free download from lindalavid.com (photograph courtesy of David Schauer) Spots Blind A Collection of Short Fiction C 2008 Linda A. Lavid Preface You can't always see what's coming. The trajectory is misinterpreted, misconstrued, minimized. On the other hand someone could be blocking your view, on purpose, with malice. No matter what, that something is heading your way. Acknowledgments "Ode to Serling" in Unlikely Stories "The Accident" in The Southern Cross Review "Highwire" in Wilmington Blues "EE O NAA" in Ascent Magazine "DMV" in Windfire Anthology "Moose" in The Southern Cross Review "A Father's Love" in The Use of Personal Narratives in the Helping Professions: A Teaching Casebook, Haworth Press "The Cabin" in The Southern Cross Review "The License Plate" in The Southern Cross Review Contents Ode to Serling ~ 6 The Accident ~ 14 Highwire ~ 42 EE O NAA ~ 50 DMV ~ 70 Moose ~ 74 A Father's Love ~ 96 The Cabin ~ 105 Teddy Bear ~ 126 The License Plate ~ 158 Shadow Man ~ 171 Ode to Serling Behind the professor, up high and over the powdery green board, is a clock that has the unnerving habit of jerking from one minute dash to another. The student considers that void, the white space between the markers, and listens, cutting out the sounds of shuffling feet and coughs. Riveted to the clock, she counts off seconds one Mississippi, two Mississippi anticipating when another segment of time, swallowed up by eternity, will pass. Suddenly, she is struck by her own criminal boredom. What's the point of such wastefulness? She pulls her gaze away and blinks at the philosophy professor, a man thick around the middle with black-frame glasses. His lips are moving. "To understand Kant's Categorical Imperative . . ." And the sentence dissolves into jargon. Her mind segues to other profundities What he's like in bed? And would his predilections complement her own? He has the habit of striding across the room, talking to the air in front of him, flailing his arms on occasion. He's in his own world, the world of ethics and righteousness and dead men. He stops, faces the class and makes an emphatic point "morality must be rational." She scribbles his words into a notebook for short-term future reference. The value of such obscure wisdom only lasts a semester when it can be regurgitated on an exam or paper then duly forgotten. She looks back up. He adjusts his glasses, an idiosyncratic trait, then continues the path he has microscopically worn in the linoleum. She imagines the bridge of his nose is red and permanently marked from the constant rubbing of plastic against flesh. "Universality must be applied in Kant's theory of ethics. Do as we do, not do as I do, if you will." His words are meaningless, so removed from her own reality. Still, his passion for the topic is endearing. Passion in any form, she has decided, is admirable. Without it nothing would be invented or cured; no mountain climbed, no stone left unturned. Still, what drives passion may thwart other sensibilities. His pants have a sheen to them, as if he has worn them too long and regularly. His shoes are especially troubling. They are sneakers of no particular brand, most likely comprised of synthetic material that harbors foot odor caused by happily multiplying bacteria, perhaps spirilla, tailed and energetic. She'd rather not dwell on this. She listens. "For your assignment, take any one of the Ten Commandments, apply Kant's Categorical Imperative and argue a case for validation. Any questions?" He looks into the well of the class and, for the first time, his glance becomes personal. In the briefest of moments, they connect. Each other's face is somehow taken in by his and her optic nerves, flashed upside down, then inverted until each brain has an image. And, remarkably, with this image neurons cross the great divide and an explosion of sorts begins. Suddenly she feels heated. Pheromones are released and a corner is turned. His nakedness is imagined. Doughy, she suspects, and more jiggly than she's used to. Still, there may be some quirk, some odd trait that she'll be able to focus on, that will feed the pre-orgasmic state, the growing crescendo of heat and point of no return. But what? His smell, perhaps the hint of cologne, something lemony that soon evaporates as their hearts pound away, as their thrusts take on a life of their own. He scans the class for any hands. None are being raised. She then wonders is he an open-eyed lover or does he prefer to keep his eyes closed? Mentally, she removes his glasses. Nothing is more naked than a person without their glasses. His eyebrows are bushy. That much she can tell. But are his eyes beady or a speckled hazel that changes color? Does it matter? She moves on. There's no telltale sign of any sexual organ, no slight bulge or thickness off to the side. Apparently, it's neatly tucked away, buried in layers of material that have been zipped and buttoned. Or maybe it's retracted and minuscule. Her gaze drops to his feet. Yes, maybe so. Still, there's hope. He may be the kind of man, who, realizing his limitations, tries harder, who understands nuance the whisper, the squeeze, the spot both hidden and not. Intellectuals are like that, full of rampant curiosity and experimentation. There may be potential here. "Very well," he says. "See you on Friday." And notebooks are slammed shut. The professor lives in a rented room where, when he's not translating obscure Hegelian passages, he surfs websites for cheap DVDs that can be delivered in plain brown wrappers. Intermittent among errant pages of his dissertation are Girls Gone Wild, Volumes One through ad infinitum. Philosophy and sex are the two driving forces in his life and, he would argue, the entwining roots of any great historical movement. Case in point, take any war for instance, or