a Soviet supporter and a woman. She had tried to get into government, secret service, and even the police but there was just no place for her. Her mother tried to convince her to let go of her ideas and ideals. “Why do you insist on keeping the old memories alive?” Her mother asked her. “Because it is all I have mama, its all... without this I am nothing!” “Without what? Without dreams and your love for that old government. You are nothing now Tina.” “Don’t call me that, that was papa’s name.” “Why can’t I call you that, I’m your mother.” Mrs. Bazhenov paused for a moment, thinking on her next words. “And I am still here for you!” Kristina was filled with anger and astonishment. “How could you say that! How could you say that papa was not here for us. He gave up everything for us. What did you do? You are always sick, you just sit around being sick all the time. Papa loved us all, even you and...” “Enough Kristina! You do not know what you say. I’ve known your father alot longer than you, do you not think I miss him too. But how old were you when he left? Five, right? How much of him do you really remember? It has been 12 years now Kristina. Did you know that he actually spent most of his time up in the mill? He was only a few miles away Kristina..” She had heard enough. With that last sentence Kristina found herself running out of the house, making her way up to the mill. Perhaps there was some trace of her father there, maybe someone could tell her something? She ran through the icy roads, past the children building their snowmen, and down the long road to the mill. She could see it in the distance, smoke billowing out of the stacks. With each stride she came closer and the mill grew larger. The paper mill was the last thing that her and her father could share. Kristina tried hard to remember his face, his voice, but it was all a garbled vision of the past. He never looked back, she knew that, she could still see his hat in the window. But they would always have the mill. That is why she worked so hard, she must be perfect so that they could never take the mill away from her. The mill must stay productive so that it would never be closed down. The mill was all that Kristina had left. Her family had left years ago, heading for a warmer climate. “Traitors!” Kristina thought to herself. How could they just pack up and leave behind their heritage? They had lived in the community residence for at least twenty years. They knew people here. She would never leave the mill behind. Kristina put down the book that she had been reading, another one for the fire entitled, The Fires of Heaven. The book encouraged the reader to challenge authorities, a major problem for leaders in business and politics. She picked up the stack of orders and began processing them, there seemed to be fewer than usual. Back in his office Vitally was basking in the heat that poured into his room from the vent below him. He had positioned his desk and chair so that he was seated directly above the warm vent. Vitally was not concerned with the orders today, he had just learned of a very important event. The paper mill was going to be absorbed! It was not to be absorbed by just anyone, it was being taken over by an American company. The United News Network, better known as UNN, had reached an agreement with the owners of the company that very day. “Why would they want this old building?” Vitally wondered. The labor was cheap, but not as bad as it was in other places. “Mother Russia must really be losing it if we are cooperating with the Americans now.” But this didn’t bother vitally. He was told that he would be able to keep his job, but they would have to replace some of the personnel with Americans. Vitally was writing furiously on a piece of paper. It was a proposal. The phone on the side of the wall began ringing. Vitally glanced at it for a moment but quickly abandoned the prospect of moving away from the warmth to answer the phone. Vitally had an opportunity to get rid of one of his major problems. Kristina Bazhenov was bad news. He had watched her quickly rise to her manager position and he felt that his own job security had been threatened. Vitally had never really liked women, especially women with an attitude like Kristina’s. Now her father was a different story. Vitally and him had been close back in the day, but he had no idea where the man had gone or what happened to him. Knowing of Kristina’s quest to find something of her father in the mill, Vitally kept his mouth closed and never let her know about their connection. Kristina had to go. The absence of her bossy attitude, questions, and arrogant personality would make the plant a much nicer place to work. Unfortunately he was not in the position to fire her, and the people that were knew that she was an asset to the business. “Well, she can be an asset to the Americans.” He thought to himself, looking over his proposal. I am pleased to hear that the merger has gone well. I am sorry to hear that we must give some of our own countrymen up to allow our new employers a place among us. Be that as it may I have one suggestion. The position of Manager of Orders would be an excellent managerial position for someone new to the mill. I have spoken with Ms. Bazhenov, the current holder of this position, and she has informed me that she would be glad to support the merger and leave her position here for one in the United States. Though I will regret losing this valuable worker, I feel that it will be for the overall good of the company. Signed Vitally Frolov Vitally pushed his shoes off and held his feet over the heater and leaned back. The room filled with the smell of sweaty socks as Vitally leaned back, chuckling to himself. “Wait until she finds out about this. It will be too late for you Kristina. You will have to leave, or you will have to quit you job here. There’s no getting out of this one.” The phone rang again, but there was no way he was getting up. The workers downstairs heard the familiar click clack of Kristina’s heals approaching and quickly stood up, put down their coffee, and stopped their conversations. Her blue eyes glanced down at the for a minute as she walked by the window but she quickly looked back up. Kristina was cracking her knuckles as she walked down the hallway. She did not crack them all at once, pushing on all them with the palm of her hand. Instead she cracked them methodically one at a time. The sharp cracking noise was surprisingly loud for being emitted out of such long slender fingers. The joints of her fingers appeared a little to large for the rest of her fingers, a product of her finger popping habit. Click-clack, crack, click-clack, crack the sound of her knuckles blended with the sound of her heels, announcing that she was coming and that she was upset. Vitally heard the sound of the distant firing squad and braced himself for her visit. He slid his Nikes back on and moved the letter into his desk just as she opened the door. “Ahem, Kristina. What brings you here before lunch? He said, still trying to close the desk drawer as she moved closer to the desk. Kristina, still cracking her fingers, moved over to the phone on the wall and put the receiver to her ear. “I see that there is still a tone here. Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Isn’t that what you’re paid to do?” Her voice rose. “Maybe this is why our orders have been decreasing. Don’t shake your head at me, I’ve noticed that we have had less and less orders lately. Vitally stayed seated, still unwilling to leave his heat. “Kristina, the orders always fall when it gets colder out. People buy less because they stay indoors more during the cold months. Is this the reason you came here? “No.” She said, glancing at some of the papers on his desk. “I have come to discuss the west corridor with you. I believe that we can open it up and put it to some use. Vitally glanced down and realized that he still had a letter with the large letterhead logo of UNN printed on the top of his page. He hoped that Kristina would not notice this, and attempted to humor her questions. This was not the first time she asked about the west corridor. “Kristina, we have talked over this before. What could we possibly do with the west corridor?” “Well Mr. Frolov. I believe that if we cleaned it up and heated it we could work on the old printing press and... “The printing press!” Vitally belched, chuckling. “Why that old printing press will never run again Kristina. Haven’t you seen it back there? “Yes Sir, well we could maybe replace it. I believe that by expanding the mills services we could make a greater profit and establish ourselves once again as a vital community resource.” Again, Kristina glanced down at the paper sitting in front of Vitally. She had just noticed the large UNN letters on the letterhead. Vitally saw her glance down again and quickly said “Kristina I want you to take control of your project and start working on it as soon as possible.” Kristina had been thinking over the UNN logo, a known adversary, but was quickly brought back into the conversation by Vitally’s statement. Had the insolent old man finally listened to reason? “Start today? That sounds good Sir, but I don’t know where to begin. “Begin by getting the place cleaned up. You know how much loose paper and dust is back there. We can’t do anything until it is picked up.” “Yes you are right Sir, I’ll gather some of the workers and...” “No, we are shorthanded today. If you want this project to get done you will have to start it by yourself.” Kristina was in the process of trying her blonde hair up into a bun. If she smiled she would have done so now. “I’ll start immediately, thank you Sir. It really is for the good of the company” “I’m sure it is.” Vitally said, taking a deep breath as he watched Kristina making her way towards the door. “Make sure you get rid of all of those books!” He called out after her as the door was closing. He was safe. “That should keep her occupied and quiet for a while.” He thought to himself. Yes, life was looking good for Vitally Frolov. Charlie Moore The sun peeked through the scattered trees and roofs to bring light to the world of the working men and women of Greenshade suburbs. Husbands and wives kissed, or didn’t, gulped down that last drink of coffee and jumped into their “environmentally” friendly foreign cars. In a matter of minutes the dead streets were filled with lines of vehicles, like ants marching to and from the hill. With that they were gone. The suburbs now belonged to those who stayed at home. After the stampede, dogs were let out to survey their own little patch of green on earth. Stay at home moms and dads might venture out, still in their pajamas, for some reason or other. The children wouldn’t be up for an hour or so, it being the summer months. These few moments of relative stillness were precious to those who were still awake. Inside the house was still. The kitchen still had the smell of coffee and eggs and the dishes lay unwashed on the counter. The entire house seemed to glow as the sun entered in through the windows and warmed the house. Dust could be seen in the penetrating light, floating lazily down from nowhere. It could be cleaned later. In these precious moments the numerous duties and cares of the day were put on hold. These were the moments when a person could realize themselves. It created a time to become familiar with yourself through the silence. It was healing. It was nostalgic. It was not what Charlie Moore was encountering this morning. The stillness of the house was shattered by sound of feet thudding quickly down the stairs. In a flash of clothes and half groomed features Charlie burst into the kitchen, gulped down a cold, day old cup of coffee and bent down to tie his shoes. The shades were still drawn, allowing only a dim light to enter the the living room. Charlie slid on his brown loafers, realized that he left his briefcase upstairs, and ran up to retrieve it with his shoes on. His bedroom was a wreck. The sheets on the bed were only halfway on. The large flowry comforter lay as if it were some slain monster on the ground. An assortment of clothes and garbage were strewn haphazardly around the bedroom. A box of chinese food sat on top of the dresser next to a collection of perfumes and jewelry boxes. Charlie made a quick mental note to clean up the place before Shannon came home and ran downstairs with his briefcase. The door slammed behind him, leaving the house to enjoy the sweet morning on its own. Charlie brought the Corolla’s speedometer up to a quick fourty-five. He was late for work and this gave him an excuse to exceed the communities twenty-five mile an hour speed limit. The rows of houses sped by him as if he were replaying the same scene on a video. They were all the same, occasionally varying in color or lawn ornaments. It was a jungle out there, easy to get lost in if you didn’t know your way. One wrong turn in an unfamiliar area and you were destined to wander the lonely corridors in search for a familiar street name. Many of Charlie’s co-workers employed an in car gps that told you what to do in case of a wrong turn. Without missing a beat the seductive electronic voice told you where you were and how to get where you were going. It was a comfort to always know where you were going. Charlie Moore knew where he was going. There would be no time to stop by one of the little drive thru coffee shops today. Those girls are always so glad to see you in the morning. If you went often enough they might even remember you. Once they knew your face they could associate it with your drink. Charlie was a black and white Mocha. It felt good to have some sort of companion out there. Charlie would try to wave as he drove by his stand. They might recognize his car. He approached Coffee Tyme on the corner of Lancaster and Cannon lane and rolled down his window. The little shop was located at a major junction within the suburbs. It took long enough to get out of the suburbs that the residents allowed the little establishments to be put up in a few locations. People could not go that long in the morning without coffee and it was harder to find a good place once you were out on the freeway. This was Charlie’s coffee stand, he knew that Melissa would be working. The girls were always surprised when he called them by their first name for the first time. He always felt clever when they gave him a confused look and he stared back for a moment as if they should know him. After a moments pause he would always tap his breast and point at them who would, in turn, look down to see their own name tag. As Charlie rolled down his window he gave his horn two short honks and leaned out to see if Melissa had seen him and then BUMP! His car gave a startling jolt as he hit the brakes. “Have I been hit” he thought to himself, looking in his rearview mirror? He was the only car on the street at the moment. And then he saw it. A small bundle of fur lay in the road about twenty feet behind him. “Damn. Must have been a dog.” The animal was too big for a cat, and he could not imagine any other pet living in the area. For a moment he considered the thought of driving on. “Someone will pick it up later. I don’t have time to deal with it” he thought. His engine idled, still in the drive position. But then another thought quickly came to him. What if Melissa had seen him hit the dog. There would be no way out of it, she recognized his car. Charlie imagined the upset owners, probably a crying child and flustered mother, coming out to their dead pet. They would surely ask Melissa if she saw what happened. Charlie glanced at her window in the coffee house, it was closed for the moment. He had no choice, he had to take care of the dog. Charlie backed his car up along the white line on the side of the road. A million things were flashing in his mind. “I am late for work, I don’t have time to deal with this.” “Who’s dog is this, what should I do with it?” “Had Melissa seen me hit the dog?” “I wonder if she will be upset?” “What will Shannon say about this?” He stepped out of the car, now parked parellel to the dog in the road. The animal was still moving, kicking one of its legs and whining. The whining was terrible, it was as if Charlie could hear the animals pain with every whine. The dog appeared to be a small black and white border collie. Charlie’s grandfather had a border collie for a while. The dog would take advantage of Charlie’s adolescent size and knock him over every chance it got, flooding his face with kisses and consuming whatever food he had on his person. The dog looked like his grandfathers, except it had a large white strip on its nose. As he approached it he noticed a small pool of dark blood growing from the dog’s side. He animal took no notice of him and continued to writhe about and whine there on the pavement. How had Charlie come to this point in his life? He couldn’t help thinking as he stood there in front of the dying creature that everything in his life had led up to this moment. He couldn’t help hitting the dog, it was something that was going to happen. He looked up for a moment, shielding his eyes from the sun. No, he did not believe in God. God was a thing of the past, as Nietzshe said “God is dead.” Dead in our imaginations. Charlie no longer needed God. He had his life laid out before him. God was replaced with cookie-cutter houses, “environmentally friendly” cars, GPS navigators, and coffee shop girls. There was no more room for God in this world. No, it wasn’t God that brought him here. Charlie brought his hand down and looked over toward Coffee Tyme. Melissa had opened the window and was staring out at him. Catching his attention she yelled out to him “do you need any help sir?” Why hadn’t she used his first name? “Do you have any trash bags” Charlie called back to her. She nodded her head and disappeared back into the shack. The dog had not died yet. Charlie wondered how long it would take. Maybe the animal would survive the incident? His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of Melissa’s flip flops slapping against the pavement. She looked rather disturbed. Charlie watched her run across the pavement toward him in her short brown shorts and tight t-shirt. Melissa was a looker, Charlie was sure of that. Something about the intense emotional expression on her face and her casual “summer girl” outfit turned Charlie on. She was innocent, or at least she was in his mind. She really cared for this dog that lay their dying on the cold pavement. He longed to touch her. But then again he didn’t. He had a beautiful wife, a house, and a successful career. Charlie knew that he didn’t want her, but for some reason he did. “Ooooh, poor puppy!” she squealed as she got closer. “Is it alright? Do you think it will make it?” “I don’t know” Charlie said. “It didn’t even see it.” How could he not have? The dog was in the the middle of an empty street on a sunny morning. Melissa bent down and put her hand up to the dog’s nose. For the first time it seemed to take notice of its surroundings and it licked her hand. Charlie shuddered. “I think it is those people’s dogs, I’ve seen it around before” she said, nodding toward one of the nearby houses. “Maybe we should get it off the road first.” Melissa, in tears at this time, nodded in agreement. Charlie was not sure of the best way to go about doing this, not knowing how in tact the dog actually was. He stood awkwardly over the dog for a moment and then moved as if he were going to drag it off to the side. “Oh, don’t do that” said Melissa. “Here I’ll do it,” she gave him a sharp glance. Melissa bent over and picked the dog up slowly, she held it as if it were a newborn child. The dog’s whines had died down to the occasional long whine. She carried it to the nearest lawn, kneeled down and then rested the dog in the soft grass. Charlie stared at the blood stain in the middle of the road for a moment. He had the odd sensation of floating above himself. It was as if he were watching a movie about himself. He felt as though he were staring at a crime scene. He envisioned a white chalk line in the shape of a border collie on the pavement. Stifling a small chuckle he turned back toward the dog and the girl. The man who owned the lawn was walking out toward them. He still wore his flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt that said “Maui Wowie” in big red letters. “Hey, what happened here?” he said with a look of concern as he walked toward them. “I hit this dog on accident, is it yours?” Charlie asked. “No, but it looks like the McCallums little collie” he replied. “I’ll give em a call, hold on” he said, rushing back into his house.” This thing was beginning to be quite the ordeal. The time was 8:45 and Charlie knew that he would have to call into work and let them know he would be an hour or more late. The dog was much quieter now, but it was still breathing. Melissa remained kneeled beside it, petting it and occasionally saying “Its okay girl, its alright.” The sun was beginning to grow a little higher in the sky. Charlie was sweating but he did not know if the cause was the sun or his nerves. He took off his suit jacket and carried it to the car. “Sir, please don’t go anywhere” it was the man again. “I’ve called Mrs. McCallum, she’ll be right over.” “Don’t worry, I’ve just gotta make a quick call” Charlie said, ducking his into his car. He threw his coat in the passenger seat and sat down in the driver’s seat, leaving the door open. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed the secretaries office. “(HNN???) what can I do for you today?” the receptionists voice was cool and impersonal, a product of rehearsal and repetition. “Yes, this is Charlie Moore from the office of personnel relations. I am calling to let Roger Barkis to know that I am going to be a little late today due to an accident on my way in.” “I’ll let him know Sir. Have a nice day,” and with a click she was gone. Charlie wanted to stay in the car a moment longer. He left the phone help up to his ear so that it looked like he was still talking. He saw, what he supposed to be, Mrs. McCallum running across the street from her house next door. Charlie felt guilty, sitting there in the murder weapon with the phone up to his ear. “Hello! Helllo” he yelled into the receiver. “What was that?” he thought to himself. He was sure that he had just heard someone saying his name in the receiver. It sounded as though someone was talking not to him, but about him in the background. He held the phone up to his ear, listening closely. Nothing. The sound of the woman crying brought him back. He stepped out of his car and returned to the pitiful scene. Apparently the dog had died. Both Melissa and Mrs. McCallum were crying and the neighbor man was doing his best to comfort them. “At least she’s not in any more pain” the neighbor said. “Oh, Maggie. I can’t believe it. I just let her out” Mrs. McCallum sobbed. Charlie was not sure what to do. He waited a moment and said “I’m sorry mam, I didn’t see her. If there’s anything I can do...d’ya want money or anything?” “No, no its alright. I should have kept on eye on here... she normally stays in the yard” she had forgiven him. Melissa was not so quick to forgive him. She stood there, her shirt stained with the dogs blood, glaring at Charlie. Charlie felt released and was about to leave when Melissa said “what if it were a child?” Charlie was utterly unprepared for the question. “It wasn’t dear, this is different” Mrs. McCallum again came to the rescue. “I don’t know” the neighbor chimed in. “I have a child that could have just as easily been on these streets. How fast were you going?” Before Charlie could answer Melissa yelled out “Fast! He was going way over the speed limit. I saw him.” “I was late for work, I...” Charlie was cut off. “Late for work? LATE FOR WORK” the neighbor yelled. “Do you think that gives you an excuse. What if it had been my child.” How had Charlie gotten here? “Yeah, and why weren’t you watching the road?” Melissa chimed in. She was beautiful even in her anger, but Charlie didn’t notice. “I, I, look I’m really sorry” he stuttered. “But at least it didn’t happen. I’ll be more careful, I’ll...” he was only digging himself deeper. Suddenly the attention was diverted from him as Mrs. McCallum grabbed the plastic bag and began scooping the lifeless bundle of blood and fur into it. “Just go” she said. “I want to get this cleaned up before the kids are up.” “Charlie walked backwards toward his car. “I’m sorry, so sorry” he said, but there was no reply. He stepped into his car, turned the key, and slowly rolled away from the scene. It was a shit morning for sure. He glanced at the clock, 9:10, he could swing by for a much needed cup of coffee before heading to work. Maybe the day was not a total loss. He glanced up nervously in his rearview mirror again, feeling as though someone would be chasing him. Seeing nothing he returned his gaze to the road, putting the past behind him. Kristina Part II The next day it was a little warmer outside and Kristina made her way into work quickly. Vitally had gotten there first today, a rare occasion, and had already started unlocking things around the plant. He met her in the corridor that led to her office. “Mornin, Krisitna” said Victor. “Good Morning Victor” she replied, noticing that he was already in his Nikes. “What brings you here so early?” “Oh, had some business to get to early this morning. Nothing big, nothing big. Just had to get it done. Thats all. Are you going to be back in the warehouse all day again?” something about him seemed a little suspicious. “Yes, probably. Will there be any extra hands available today?” “No, probably not, we are shorthanded again” “Well then, I will work on room 48 then” “Hmm, the room with all of the books” “Yes, thats the one. What do you think we should do with them. The books I mean” “Hmm, yes, hhmm. I don’t know. Maybe we should give them out. Like a charity or something. Or maybe we could sell them” he sat there for a minute giving out the occasional “hmm” before saying “You know, I don’t care what you do with them. Just get them out of there.” “Yes, sir. Oh, Sir?” “Yes Kristina.” “When are we going to start moving things in? I need a timeline.” “Hmm, I should guess we could start within a week.” “Within a week? I won’t be finished by that time. Victor paused again, looking up into her blue eyes for a moment before quickly looking back down. He was enjoying this new power he had over her, but he was aware that he might be pushing her too far. “Don’t worry, we will move in slowly” he said while starting to move away. “Just worry about room fourty-eight for now.” Kristina nodded and moved back toward her office. The office was cold again. “Why is it always cold in here?” she thought to herself. She did not remember it being as cold as it had been the past couple of days. She had left her coat on and decided to leave it on. Her entire office seemed odd, like it was not her own. Looking around at the posters and personal items she knew that they were hers, they were what made her. How could they seem so unfamiliar to her? She looked hard at the mirror on the wall. Had it always been there? No, it had. Was it moved? No it wasn’t. She took the opportunity to check her hair. Always perfect. The key fit roughly into the old brass door knob. After shaking the door for a minute, checking the key to see if it was all the way in, and shoving her shoulder into the solid metal door Kristina finally made her way into room fourty-eight. Nobody had been in the room for at least a year. The light from the hallway shone into the room, allowing Kristina to enter the room once her eyes adjusted. The dust gave everything the appearance of being in a black and white movie. A few stacks of books were piled up next to an old metal desk that loomed out of the surrounding darkness. Kristina brushed her hand on the side of the wall in search of a light switch. The switch clicked on, letting a sharp noise pierce the air of the room. The light flickered on slowly but still worked. The walls were covered with a barren light shade of gray. No posters were put up in this room, the only thing it held was dust, the two stacks of books, and the desk. Kristina didn’t remember this room being so empty but felt relief in the fact