the Age of Enlightenment. Who can deny or refute that the seminal cause of either is the respective enslavement (war) or freedom (invention) of sexuality and thought. And for this reason, he considers himself a total man, a manly man, who approaches life with both vigorous intellect and a staunch appetite for sex, with or without a partner. The woman in the second row seems interested. He knows the signs the unblinking stare, the subtle nod for him to continue. To test the waters, he walks to the window. If her eyes are still on him, there may be a budding opportunity to both explain Phenomenology and slap her rear, make her moan. It is the beauty of his job friendly banter with colleagues on the meaning of life during the day, sexual excursions in the evening hours with female students who want a story to tell when they return home for the holidays a story, he is fairly certain, about a smoldering philosopher who rocks their world. He turns, and yes, the young woman remains intrigued. Her note-taking has suddenly stopped and no matter where he steps, her eyes follow. He assesses. She is not unattractive, although he prefers blondes, ones with cantaloupe breasts that pull at buttons and have trouble being contained; breasts that stay full and perky no matter what position she's in, breasts that respond to his every tweak and nibble. Unfortunately, however, this woman is seated, and of course, clothed. What lurks beneath the sweatshirt remains a mystery, but then mysteries are meant to be probed, savored, solved, and he is always up for the challenge. That is not to say there isn't a recurrent snag, a complication of ethics, specifically whether her charms can be averaged into her grade as extra credit. In the past, this has been an issue and he's felt rather used. So he plays by two explicit rules that must be mutually agreed upon before any bodily fluids are exchanged neither party can be disparaging of a person's belief or weight. Everything else, including getting a D for the course, is fair game. He doesn't know her name and would prefer not to, never to. There's something about anonymity that excites him, like in the videos. Few words are exchanged, some vulnerability is shown, and magically clothes come off. The move. He's tried many but finds one particularly successful assuming she lingers at the end of class and fumbles with her notebook. How coy some girls can be, and how so very predictable. The chase is such a curious blend of feigned advance and retreat, a dance, a cha cha cha. His motor is running. At 10:50 a.m. in Baldy Hall on the university campus a collision is about to take place. Signals are misconstrued. Flashing lights are ignored. It can't be helped. It is the nature of magnetic fields. "Hello," he says. "Hi," she responds. The Accident Katya, unfazed, sits on their couch, while Lew slams the kitchen cupboard doors one after another, loudly, deliberately. He's trying to get her attention, she imagines, waiting for her to scurry in and ask what's wrong, but she isn't going to nibble, not after thirty-seven years of marriage, not after being a fish on a hook once too often. Closing her eyes, Katya imagines standing on a sunny beach at the water's edge with tiny waves nipping at her toes. Suddenly, a clamor of metal erupts. Katya jolts upright and looks toward the kitchen. He must have pulled the silverware drawer out too far. After a few moments, she hears the singular clink of odd pieces of flatware being returned to their molded spots. Well, Katya thinks, that should keep him quiet for a while. She settles back into the sofa and closes her eyes again. Her two o'clock appointment had phoned yesterday calling on a line with static and background traffic noise. He seemed in a rush, asking if he could come around in the morning, at eight, if you can imagine that! He even tried to bribe her with muffins. What was it about men, always trying to arrange you into their schedules? "Kay!" Lew yells. Katya opens her eyes. "Yes dear." "Where's the damn sugar?" Sugar. So that's what all this clatter is about. The measly sugar which she never uses. And swearing besides. "Kay, did you hear me?" After an unhurried pause, she answers. "On the counter, near the pot." Lew lumbers into the living room. "That's the first place I looked. It's not there." "Maybe you took the bowl into the garage, and stop calling me Kay. I'm Katya, especially when people are over." His gaze darts around the room. "What people?" Katya ignores him. "I have a reading in five minutes," she tells him. "I need to study." Her husband pats his chest pockets, then feels his legs. What's he looking for - his car keys? Is he about to leave? That was the problem with having strangers visit their home. She never knew if she'd need protection. "Lew, you promised to stay." Lew turns away. "A half hour. That's it, Kay. I have to finish up on the Noonan's garage." "Katya. It's Katya," she reminds him. He waves his hand as if he's heard enough and trudges back into the kitchen. She reaches for her business cards and pulls one out. The red block letters read: KATYA - HAND READER She admires her name - KATYA, mysterious yet tasteful, and so much better than boring "Kay". It sounds gypsy, not that she's ever known one. But she can imagine a dark-haired woman dancing in the night around a crackling fire, the flames casting light and shadows around her spinning form. KATYA, a woman with chains of gold around her neck and wrists and ankles, who seduces the swarthy men with her curling hands and body turns. Of course, Kay is nothing of the sort. Not at fifty-eight, not with anemic frizzy hair that's falling out in clumps. She sighs deeply and glances around the living room. Everything is in order. Swatches of tapestry dress the sofa arms. Odd scarves - some