that it would be a quick cleanup. She walked over to the desk and swept the dust off of the chair. The chair was cold and Kristina was careful to tuck her long coat underneath her as she sat down. She grabbed the first book off of the nearest stack. The book had a faded green cover with no title on the front. Kristina opened the first page and again found no title. She flipped through the first few pages of the book, her eyes searching closely for any trace of ink, and found nothing. Then there it was, in the middle of the page and about half way through the book there was some lettering. She held the book up close to her face, her blue eyes reading the line over and over. It read “Kristina Bazehnov.” A commotion in the hallway interrupted Kristina. She quickly closed the book, dropped in the large pocket on the left side of her coat and moved to the door to meet what sounded like Vitally talking to a few other unrecognized voices. “Yes, yes. This will work nicely” said an unfamiliar voice. “This must be the help Vitally promised” Kristina thought to herself. She stepped out into the hallway, brining Vitally and his group to a halt. Vitally had with him two men, one of which was obviously not a Russian. He wore a black business suit with a poorly tied tie and looked rather cold, he took a second to let his hungry eyes look over Kristina’s features before he made eye contact with her and quickly let them drop to the floor. The other man was the one that had been speaking to Vitally. He was dressed more practically than the other man and still managed to look professional. Without missing a beat he quickly said “Excuse us Miss Kristina I believe.” She gave him a quick conformation nod as he stuck his hand out to meet his own. Kristina saw Vitally squirming nervously in his Nikes. “I’m Victor Terletsky and this is Adam Weber, your replacement.” Adam, recognizing his name in the conversation, reached out his hand as well only to quickly draw it back as an expression of anger and surprise grew on Kristina’s face. Her well trimmed eyebrows raised high on her forehead as she quickly turned to Vitally who had moved a couple steps back, using the men before him as a human shield. “What! Replacement!” she sneered at Vitally. “What is this? You cannot replace me! Get these men out of here now Vitally.” She was now standing over him, looking straight down into his face. Vitally froze for a moment, still shifting back and forth. The American Adam had no idea what was going on. He moved up against the wall, smiling nervously. Victor was only listening intently. “Kristina, we’ve been bought out. HNN purchased us yesterday and they want to transfer some workers from the U.S. over here. I thought...” “When were you going to tell me about this!” Kristina was losing her composure. A few strands of her blonde hair were hanging down over her face. Before giving Vitally time to answer she continued. “When was I to hear about this? Vitally I know you did this. You did it on purpose....” Then Victor interrupted. “What is this Vitally. She does not know?” “No I don’t know” she cried back. “I am not leaving!” “Vitally, you know someone has to go. We already have Adam here” he said giving a quick glance over to Adam. He went on, trying to hide the low persuasive tone in his voice “and you said this would go over smoothly.” “It will, it will” said Vitally. “No problem” he said in English to Adam who was still leaning awkwardly against the wall. “Kristina, this is a promotion. They have set up everything for you in America.” Victor jumped in. “Yes Kristina, everything has been arranged. This is just a trial run, to see how workers adapt across cultures. If you don’t like it you can always come back, but please give it a try.” “No!” and with that Kristina clacked quickly down the hallway, leaving the men behind her before they had a chance to say anything else. “We’ll give her a minute” said Vitally to Victor. Adam watched for the flash of white flesh that showed from the bottom of Kristina’s skirt as she walked through the door at the end of the hallway. Charlie Part II Charlie juggled his briefcase, newspaper, and cup of coffee as he entered the elevator that would take him to floor that his office was on. The elevator was almost empty this time of morning, he only shared it with one other person. It was a woman who worked on the floor above Charlie’s. He always saw her push the button for the sixth floor, and often took the opportunity to look over her outfit during her brief moment of preoccupation. Today she wore tight black slacks. As she leaned forward to push her button Charlie was sure that he could make out a panty line encircling her firm little ass. She looked back at him quicker than he had expected. He smiled and gave a barely audible “g’morning.” “She must have seen my eyes jump up” he thought to himself. The woman smiled back and moved to her side of the elevator without saying a word. Charlie felt as if he should say something else as the elevator slowly lifted them up. Words were not necessary here. People lived in their own little spheres and talking to strangers was no longer considered polite or necessary. Charlie was sure that she felt the same way. Everyday people were forced together in elevators, airports, and rooms only to teeter on the brink of conversation and then feel relieved when it doesn’t happen. The elevator door opened up to reveal the fifth floor offices of HNN and Charlie stepped out. He could feel the woman’s eyes on him as he became uncomfortably aware of his stride as he walked away. Charlie decided to go to the secretaries desk up front to let them know he was in and waste a little time before he started work. Becky was working up front, not exactly the person Charlie was hoping to see. Becky was a middle aged woman of large proportions. She had very little time for Charlie or his attempts to break the ice with her. “Hallo, Becky. How’s You’re morning going?” “Same as always Mr. Moore.” “Thats good, well I hope it is. Anyways, I was just stopping by to let you know that I’m in now.” “In what?” Becky asked, looking above the rims of the glasses that sat low on her nose. “Haha, in for work. I called earlier to let you know that I was going to be late.” Becky went back to looking at her computer screen. “But you’re not late Mr. Moore. You’re here same as usual.” “What what time is it? asked Charlie. “Why, its nine o’clock Mr. Moore. And if it is alright I’d like to get back to work. I have enough to do without you coming around with your little games.” Charlie checked his watch and said “You’re wrong, maybe you should pay more attention to the clock Becky” before turning his back on her. Becky never looked up from her computer. Charlie barely had time to sit at his desk when his boss burst in the door. “Where have you been? Today is not the day to be late!” he was excited about something. “Don’t you remember that Russian woman that is flying in today. You were supposed to pick her up. Her planes been in for half an hour and Eva just let me know that you called in late. “Eva?” Charlie thought to himself. He thought he had talked to Becky on the phone. It was odd that Trevor, his boss, has just now got the message. “My bad. I hit a dog on my way in this morning and...” “You hit a dog? What the fuck took you so long? It doesn’t take two goddamn hours to hit a dog!” The veins along Trevor’s temples looked as though they would burst open onto his red face. “Well, the owners came and...” Charlie didn’t have time to explain himself but he checked his watch again. Had it really been two hours? “I don’t care. You need to be on your way to the airport five minutes ago. We’ll talk about his later. Hell, I’ll even help you wash the mutts guts from your hood. Just go get the girl and do like I told you.” Charlie followed him out into the hallway, he heard Trevor muttering something to himself about “it all going smoothly.” It took Charlie twenty five minutes to get from HNN to the airport. He had just gone through the pickup gait in his car and cruised slowly down the road in search of gate fifteen. A few weeks ago Trevor had informed Charlie that, as a member of the public relations department, he would be placed in charge of making sure that a new employee transferring from Russia would fit in in the U.S. It was all a big publicity stunt, Charlie knew that they didn’t really need the Russian office. The company was bored and some wealthy writer or journalist decided that it would be interesting to mess with someone’s life. It was Reality TV without the cameras. Charlie took a special interest in this project. He had spent the last couple of weeks setting up a place for the Russian to live and thinking of things to do with her once she was in America. Charlie was given very little information about the Russian, only that it was a female with experience in labor management. She didn’t sound like the kind of woman Charlie was in to. Labor management sounded rough, Russia sounded even rougher. There was gate thirteen, then fourteen, and finally fifteen. There was no one waiting in front of the gate. “Damn” Charlie thought to himself. “What if she has already left.” He parked his car on the side of the curb and looked around. There were a few people sitting in the shade on a bench outside, they weren’t the person he was looking for. An old man pulled his luggage slowly behind him as he passed in front of Charlie’s car, struggling against the heat. Charlie figured that he had better get out and look inside for her. He felt like one of those limo drivers with a cardboard sign. “Should I get a sign?” he wondered. “What if I don’t recognize her?” He had never even imagined the pickup. And how had he forgotten to pick her up today? Lately Charlie had been preoccupied with his wife. She had been gone for a few days but still managed to stay on his mind through constant phone calls and emails. Last night she had accused Charlie of cheating on her while she was gone. Catherine was often gone. Her job required her to be gone. She was an author, but not in the traditional sense. Catherine wrote stories that were not here own, she was a professional autobiographer. Charlie had always found her profession to be intriguing. He had been full of questions when they first met. “An autobiographer? You’re kidding right, you’re an editor or something.” He took another drink of wine, his third that night. “Don’t laugh” Catherine replied jokingly. “Its real. Listen, you know how many people write autobiographies right?” “No, but I know that I am not planning on writing one any time soon. haha” “Not ordinary people, your ARE funny Charlier,” apparently Catherine had also had a few glasses. “Celebrities, politicians, and other famous people. They are always writing autobiographies.” “Well, yeah, but don’t they write their own?” Charlie asked, playing with the few noodles that remained on his plate. “Do you think they really have the time? Have you ever noticed how quickly they come out with these autobiographies?” Charlie shook his head. “Have you ever read one?” “Yeah, I read most of Bono’s once. Pretty interesting stuff in there.” “Thats just it Charlie. Do you think people’s lives are really that interesting?” “Well, Bono has done alot and...” “Do you think Bono really sat down and wrote that during all of his touring and trips to Africa?” Catherine had grown serious. Charlie thought for a second and, catching on to what Catherine was getting at, said “well maybe he had some help.” “Yeah, from people like me. You see,” she took another sip of wine, closing her eyes and relishing the rich taste, “people’s lives are never that great. Half of Bono’s time is probably spent on an airplane, and you know his childhood wasn’t as great as it sounds. Give me anyone’s life and I’ll make it a story.” Charlie’s interest was peaked. “Wait, so its all made up?” “No, not all of it. We get a basic outline and sort of fill in the middle. We ask for certain important events that we might elaborate on and go from there.” Catherine leaned back in her chair confidently. “How much do you “elaborate? How do the actual people respond to this?” “However much it takes Charlie. As long as the book sells its all good. Sometimes people don’t like it, but eventually the autobiography becomes a part of them and they accept it. Once it is out there it might as well have already happened. Oh, don’t look at me like that Charlie. We don’t change that much, just the little things. And we never publish without permission from the author.” The waiter brought the bill, and Charlie paid. After dinner he and Catherine went back to his apartment and had sex. Kristina Part 3 The trip home seemed to take longer than usual. Krisitna mulled over Vitally’s proposition the entire way. “How can I leave Petrovadsk?” she thought to herself. “I have everything here. Well, everything and nothing at the same time. This is my life, the life that I have worked on for the past twenty years. I can’t just up and leave. Or can I?” She thought of her father. It seemed that as though she would be leaving him. She remembered the explosion of words and anger in Vitally’s office. Had he told the truth? His words rung in her ears, “Your father left you Kristina, he left for the U.S. You have nothing here!” The shock was too great for belief. Kristina shut Vitally out when he said this. “How could he have known?” Then she remembered that Vitally had worked at the plant when her father was still around. The gravity of his statement hit her and she stopped the car, dead in the road. She felt it coming on, her face contorted trying to hold it back for a brief moment. The car was filled with an agonizing scream as the little heater struggled to keep the warm breath from fogging up the window. Kristina buried her face in her arms and leaned on the the steering wheel. She tried hard to see his face as he sat in the black car. “Why didn’t he look back?” She was saying it out loud, her voice moaning as she repeated it over and over. It had all been for him. She had all been for him. “Who am I?” she thought. “I am not like my father. I know nothing about him.” The pain seemed to radiate from her heart to her throat. Warm tears streamed down her face, quickly turning to little puddles of ice when they hit the cold plastic dashboard. Kristina was startled by a gentle tap on her window. “Excuse me? Hello!” it was a man’s voice. Kristina attempted to roll the window down but it was frozen. She opened her door a crack and peered out. The man was surprised to see a pretty blonde looking up at him. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes were puffy. Kristina sniffed, trying to regain her composure. “Ca, sniff, can I... Whats the problem?” she asked, craning her neck out to make eye contact with the man. “You’re parked in the middle of the road Miss. I didn’t know anyone was in the car.” he looked back at his truck. “Engine trouble?” Something in this man made Kristina feel good. He was a good person, she could tell by the way he spoke to her. He sounded truly concerned. It had been a long time since Kristina had ever needed any help, it was odd to be asked. “No, I’m... Well, I’m fine and” she opened her door wider and looked back at his truck. There was a woman and a boy, probably about ten years old, sitting inside the truck and watching the man. She ran her fingers through her hair, putting it back in its place, and said with as sincere a look as she could muster “Thanks.” She shut the door and put the car in drive. The man stood there for a minute before shrugging his shoulders and walking back to his family. Kristina sped through the open countryside. Something had awakened in her. It was a new sort of ambition. She did not need her father. She did not need any man. The world was hers for the taking. They had let the cat out of the bag when they chose to transfer her to America. She felt free. While driving through town Kristina looked out at the people in the streets. Children disgusted her. She couldn’t stand there unpredictable mannerisms and general uncleanliness. She slowed down as a group of them crossed the road in front of her. A couple of them looked at the car and picked up their pace while the rest walked at a comfortable pace across the road. As her car approached them at an alarming speed they took notice and ran the rest of the way. Nothing was going to stop her now. She saw the local Russian woman out trying to manage their hoards. “Hmmph, they are no better than vending machines. Pop a few coins in their slot and out comes a bag of chips. Thats not the life for me.” In the United States she could take her potential and do whatever she liked with it. Americans, such as the man at the paper company, were easily dominated in Kristina’s opinion. She would take her revenge out on the people that her father left her for. Kristina’s apartment was modest and immaculate. Her high heels were arranged on a shoe rack next to the door. One large pair of winter boots were leaned up against the rack in attempt to make them look ordered and neat. It would be an easy move. As Kristina swung her coat off her shoulders something fell out onto the tile floor. It was the book with the green cover. She had forgotten all about it. She picked the book up and sat down with it at her table. The book seemed thicker than she had remembered it being. She quickly thumbed through the pages again, trying to find the writing that she seen earlier. A quick flash of text caught her eye and she turned the pages back to find it. This time it was not her name. There, about half way down and on the right side of the page were the words “He waited for her.” Kristina’s brow furrowed, she folded the page in half to mark its place and continued to look for her name. After looking for close to fifteen minutes she gave up her search and tossed the book on her bed as she walked to the bathroom. Kristina’s bed was as flat as a board. No ripple existed in the comforter and a single white pillow was placed at the head of the bed. Besides Kristina no other person had laid on this bed for a long time. There was one man that had the rare priviledge of entering Kristina’s apartment. She met him about five years earlier and for a while she thought that he was the one. He shared the same views as she did, he dressed perfectly, and he always looked Kristina in the eye. Theirs was a relationship without secrets. They held nothing back, taking on every subject as if they were discussing something in a business meeting. Kristina never saw the man’s apartment, and he did occasionally stay here with her. The nights that the man stayed in the apartment were not much different from any other night. The place stayed just as clean and almost as quiet as when Kristina was there alone. The only difference being the slight squeak of the bed for ten to fifteen minutes sometime between the hours of nine and ten-thirty. They had sex as if they were trying not to have it. Kristina laid flat on the bad, her white limbs giving her a corpse like appearance, as the man slowly and steadily pumped his pelvis. There were some soft moans and some short grunts but conversation was closed until the act was over. It would have been an odd scene to an outside on looker. To these two sex was a process, something that had to be done. They looked like animals, having sex not for pleasure but for necessity. Afterwards the man would go to the shower while Kristina changed her sheets, waiting for her turn to shower. Sometimes when she got out the man was not there. She would brush her hair, turn the thermostat down, and click the light off, just as she did every night. Kristina had not had sex since the last time he spent the night. One day the man left on a business trip for a weekend and she did not hear from him again for over a month. She did pass by him on the streets several times since but they only acknowledged each other as acquaintances, not even stopping to utter more than a few syllables as the walked by each other. It had been a necessary relationship. The next day Kristina walked into the paper mill with a little quicker step than usual. The workers that were there early came to attention, expecting a short list of orders from her she walked by, only to be relieved when she marched past them without as much as a glance. They sat back down and sipped on their coffee while discussing the rumors about her that had been circulating since yesterday. They hoped that they were true. Kristina did not stop until she reached Vitally’s office, which was already occupied by himself, Victor, and the American. The two Russians looked guilty, as though they had just been caught in the act of something, and the American was still smiling. They braced themselves, expecting a verbal, and possibly physical, attack from Kristina. Kristina paused for a moment, taking a second to look at all three of them before saying “When does the plane leave?” Vitally let out a breath in relief. “So you’ve decided to go after all? This is good Kristina.” Victor was translating for the American, the tone in his voice was excited. Vitally continued “I think you will find it much better there and...” “I don’t want to hear another word out of you” Kristina said fiercely, looking him in the eyes. “You have done something wrong here Vitally. I could have you fired for this, but I am going to show you some mercy and take the proposition offered by these two gentleman. My business is with them, not you. You will get the necessary papers ready for me to sign and cut me my last check. I hope that this is the last interaction that will ever go on between us.” Vitally nodded, gave the other two men a nervous look and left the room mumbling something about “getting papers ready.” Kristina turned her attention to Victor. “Now Sir, get me out of here.” They had offered Kristina two weeks to prepare to leave since she had been unaware of the merger, but she shortened it down to two days. The thought of staying in Petrovadsk for any longer now repulsed her. Everything about the place seemed different now. She had to drive by everything that used to bring back fond memories of her old family everyday. What used to cause painful but fond feelings of regret and longing now only brought forth anger. It drove her forward. She would escape everything. Maybe she was more like her father than she had thoughts. She would leave him to fade into nothing just as he left her to rot in Petrovodsk. Kristina had brought the green book with her in her purse, but soon forgot about it. Now, as she waited at the airport for someone to pick her up, she looked for her bookmark. The page must have flattened itself out in her purse because she could not find it. She had gathered her three suitcases around here on the bench and she sat straight, watching closely for her ride. “I already see how it will be in dealing with these American’s she thought to herself.” She had been sitting there for almost twenty minutes after gathering her luggage. She put the book back in her purse and made a sort of game out of making eye contact with people. Once she caught there eye they would always look away, pretending not to have noticed. “Yes, I think I will like it here” she thought to herself. Catherine Catherine Moore opened the blinds, revealing the dull light that came filtered through the light gray clouds that hung over Seattle. The small cluster of sky scrapers that formed the downtown business area reached up in a failing attempt to puncture the clouds and let some light through. She walked over to her desk and turned her computer on. As the computer loaded the desktop picture popped up. It was a picture of her and Charlie when they went and visited her parents on the East coast. The thought of him holding her in her arms like he was in the picture made her miss him. Charlie had always been a bit of a flirt, but she did not think that he was the cheating type. Their discussion on the phone last night went bad, but Catherine knew that it was because she missed him so much. It didn’t sound as though he was missing her as much and she overreacted. Catherine was always the first to admit that she was wrong. She threw the stack of loose papers that leaned on the phone on the ground and called his cell phone number. “Hello?” Charlie’s rich warm voice answered quickly. (time diff?) ‘Hey, Hun. How’s it going?” “Oh, hey Cathy. Don’t worry I’m at work right now, I’m not fucking Mrs. Thompson” Charlie said with an edgy tone of sarcasm in his voice. “Oh Charles, don’t say that. Look, I’m sorry I said that last night. I miss you right now. Please don’t be angry.” “Well its kinda hard hun. I miss you too, and here I am getting accused of fucking around. Its... Look, I’m at work right now. I’m about to pick someone up and I’ve gotta go.” After a short pause he continued, “look, i’ll later tonight. I’m sorry I yelled at you.” That was all Catherine needed to hear. “Thank you Charles. It will be late here but I’ll wait up for your call. Love you!” “I love you too. Bye.” “Bye.” Now Catherine could go back to work. Charlie had been on her mind all day. Every time she went to write another page in her clients life Charlie seemed to find his way into her work. She also had to prepare for her meeting with a prominent Seattle businessman tomorrow. His book had been written, the last item on the agenda was to choose a name for it. The man had wanted something like “My Life” or “Growing up Smart.” One of those generic names that could be found on every bookshelf in America. That was these people’s problem in the first place. How could I make an interesting life out of the traditional American life. Everyone has read the same thing a hundred times. “At such and such an age I entered in upon my first business venture,” “My first kiss happened like this blah blah blah,” “I met my wife while doing this and that?” Sometimes Catherine felt as though she was writing the same story over and over. She explained to her clients that an interesting life was one filled with blood, betrayal, and problems. When would they learn? She started in on chapter forty, “Midway upon the journey of our life.” Charlie Moore part 3 Charlie hung up the phone with Catherine and glanced at his watch. He waited for her for a few minutes before grudgingly realizing that he would have to go find her. It was much hotter out that it had been earlier that morning. Charlie could see heatwaves rising, making everything seem as though it were in motion in some blurry water color world. The automatic doors opened to greet Charlie with a blast of cool air. It took him a minute to adjust his eyes to the lights of the airport terminal. Then he saw her. He knew right away that it must of been her. She looked so foreign, so out of place, just sitting there with her luggage. She was amazing. Charlie had never seen anyone like her before. As he approached her she looked up into his eyes. Kristina noticed a man in a brown suit walking in her direction and looked up into his eyes. He was looking back and he was not looking away. He walked toward her with a purpose, as if he knew her. She grew a little nervous, was her own game coming back to bite her. Maybe this man thought she making advances on him. He smiled and offered her his hand. “Kristina Bazhenov?” he asked, still looking into her eyes. Refusing to lose she stared back. “Yes. Are you here to pick me up?” Kristina became aware of her Russian accent. Charlie was not sure what to do with his own eyes. He felt a rush through his entire body, those cool blue eyes seemed to bathe him in ice water. “Yes, I’m sorry that I was late, I can’t believe your still hear after such a long wait.” He had to do it, he had to drop his gaze for a moment. It was too intense for him. He made a gesture with his arms, looked at her luggage and asked “Are these yours?” “Stupid question” he immediately thought to himself. “You’re not too late. I’ve only been in for fourty-five minutes. And yes, these are my bags.” Kristina said, still watching Charlie. He was an interesting man. She could tell that he was excited. He made some awkward jerky movements with his hands as he reach for a piece of luggage as the same time she did. “Sorry, haha.” he smiled wide. “I’ll get the rest. The car is right out front. Was it a long flight?” Another stupid question. With that he grabbed the two bags and headed for the door. Kristina, who followed close behind, was almost overwhelmed by the change of temperature when she went through the doors. The head smothered her. It seemed unbearable and she wondered how people could even live in such conditions. There was no escape from the heat whereas in Russia she could always put another coat on. By the time they reached the car and began loading the luggage in the rear, she refused Charlie’s offer to get it all, she could feel beads of sweat forming on her scalp. Maybe she had made the wrong choice. Charlie’s first task was to bring Kristina back to the HNN building and introduce her to some of the people that she will be working with. He couldn’t stop looking over at her as they pulled out of the airport. She was reserved, she felt no need to talk, she was all business. She was so different from anything Charlie had ever known. But back there , in the airport terminal, they had connected for a moment. Charlie had never felt to real in his life as he did then. Kristina had seen him, she had really seen him. All formalities, politeness, and bullshit was put aside for a moment. Charlie realized that he been quiet for a while, which seemed to suit Kristina just fine. She just sat there in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead. Charlie was not ready to give her up to his co-workers yet. She was his He looked down at the clock and realized it was 12:30, lunchtime. “Miss Bazhenov?” he asked. “Yes, Mr...?” she gave him an inquisitive look. Had he really forgotten to give her his name? I”m such an idiot. “Oh! I can’t believe it. Sorry, Mr. Moore. Charlie Moore” he nodded at her. “Pleased to meet you again” he said with a slight chuckle. “Yes, Mr. Moore. What is it?” she asked, looking directly at him again. Charlie could stand to not look at her but he did his best to keep his eyes on the road. “Well, it looks like its lunchtime. Everyone back at HNN will be at lunch right now so we might as well go. Don’t worry, I’ve got a business card on me” he said while his mind raced to think of an appropriate restaurant to take her too. Kristina glanced at the car’s digital clock before saying “I didn’t realize it was noon already. Yes, I suppose thats fine.” Charlie nodded. “Well, what are you in the mood for?” “In the mood?” Kristina asked, not entirely sure what he was asking her. “ What kind of food do you want. I know of a great little place down on fifth, not too far from HNN” he said, turning into the left lane already, “Thats fine” she replied. “I do not no of anywhere else.” Kristina pulled the green book out of her purse to use as a distraction. Something about Charlie was different. Normally she would have nothing to do with a man like him. He asked redundant questions and was constantly fidgeting with something, it was the car’s AC controls at that moment. She watched him adjust the controls for a moment. He would click the knob and then hold his hand over the vents, trying to create the perfect temperature in the car. Kristina was convinced that there was no longer a perfect temperature. While she preferred the frigid Russian climate to this muggy heat she was willing to admit that neither extreme was preferable. She opened the book to a print filled page. She gasped. There was no way she could have missed this before. Holding the page with her thumb she flipped through the book. This wasn’t the only page she had missed. Some of the pages were together in clusters, while others were by themselves amidst sheets of blank paper. “Whatcha readin there?” Charlie interrupted her. Kristina closed the book. “Nothing, just an old book from Russia?” “Oh yeah? Who is it about?” he asked, looking at the front cover of the book. There in English were faded gold letters. It read “My Story.” “I don’t know” Kristina said as she put the book back in her purse. “I haven’t read it yet.” “Hmm, well here we are. Just in time too, we beat the lunch rush.” Zollman 1

Jonathan D W's Draft

2008-10-31T00:48:00.000-07:00

III Cont. It was late afternoon when Malik noticed that Ell and Monk were no longer playing in the field under the behemoth pecan tree that had been there when his grandmother was a little girl. It still produced large, sweet pecans that were featured in so many of her butter pralines, pecan tarts, and flaky pecan pies that he sometimes joked about how many calories they would prevent if the old tree finally ceased producing good pecans. They were playing with the tin barrel that they used to use to collect the nuts but that his grandfather had begun using to burn trash in after Mary stopped selling her pecan creations when her arthritis became too severe for her to bear. Malik never noticed Ell and Monk playing with the barrel before but on this day they started a fire using paper, old rags, and whatever dry pieces of wood they could find. After they had it going he saw Malik retrieve his backpack and watched with amazement as they tossed undistinguishable items from it into the fire, which made the fire shoot up so high out of the barrel enough that he was about to go to the window to yell at them to stand further back, but something made him hold his tongue. The solemn way they stood there looked so unlike two careless children playing that he trusted his instincts and sat back down again. They added more items from the backpack and then sat down on the large roots of the tree facing the barrel but without talking. After a few minutes of watching their stasis Malik grew bored and picked up his horn to run some scales. He paced around the attic for an hour while he practiced and forgot about the kids and the barrel until Mary brought him a cup of fresh mint tea and he sat down in the chair next to his tub at the window again. He was surprised to see them still standing in front of the barrel, this time close enough to look down inside of it to see whatever it was that they had burned smolder—they were wearing different shirts and standing close enough together that their shoulders were touching. After a few more minutes of this they both turned away simultaneously and without so much as a gesture to indicate that they should redirect their attention to something else. They ambled around collecting cane leaves and more dry rotted wood and returned to add it to the fire. Once the fire was reignited they did not stay to watch it burn down again but picked up the backpack and left the tree again without prompting. Whatever mood they were in, an odd prepubescent catharsis of some sort, Malik thought, was soon forgotten once they began to play in the clearing at the edge of the field, which was much higher than the ground level of the tree and where the sunlight bathed them in a light that was such a cloudy gold that Malik had to check the white wind-up clock on his bookshelf twice before he could believe that it wasn’t nearing sundown. They played with a beehive of energy and Malik marveled at the fact that they could endure such relentless heat and in the sunlight. He was in the coolest spot in the house and he still could not tolerate it so he ran a bath without adding any hot water because even the cold water was lukewarm. He drifted off to sleep soon after he was fully submerged and dreamed that he was standing under an abnormally tall tree at night, looking for a bird in the upper branches whose song was at once hypnotic but jarringly discordant. He was distressed because he could not figure out if he was supposed to climb the tree to help the bird or to find a way to shut it up because of its disquieting music. He called out to the bird and it seemed to respond by altering its song so he called louder for it to come down and the entire tree began to shake like a dog coming out of the water. When it did a mist of liquid began to drizzle down onto him that had the appearance of sap; while he called out to the bird it coated his lips and his throat and was cold like snow. The taste of sweet cream and engine oil was so powerful in his mouth that he was certain that he could not be dreaming; and long after he woke the taste lingered in his mouth and he still had trouble distinguishing the dream from reality. When he woke he looked over at the clock and saw that he was sleep for less than half an hour. The yard and the field were empty and he could hear no children playing, not even the Montague’s little girl who could normally be seen most of the day. The Montague’s were the kind of people who never ran their air conditioner during the day so Malik supposed that it was merciful to let Leslie play outside instead of suffocating inside in the heat. Not Charles and Claudia Montague though, even when he was a child they could rarely be seen outdoors, unless it was an unusually hot day where they would come out on their porch and read the paper or talk to Mary about old people’s topics like how things had changed so much in the river bend since they were kids and how they never remembered it being as hot as it was now. Their seclusion used to make him feel uneasy on those times when he would go over to their house to see if their son Charles Jr. was home. The way they used to look at him always made him think that they didn’t like black people; pausing to look at his hair and then his shoes and attire before calling Charles to come down and play. It had affected him so much that he started brushing and curling his hair and making sure that he wore his good khaki pants and a clean button up shirt before he would go over to their house. The first time Charles saw him do this he asked if he was expecting to shoot hoops or to go to church. He didn’t answer him and when he wore a similar outfit the next time Charles just shook his head and ignored his strangely unfitting attire. His sentiments about them had softened after saying high to them so many times over the years as they went in and out of their house and with his grandmother sharing so many elements of her conversations with them at breakfast and dinner that he felt that he had gotten a much better idea of who they were as people, even though the things she said never had anything to do with them but how they felt about particular things, like children not being able to say a prayer in school or gay people being allowed to marry one another in some heathen parts of the country. His grandmother used the Montague’s as evidence that there were other people out there who had just as much difficulty with the disintegration of the country as she and just as often she made note that their race proved that that there were blacks and whites who were equally grieved over such issues. Despite this softening, Malik was still always concerned enough about Ell and Monk being around the Montague’s that he was not at ease unless he could see them. That’s why when he saw them coming out of the Montague’s front door a subtle jolt of panic ran though his chest even though Ell was smiling and patting Leslie on the back. The bittersweet taste was sharper somehow then and he put a stick of gum in his mouth but it only intensified the taste. Monk was standing back as he always did, feigning disinterest in a way that made Malik wonder if he was consciously trying to project a certain coolness or if he did this naturally. He rarely heard Monk talk much when he was around his peers but he always noticed kids going over to talk to him when he got on the school bus, and when he was playing football or baseball at Jefferson field Monk was always one of the first kids picked but he never asserted himself to be team captain. That’s how he looked now—like he was not interested in taking the lead in conversation or anything else but that he would be ready and wiling to step in and get his hands dirty if that was needed. Ell was descending the steps of their porch when Monk looked right into Claudia’s heavy but amiable face with no sign of the patent discomfort that had affected him when he was Monk’s age. They came straight to the house and Malik heard them come up to their bedroom after a few minutes. He wanted to call them in and ask them what they thought of the Montague’s but he didn’t know how to do that without alarming them. He picked up his horn and reworked a part of the Fantasy that he could not seem to get right, and thought of the inside of the Montague’s house that he had never seen more than a crack in the door could reveal and how his two kids had already been inside. Sometime later, he had constructed a variation on a central motif that captured all of the discovery and trepidation that was in his gut, which had been pushing him to compose the piece, when he heard Amber’s voice in the second story hallway. She was talking to the kids about dinner and hearing the sensual brusqueness of her voice pleased him enough that his penis grew finally erect and he forgot about the unsavory taste in his mouth. All he had to do was open the door and stand there peering out she sent them to go and play in their room. She came right up and when she saw him he could see that her eyes immediately noticed the bulge in his boxers. She pushed herself into him like she could get him to come inside of her right through her clothes. Her lips were warm and spicy like cayenne pepper and her mouth smelled faintly of alcohol and this made her taste that much more potent. Her face was wonderfully flushed and her eyes were rolled back like she was imagining it all. He pulled her dark gray pantsuit down with her panties and slid his hands between her legs, making her moan so loud that he had to pull her inside of the door before she anyone heard what they were doing. She was still moaning loudly so he slid the fingers that were responsible into her mouth, shutting her up long enough to take her to the bed. They collapsed into each other and though he could see her head thrown back and her neck strained and mouth wide open, he no longer cared what kinds of sounds she made because he was too enthralled with her intensity and the blood pulsing in her veins against his skin. It was after three in the morning when Ell woke them up by knocking so lightly on the door that Malik thought it was just part of the house’ creaking until Amber told him to go and check. They had both been overcome with sleep seconds after Amber had pulled herself off of Malik and he could not see where they had left their clothes. Ell’s knocking somehow became more urgent, even though the strength of the knocking had not increased, so he cracked the door open and asked who it was. “Daddy, I can’t sleep,” she said with tears in her voice. “What’s wrong little Ell?” he asked as he motioned for Amber to bring him a blanket but all she could barely see him. “We’ll be there in a moment baby, just go back to your room and I’ll come and play you a lullaby okay?” and somehow he could tell that she was shaking her head in the negative. “You gotta come now daddy; something’s wrong.” This statement frightened him because Ell was not a girl that was prone to exaggeration, so he left the door cracked and went to his chest of drawers. He felt around for a pair of jeans and an athletic shirt and told Amber to hurry up and find her clothes. Amber sensed the panic in his voice and was able to go right to where they had left their clothes and was dressed almost as soon as he was. When they both got down to her room they saw Monk sitting up in bed, with his eyes open and looking as if he concurred with everything that Ell had just told her father. “Tell us what’ wrong baby.” Amber asked as she fought the instinct to turn on the main light lest it should shock the children and keep them from going back to sleep, and given the moment, she did not like how the orange nightlight made Monk look like he was holding a flashlight under his chin. “There was a bad noise,” Ell said finally, after they kneeled patiently waiting for her to tell them something. “A bad noise; what kind,” Amber asked. “A little girl, she was making this noise, scratching…” she said as she looked at her brother, whose expression continued to mirror everything that Ell was saying. “It’s not you is it baby?” Amber asked afraid of the answer. “It’s not me, it’s a little girl and she is trapped. I hear her when I go to sleep,” Amber and Malik looked at each other, dumbfounded about what to make of Ell’s words. “Do you want to come and sleep with us Ell?” she asked then remembered that Malik’s bed would not be a suitable place for them to be that night after what they had just done there. “Who is the little girl sweetie?” Malik asked, hating the intensity of the nightlight himself. “I don’t know; she just needs help,” she replied and sat down on the bed with her hands on her lap placed with each palm up and one hand cupped into the other. Malik looked over at Amber and hugged her. He thought he knew who the little girl was and why Ell was so sure that she needed help, He thought that Ell was afraid that they would remain separated and then divorce and he told this to Amber later as they went to the kitchen to get something to drink while they commiserated. IV Mary Dean was sitting in her bedroom knitting a blue and white scarf for Monk when she saw Malik raging across her lawn toward the Montague’s in the corner of her eye. The violence of his gait sent shivers through her body so much that she could tell how much how hands trembled by the way her needles clattered. She looked ahead of him and saw Claudia standing on the porch with her right hand shielding her eyes from the brightness of the sun while her left hand held her front door open like she was prepared to quickly scoot back inside if she had to. Ell and Leslie were playing with the dogs under a live oak that the kids all loved to climb in the Montague’s yard, as if nothing of any significance had just happened, but Malik’s gait and arm gestures made it obvious that at least he thought that something untoward had occurred. She opened her window so she could hear what Malik was ranting and she knew that ruining the peace between their family and their closest neighbor would be the last thing she wanted to deal with in her old age. ”Come away from there now Ell, come back to the house,” he yelled with Monk trailing casually behind him. “What?” she asked, and by the way she turned her head in irritation Mary didn’t need to hear the words to know that she had asked that question. “Little monkey? I’ll show you a little monkey,” he said as he reached their yard and stormed right over to Ell and grabbed her arm, turning her around ninety degrees so that she faced their house. “You can’t understand when I tell you to get yourself home. Now go home and go inside before I take my belt off,” he said as Ell showed a surprising reluctance to heed her father’s command. “You’re not wearing a belt daddy and why do I have to go home?” she asked defiantly. “Girl you are just trying to…” and he stopped when he looked around and noticed how many people were now watching them. His grandfather had come out of his shed with a drill in his hand, his grandmother was standing in the window looking down with her hands on her hips, Myron Foster who lived to the right of the Montague’s and who was one of the few black people to live in that section of the River Bend had just gotten out of his pick-up and was standing in the door looking on with rapt attention, and Amber had just driven up to the road in the front of the house and was collecting all of her materials from work when she heard Malik shouting at Ell. Although it made him pause at first, the fact that he now had an audience emboldened his desire to confront Claudia Montague on what she said. “Malik, come here son,” and he came over to his father obediently. “What did Mrs. Montague say about you and Ell?” he asked as loudly but as calmly as he could. “She called us a couple of monkeys,” he said too low for anyone to hear. “You got all these people hear watching us, including your big mama and papa, your mother and even this so called black man over here, and I’m sure they’re all wondering why I’m in such a fit so tell ‘em son and say it loud enough for everyone to hear you,” he said as he looked around at everyone that was watching. “She called us a couple of monkeys dad,” he said only a little louder this time. “I’m sorry folks but my son here isn’t a loud speaker but I’ll amplify what he just said, and you shake your head no if I say it wrong son; Malik says that Mrs. Montague called he and Ell a couple of monkeys. And you call yourself a Christian woman? I’ll be damned if your Christian and I’ll be damned if Malik and Leslie ever come back here to play with your child,” he declared as he stormed off back home with such force that Ell didn’t dare not follow him. “I was just commenting on how well they climbed in my tree is all,” she said to no one in particular. Once Mary knew why Malik was upset she was more troubled than before because she knew that not only was the peace between the two family’s threatened but what Claudia had said did not sit right with her either, and she knew that she would have trouble stopping over as she often did after breakfast to chat about the decay of modern society if Claudia had such a view of her dear little grandchildren. She went downstairs to see if she could somehow make a bad situation less awful and make sure that those children knew better than to take the word of a simple old woman like Claudia Montague. When she descended the stairs she found the whole family gathered in the kitchen and Malik doing all of the talking. “Y’all been tolerant of that kind of bullshit for way too long; black people are so afraid of causing trouble with their white neighbors that you let ‘em say things that should never come outta’ their mouths,” he said as he paced back and forth between the stove and the table. “You can’t lump everybody together like that Malik, nor can you assume that just because she made one silly comment Mrs. Montague is a racist,” she said as she brought Ell to closer and wrapped her arms around her. “What? Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means. If she’s not a racist than I’m not black,” he shot back in disbelief. “Use some logic for a second Malik; she has been a good neighbor to us for how many decades? When have you ever heard her say anything like this before?” Malik was upset by the veracity of the question so he gritted his teeth and turned his face away. “She has a point son, I can’t recall either Claudia or Charles saying anything that I could call disrespectful in any way, and I’ve known them a whole lot longer than either of you,” Mack Dean said as he filled his iron coffee mug with the steaming black liquid. “That may be true but do you know that when I was a kid I used to get these looks from her that told me she thought less of us. In fact, I experienced those looks way before I knew what racism was,” he said as he poured himself a glass of juice and looked out at their house with a reflective look in his eyes. “Come on Malik, you’re going to call someone a racist because of the way they looked at you? You were a child, isn’t it possible that you misinterpreted it? I deal with students misinterpreting something their classmates of their teachers do every day,” she said as she began rocking Ell back and forth soothingly as if she thought that the conversation had reached a point of maturity and calmness that would be good for Ell and Monk’s resolution of the event. “She may have meant what she said or it may have been a poor choice of words. God knows that I’ve said things to someone that came out wrong and you know what? It’s so hard to fix it because the offended person finds it so hard to believe that you didn’t do it on purpose. Now I’ve known that woman for a long time and I never got the feeling that she thought any less of me than anyone else in this neighborhood. She’s from a different era, when it was okay for folks to say ugly things and get away with it; even if she doesn’t really believe it that kind of language is hard to rid yourself of if you grew up hearing it so often,” Mary explained, and everyone listened, especially the kids, and that’s who she really wanted to hear it. “I’m going upstairs. Call me when dinner is ready,” Malik said as he sat his half finished glass of orange juice on the kitchen table. Mary could not tell if he was defeated or if he had actually acquiesced. She knew that it may have been humiliating for him to have such a strong reaction to what Claudia said only to have his family find sensible reasons to differ with his volatile reaction and she knew that she would need to go up and visit him later after he had some time to calm himself down. The others appeared to be fine. Ell had escaped her mother’s arms and was sitting next to her brother, drinking her juice and asking him about his baseball cards. Her husband had seated himself on the wooden high back chair across from the table with his arms folded, lost in thought. Claudia had long gone back inside but Leslie was still outside, sitting up in the tree herself, tossing acorns down at her two dogs. The sun had been overtaken by a broad shield of clouds that provided some welcomed relief from the stinging heat and that made the field and the yard look like a place where children should be playing. The bands of light that managed to shine through the clouds made sweeping geometric patterns all over the field and Mary could not help but recollect those days when she was a child playing in the field on a cloudy day when the sun was not so hot and when her youth seemed to be something that would last as long as the clouds gave shelter from the sun and the occasional summer rain gave the crops a drink and their bodies a cool and merciful shower. Now the annoyances of old age seemed just as permanent, with the years before her promising no end to the tightness in her joints or the fatigue that dominated her from the moment she awoke until her body finally let her drift off into a very light sleep. “Come on you two; get your shoes back on and go back out there. Old folks like me and your papa have been wedded to life inside but children were made to be outdoors,” she said as she opened the screen door and ushered them outside. “Don’t go over by Leslie until we can get your daddy straightened out, you hear,” and they eagerly obliged. Amber waited until Malik had been in his room for an hour before she rapped lightly on his door. Mary was headed up at the same time but thought that it would be better if Amber went in instead of her. The smell of cannabis even outside of the door was so strong that she imagined that he had lit an entire bowl of the stuff. She heard him say come in after she knocked a second time and she entered. He had ceased smoking and was holding his horn to his lips but not blowing. He was standing in his boxers with a extra-large black t-shirt as he stood facing the rear window but far enough back so that he could not see the Montague’s house. Smoke hung in the steeple of the ceiling and the light coming through the trees made his skin look dark orange, the way Monk’s skin looked in the nightlight a few days earlier. “Are you practicing because I could come back,” she asked with a quiet in her voice that she did not expect to be there. “I’m working on something but you can come in if you’re quiet,” he said without looking at her. She had rarely watched him compose anything so when she did she marveld at the little things he did—muttering words under his breath, tapping the keys of his alto sax or his chest if he really wanted to find the rhythm he needed. His eyes would be wide open but they saw nothing; they were off in another place. And he was talented. Amber’s father had an extensive jazz collection. He had crates of blue note LPs and especially of the Bop and Post-Bop period which was Malik’s background, so she knew a virtuoso and a good song when she heard it. When she used to drive to see his band play at the Howlin’ Wolf, the Maple Leaf, and Tipitina’s in New Orleans she would feel like she was married to a famous musician who had the chops to fill every club he played in. He did have his adorers. Sometimes she would notice the same group of twenty-something to thirtiesh woman at the same shows, and she knew that most of them wanted her Malik. He was taller, more mysterious, and more handsome by far she thought, and it was also his band. He and the drummer, Alton, composed all of the music and Alton was jus that, a drummer. But the way he would command the stage and alternate between a blistering set of Post-Bop experimental suites to mellow, romantic blues numbers would send chills through her body and make her gloat in her heart over those girls that did not get to go home with him. He used to say that his band had “caught the ghost” when they was really on that night. She used to think about this reference when she was in church and the choir was singing and praising God at their height, and for extended intervals she would hear Malik’s band instead of whatever hymnal they were singing at the time and the blood would race through her veins and her nipples would harden and she would be immured with the intensity of Malik looming over the audience like a shaman with his sweat drenched shirt and his body swaying ever so gently with each wave of the music. She was willing to forgive most of his shortcomings because in him she had a private idol, an object of sprit, insight, and sin that sated the most famished parts of her being. Watching him now she so desperately wanted to have him back with his band so that she could take the drive to the city, which always made her feel like she was entering a world outside of the stale and sanctimonious community that ruled Saint Gabriel. “What are you thinking about,” he asked with the reed still touching his bottom lip. Nothing physical about him had changed, he could still control her crouch with the slightest word and gesture; it was she who had changed. Ideas about herself and what she most waned in life and for their kids had made her less willing to devote the time it took to appreciate his realm of doubt and indulgence. “I was…I was thinking of the band. What are they doing these days anyway?” she asked with an acute look of nostalgia in her eyes. “They’re playing with other people. I talk to Alton from time to time but I hardly ever speak to the other guys.” He had dropped the sax and was giving her his attention. “You have to find your voice again. I miss it.” She tried to say what she meant as transparently as she could. “That’s funny,” he laughed, “what do you think I’m doing now?” “True; but it’s not working. So fix it.” She was thinking mostly about sex now and the uncanny desire that ruled her body when she went to see him play. She knew that if they could get that back she could suppress all of those thoughts that made her question so much and reproach him in the way that she had been doing. “Maybe it’s not that easy. Maybe I’m…” he trailed off and when he looked out of the window an orange band of light was jetting through the window and illuminating his face and especially the sad, pensive quality in his eyes. “Why did you stop? Tell me?” she asked as she came closer to him but not so much that she risked making him loose his train of thought. “I don’t know if I can accept things the way they are,” he said flatly. “Of curse you can’t, neither can I. That’s why we have to resolve whatever it is that’s messing us up. I don’t want this Malik, I hope you know that.” “I know that. I wasn’t talking about just us. There’s just something about this world that I can’t accept. It’s mean and I don’t know how to describe it; animalistic. I know I’m not making any sense and I shouldn’t because I don’t exactly know what it is that’s bothering me so much.” “Just keep talking and maybe it’ll come out,” she said as she finally sat next to him. He looked at her as if he did not expect her to sit down. He resisted the inclination to get up and tried to focus on what it was that had changed about her. “Well, you. You’re just so fucking clinical. And that’s considered normal. A man has no rights anymore, it’s like the pendulum has swung so far the other way that it’s almost as frightening. I mean, I’m not saying you will do it but what if you did? They would support you. No child should be without its father.” He looked at her with desperate eyes that were less angry than pained and rife with uncertainty. She stood up and paced around, playing with the rings on her fingers and looking around at the articles in Malik’s room; a scattering of well worn button-up dress shirts, a pair of dun dun drums sitting next to his bed that he bought on tour in Accra, and the paintings that hung on the two long walls, mostly works by Al Held, EL Greco, Romare Bearden, and Basquiat. Then she proclaimed as if some clear answer had come to her from something in the room.“I know what to do. It’s so easy I should have thought of it long before. She grabbed his hand and they left the attic together. Mary was rolling out dough for a sweet potato pie when the two of them swept through the kitchen and went out of the back door with Amber pulling Malik along like he was Monk. She led him to the shed in the backyard but instead of going inside, she took him to the back of the shed where there were flat handles all the way to the top. A few magnolias were clustered along the fence between the Dean and Montague property and Amber picked a few of the spreading white fragrant flowers and carried them with her to the top of the shed. Malik followed her up and when he reached the top a broad smile lit up his face in way that she had not seen since he was on stage last. From there they had a panoramic view of the entire river bend area. They could even see portions of the river behind the levee and the barges and fishing boats that passed up and down all day. The edges of the sweet field were also in range, as was the general store that was open before the Civil War. The Saint Gabriel Catholic church was viewable to the south, with its famous rectangular spire and triad of tombstone shape windows on each side reflecting the last of the days light like they were eyes reminding the residents of Saint Gabriel that God would be watching even after the sun died. The small Baptist church was literally in the great church’s shadow on the other side of River Road, with its own miniature spire with worn shingles. This was Mary and Amber’s church and it had an historic role in helping former slaves find work and education during Reconstruction. Malachi Smiley was the man most responsible for the church’s efforts and his great grandson, Ernest Smiley, tried his best to live up to his forefather’s legend with a prison ministry that is credited with helping dozens of the most hardened inmates at Angola penitentiary get a G.E.D., and or an Associate’s degree while incarcerated and jobs working at one of the many chemical plants in the area once they were released. There were two cemeteries in Saint Gabriel, one Catholic and one Baptist, and each differentiated by the ornate sarcophagi behind the large church and the simple headstones of the Baptist plots. Malik looked like he belonged up there—like it was a natural improvement of his attic hideaway. Now that they had broached the subject of what was ruining their friendship and their marriage she had a litany of issues to raise with him but the roof of the shed felt like a free-zone, a place where those dense and likely irreconcilable problems could be better resolved with silence than with inaccurate and awkward words. From time to time he would look at her after noticing something remarkable as if he were saying, “can you believe that Amber?” or “wow, it looks so close from up here,” and she would concur with a widening of her eyes or a nod of her head. They stayed up there until well after the sun had descended and the sky had grown dark enough that Malik remarked that he felt like he could almost see the stellar deep field. They spoke a little, about how they used to look up at the sky every night when they were children and how Malik used to always say that he used to come up here and let his imagination take him to places of his mind that were as limitless as the stars that were too faint for them to see. “It’s not enough for me to see the few thousand stars and galaxies that are visible in anyone’s backyard; I want to see the ones that no one has ever seen,” he said as he spread his hands across the sky to illustrate what it would be like to push the visible heavens aside to reveal what lay behind it. With all of this neither of them raised the subject of their marital crisis and Amber was certain of the wisdom of that decision.; at least on her part, for Malik had been lost in sensory overload the moment they sat down on the roof, and she did not mind—he had opened up to her more in that evening on top of the shed than he had in years. V Mary was worried about Malik’s health. He had not slept since he had barged into the Montague’s house in search of Ell and Monk and discovered the unspeakable, and now he looked like a corpse, wrapped in Monk’s knit baby blanket and shivering like he had a fever that he did not have. Malik’s black velvet curtains were closed so the only light was from a tall yellow pillar candle on the floor near his bed that had been burning so long that it was starting to wilt like it would collapse in any minute. There was a green tea can next to the candle under a few dried banana leaves and a bottle of water that had barely been touched. When she stepped all the way into the room she noticed that he was staring straight at her—like she was someone that had come to cause him unrest. There was something in his eyes that was so sharp and accusatory that it frightened her. For the briefest moment she doubted that he was her grandson, so she called out his name in a gentle voice that belied her anxiety. “Malik,” she said, and took a step backwards. “You hear me son, are you okay?” she asked although the answer was obvious. “Yeah,” he replied in a voice that was smooth and deep and that sounded nothing like he looked. And she knew then that his mind was clear, it was his spirit that was so vexed. She knew he was in that place he was always so prone to sink into after college, where his thoughts would become preoccupied with existential questions that would paralyze his ability to do much of anything accept read, ponder, and practice. He would randomly leave his room and enter civilization by unexpectedly joining his family at breakfast or dinner and posing oblique and frequently theological questions before taking a plate of food and returning to his bedroom. She would always take those questions seriously and research the meaning of exotic terms like determinism, humanism, and ontology so that she could better understand what he was asking, although she knew that his questions were basically rhetorical. When he would use the name Irenaeus in some of his questions she thought that he was referring to someone in the bible and had to visit father Meraux to learn how “modus tollens” was spelled let alone what it meant. She learned a lot about Malik in those days and knew that most of his concerns were centered on the problem of evil and man’s use of religion to either propagate or to avoid combating it. She wanted to address some of the subjects he raised but doubted her ability to fully grasp his recondite concepts; then he was young and his mind was malleable like dough but now she felt helpless since his ideas appeared to have cemented to the point that they were almost tormenting him. “You got to get up son so we can get you better,” she said but did not yet move. “I was thinking of going to church with you today,” he said and the mocking expression on his face made her want to slap his face, but she remembered what he had endured and let the urge pass. “I won’t have you making light of the Lord under my roof, so don’t you try me,” she warned and the severity of her voice helped her to regain her composure. “I wasn’t being facetious. I mean it,” he insisted. “I was thinking about Aunt Janice and how Pastor Smiley was able to figure out that it was the bracelet that had gotten into her and ripped it off and destroyed it. If that story is true then it suggests that there is more than what we see.” His eyes were unreadable now, but troubling to look at, so she used words to draw him out. “Of course there is. The awful things that people do are not always just them. Especially when it’s something unspeakable, there is demons Malik, and they are everywhere,” she said as she finally shut the door. “Demons; that sounds like an extraordinary thing to believe. “ “More extraordinary than what the Montague’s did? They’re good people that I have known since I was younger than Monk and Ell.” “You know what that sounds like right? The devil made me do it. It’s the oldest argument and the most dangerous one.” “But that’s what you young people don’t understand, with all of your elaborate words and round about philosophies you don’t get that it isn’t an excuse. The devil can’t make you do something that’s not already there, anymore than a farmer can put a seed in the ground and make it grow—he can bury a seed but nature makes it sprout; the same with evil.” “What’s the difference? If people are the devil’s tabula rosa then aren’t we just as evil. On my own I’ll do a little bit of evil but if the devil gets his hands on me he’ll magnify it until I’ve become a monster? Do you know how difficult that is to accept big ma?” “Look, first of all I know what you mean by tabula rasa ‘cuz I looked it up” she said as she went to the rear window to open the curtains and let some light clear out some of the bleakness of the room, “but you talkin’ to someone whose knows a few things about wickedness and suffering. Evil things happen baby and you have to learn to appreciate the good things that you still have and move on. From the time I was a child I’ve been through it. My sister was murdered by somebody who lived in this neighborhood. She was eleven years old when my daddy found her body in a ditch covered in blood and her killer’s semen. Now we used to walk home from school down River Road and everyday without fail this white man dressed in a mechanics overalls leaning on his truck at the general store would say inappropriate things to her and tell her how sexy she was; I don’t remember exactly what because she was a few years older than me and I didn’t know nothin’ about them kind of words. She was eleven years old and this man would do that,” she said as the raw emotion of what had occurred all those years ago cut through time and made her sit down on the edge of the tub to steady herself. “One day I was sick from all of the pollen in the air that spring and she had to walk home alone. When I heard my daddy ask my mother where Bonnie was after he came home from work three hours after she should have been home something ran up and down my spine and the first thing I thought of was that man. I told my daddy about the man and when he went to his shop to confront him he was gone. His family told the owner that he was sick but my daddy thought that he was trying to hide his scars ‘cuz Bonnie had skin and blood up under her nails. He asked the police to go and question him but they refused saying that they already had a suspect. Of course this fool happened to be black and was also known to proposition young girls so they put the whole thing on him. We couldn’t afford a lawyer and if we could it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference; that’s just how things were. I think about my big sister everyday and sometimes I ask God how he could let something so awful happen to such a sweet little girl and let the bastard who did it, Lord forgive my language, get away with it, but you know what, he doesn’t answer.” She rose and took her husband’s cup and filled it with more hot coffee from a pot on the stove. She could see that the Bourbon was mellowing him and helping him to keep listening to her patiently. “But then the day goes on, my humming birds come out fightin’ each other for nectar, the sun rises on the property that’s been in our family since before we were free and my grandkids come downstairs with all of that life and brightness all over them and I realize that I have my answer.” She was rubbing her hands together in a way that made Malik wonder if she were thinking of her prayers or just trying to rub the arthritis out of them. The agonized look on Malik’s face had been replaced by one of sadness that was infinitely compounded by the tragedy of recent events. “Amber’s trying to take the kids from me,” he said and wondered how he could have kept it in for so long without telling someone. “I found out when I called her to see why she hadn’t brought them over.” He removed the blanket from over his head and she saw that his hair had grown long faster than she would have thought possible and it was wild and curly like he always kept a hat on. It was then that she realized how little she had seen of him over the past three months; since they found the little girl trapped in the Montague’s secret closet. “She is a part of it all; of the society that allows evil like that happen to innocent little children. What if something had happened to Ell or Monk? Think of what happened to Aunt Bonnie. She’ll have them in Baton Rouge and I won’t be able to protect them,” he said with a voice full of pain and disbelief. “You can’t change other people. What you can do is control yourself. I had your grandfather break it down to you because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings but Amber couldn’t keep you from having joint custody if it wasn’t for your marijuana use and the fact that you haven’t been to work in months. If you do that then you can have your time with your kids,” she said knowing that this was the last thing he wanted to hear. “I know that but it’s Amber we’re talking about. How could she do that to them? How could she do that to…I’m telling you bib ma, she’s one of them. There’s just something missing. Like those people in court, lining up to vouch for the character of the Montague’s so that they could get less time. Isn’t that just as bad? Aren’t they the demons?” He looked at Mary for an answer that she could not give. The entire thing had kept her up nights as well, and she was already not able to get a sound sleep at night. But it was her job to keep all sides together so she decided not to defend Amber but give her grandson the empathy she thought he needed. Regrettably, the sun had been obscured by a massive black cloud that promised heavy rain so the room was plunged back into its former gloom. Mary spent the rest of the night sitting in the attic in a cushioned armchair next to the front window while Malik drifted in and out of sleep, randomly mumbling incoherent words under his breath. VI “I never seen nothing like that in all of my life,” Mary Dean told her husband Mack, who was sitting across from her on their back porch, listening to her speak in his succinct but active way. The strength and calm of his presence helped her to feel relaxed enough to recount what had happened. “I don’t know what to do with him Mack, he looks at me like I’m lying to him,” she said and ran her hand across her face as if it might wash the stress of it away. “I talked to him, but he’s a man,” Mack said tapping her gently on the hand. “If I could just get that girl to understand how he feels about all of this. He’s not like regular folks who can see something like that and just let it go; it troubles him something awful.” “Give ‘em time; we all need that.” “I wish we had more time but I’m worried,” she said as she began pouring sugar into her coffee even though the sugar was already added. “What’s the thing that bothers you the most?” he asked in an effort to help her get the tragedy out in the open. They hadn’t mentioned it even once since then and he knew that was not good for her. His wife had to talk about things to work it out in her mind and in her soul. “It’s like his eyes have seen something it can’t stop seeing. You know Amber had come over to ask him for the separation papers that she had given him months before everything happened. I don’t think she meant it to come out that way but she kind of attacked him and called him good-for-nothing for not signing those papers earlier. He took it as a smack in the face to everything they were trying to rebuild but she insisted that she was still committed to fixing things, but the damage was done. Now he was watching the kids play around the shed when she came in and started that ugly argument and when he looked for them again they were gone. You know how he had gotten it inside his head that they might get into some kind of danger messing around the Montague’s, especially after that tree climbing incident so he raged at her when he saw them missing—promising that she would pay if something happened to ‘em. He left the attic and went outside in the backyard looking for them everywhere and when he couldn’t find them he decided to trust his instincts and go and see if they were inside the Montague’s place. Thank God he did.” She said as she forced herself to look out of the kitchen window and at their house that was boarded up with the front door wrapped in yellow police tape. “God has a way of bringing everything into the light; eventually,” he said and poured a bit of Bourbon into his iron coffee mug. “He went over to the Montague’s and before he knocked on the front door he put his ear to it and listened. Now I was there in the hallway when she first went up to the attic and I went to the porch to help them look for the kids, but believe me when I tell you that something wasn’t right inside that house that day. After all of those years it was that day that I sensed it.” “Don’t tell me that was the first time you went inside their house ‘cuz I know better.” “I did but only once. I had come over to give Claudia a ride to church; she always needed one for one reason or another and that day I had read my watch wrong and thought she was late. When I knocked on their door she opened up and told me to come in. Now that had to be what, nine or ten years ago, but I remember how different she seemed that day. I heard her fussing at Clarke before she opened the door, and once I came in she had a defiant look on her face. She gave me coffee and scones while she wisped in and out trying to get ready and that was the only other time that I got a feeling that something wasn’t right. I had no idea what it was but I swear before God my hands were shaking from something that I sensed in there.” “If only you could have heard something, you could have saved that poor child years of suffering,” Mack said and added some more Bourbon to his coffee. “If only I could have,” she said and played with the biscuits and honey on her plate. “Well Amber tried to stop him of course; I could hear her calling him mad and saying how he’d get arrested if he went too far and he just started knocking as loud as if he was the law. I’m not sure but I got the feeling that he heard one of the kids and that’s why he tried to break the door down. He finally broke the glass with his the broken handle that used to have a hammer attached and opened the door. Amber tried her hardest to pull him back but he pushed her off so hard that she fell off of the porch and cut her right arm open on the railing. He glanced back and kept on and that’s when I couldn’t see anymore,” she said and took a sip of her syrupy coffee. A few days after it happened, a couple of weeks ago I asked him what he saw but he told me little. Afterward I went to Monk because his eyes were starting to look like his daddies and that scared me. Monk surprised me how clear and mature he was about the whole thing. He said that they heard their father trying to break the house down while they were under the house playing with that little girl. When Clarke came out of his room Malik yelled at him for not answering the door and demanded that he tell him where his kids were. Of course he said he didn’t know but Malik didn’t believe him. Maybe he saw something in his face that revealed the truth so he pushed the old man aside and went into that bedroom. He told me that it was the most surreal thing he ever saw. The entire inside wall was covered in sound proofing material and there was a chute, small enough to put mail inside.” “From underneath the house Monk and Ell would play with her through cracks in those old floor boards; the child didn’t have much going for her but she did somehow have the sense to cover the boards with newspaper so Clarke wouldn’t find out that she could see the soil outside and occasional snakes and frogs and salamanders. And when the kids found her that must have been something.” She paused to ponder what life could have been like for the girl they called a child but was actually a woman. Mack looked at her with weary eyes and poured a bit of his Bourbon into her cup. “Monk said that they were scared that they would get into trouble for playing with the little girl. He said they were told by Claudia when she caught them under the house one day that she wasn’t angry with them but told them that their daughter had a terrible disease that was contagious and that they kept her locked up to protect other people from catching what she had. She begged them not to tell anyone because if they did the hospital would come and take their little girl away. It took a while for Malik to find a way to get inside the closet because it was so booby trapped but once he did, he could not believe what they were doing to that child. The only way his eyes could process what that child looked like was that she had the appearance of an alien. She was tall, five feet and seven inches the authorities said and she weighed less than forty pounds. She was nineteen years old Mack, nineteen,” she said and had to stop to keep herself from coming apart. “Her face had an expression that he said he had never seen, like she was expecting to be hurt by him and was willing. On several occasions he tried to tell me how it all struck him but he could never finish. After it all finally came together he said she touched him on the hand and he broke down. That’s when Monk said they heard their daddy crying and could not understand why until he composed himself and turned his attention to Clarke and Claudia. They were dead silent and their faces were full of acquiescence, is what Malik told me, like they were relieved that they were finally caught. Once he asked them how they could do something so inhuman Monk said his voice was nothing like rage, but softer and more hurt than anything. He said his daddy sounded like he was the one who had done something wrong. Ell was sobbing then and Monk had to hold her hand and tell her everything was okay. Malik put his arms around the girl and hugged her until he heard the police sirens. She was lying out of her cage, which was barely large enough for her to fit into; when I saw that thing in the paper it bothered me so I had nightmares about it for days. I didn’t tell you because you can always sleep but I’ll be damned if the few hours of sleep that I could get weren’t full of images of that cage.” She got up and opened the door of the porch to let some night air in. The usual darkness made the world outside of their porch screen a wall of blackness and for the first time in many decades she felt unsafe in her own home. Mack came out onto the porch with her and drunk directly from the bottle of Jim Beam whiskey. “She could not stand or walk so he was about to carry her out of there when Claudia spoke up and told him that she would die if he took her into the light. She had never been in anything brighter than a black light she said, and that’s the same one the authorities said Clarke would use to molest her. Well, it was then that Monk said that he finally understood that the girl, whom they called Leila, after Ell’s friend who died of cancer, was not sick but a victim of the worst kind of abuse. When he told me this I was even more worried that he said this with no clear sense of emotion in his face or his voice; it was just matter of fact, that’s what happened. But Malik told me something different; he said that the look on Monk’s face when he came out of the house and they were standing there waiting on the porch was one that changed something inside of him. He lost most of his hope in humanity when he saw the look on his son’s face. Nothing would be the same for Monk and he was sure that Ell would experience her recognition over time, as she grew older and could comprehend the things she saw.”