lace, others translucent - veil the lamps and shroud the tabletops. A line of smoke from the sparkler-stick incense snakes up in the corner and fills the room with a sweet thick haze. She checks herself in the panel mirror one last time. The long coral top hangs loosely from her shoulders, skimming her breasts and nicely avoiding the contact of any bulges below. Its matching skirt, thick with tiny pleats, touches the floor. Nothing these days is short enough for her five-foot frame. Still, there are advantages. She doesn't need to bother with stockings, just an old pair of slide-on slippers will do. She then goes into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea. Lew, hunched at the kitchen table, sips his coffee. "So you found the sugar," she says. He shifts a glance at her. "No." "Well, if you can't find the bowl, why not just get more from the bag." He turns and peers out the window. She really doesn't have the time for this but she marches over to the cupboard and while on tippy-toe, surveys the shelves. She moves the flour, honey, the bottles of oil and vinegar from one side to another. "Oh," she says, "I guess we're out." "No kidding." Katya shuts the cupboard door and decides, again, not to give it another thought. She grabs the kettle and fills it with tap water. Then she remembers - the sugar bowl is on the sideboard, in the dining room with the teacups. She had put it there the night before for her visit today. But Lew is almost finished with his coffee and it hardly seems the best time to let him know. Have him steep with the tea, she decides, and she turns on the burner. Lew straightens up in his chair. "Someone's coming." Katya sidles up behind him, lightly resting her hand on his shoulder and stoops down to get a better look. The car, white and glimmering, has a rack on top. It enters the driveway slowly. "What kind of car is that?" Katya asks Lew. "Volvo." "Expensive?" "Yep. Full of air bags too." The car stops. After a moment, the door opens. A young man gets out. He's a young girl's dream - blue-black hair, thick and longish that tapers over his collar. He's wearing a dark-brown leather jacket with khaki pants. The man squints into the sun, then slips off his coat and puts it into the car through the driver's window. Eyeing the house, he strolls toward it. "You get the door." Katya says and she rushes from the kitchen not waiting for a response. From the other side of the wall, Katya hears a knocking, then the skid of Lew's chair and his slow heavy step. The deadbolt clicks, the door creaks open. "I'm looking for Katya," the young man says. "Is this the right place?" "The one and only," Lew says. "Come in. I'm Mr. Katya." Finally Lew says her name, but hardly in the way she expects. "I'm Austin." "Pleased to meet you. My wife..." Katya considers this her cue. Standing as tall as possible, she makes an entrance. The man turns. He's even more handsome close up. His light blue shirt, buttoned down at the collar, is ironed. Knifelike creases run down his arms to the folded-back cuffs. He has an olive coloring that glows. Katya extends both her hands and wraps them around the hand he offers. His grip is solid and warm; his skin, supple and smooth. College educated, most likely, with a clean job, she assumes, in an office where there are no temperature extremes, and with a girlfriend or mother or wife who does the dishes. She lets go of his hand. "I'm making some tea," she says. "It should only take a minute, then we'll begin." "Fine," he says, smiling with teeth as even and white as piano keys. Katya can't ever remember seeing a man so perfect, except for maybe Cary Grant. But he was in the movies, not live and in color right in her kitchen. She brushes a few strands of hair away from her face and peeks down at her feet, fearing her bare stubby toes might be poking out. "Beautiful day for a ride," Lew says. "For sure." "So how was the drive?" "No problem. Thruway was clear." "Coming from Buffalo?" "Yeah." Lew leans against the counter and folds his arms. "That should've taken about an hour and a half." Austin glances at his watch. "A little under, maybe." The kettle whistles. "Excuse me," Katya says as she patters between the two men. She turns off the gas. "Yep, they finally finished that construction after the exit," Lew says. "Bridge work. Took'em two years. You're lucky you missed that." "Mmm," Austin agrees. Katya stretches, reaching for the teapot in the cupboard above. "Here, let me get that for you," she hears the young man say as he comes up close behind. His hand lightly touches the small of her back while his extended arm rises up beside hers. It's almost like they're dancing, ballet dancing and for a moment she thinks of leaning back, feigning a fall to see if he'd catch her. Such a notion! Instead she withdraws her arm and turns slightly. "Thank you." He smiles again, a broad-faced smile, not just with his mouth but also with his eyes, glimmering and dark. He hands her the pot. "You happy with the Volvo?" Lew says. "I hear they can be expensive to fix." Austin steps away from her. "I haven't had any problems so far." "Lucky for you. Tune-ups alone can run a hundred and fifty." "Let's see," Katya says loudly, "I have regular tea, of course, but maybe you'd like some herbal--" "Aren't those the cars that have electrical problems?" Lew interrupts. "Excuse me, dear, but I was asking the nice man about what kind of tea he'd like," and she pulls out a drawer lined with colorful boxes. "There's rose hips, chamomile, lemon zing, sass-" "Maybe he'd like coffee," Lew cuts in again. "Men don't drink, what'd you call it...lemon zing?" Katya wants to shake her husband, send him to his room, do whatever it takes to stop him from being his usual bad-humored, rude self. She takes a deep breath and focuses on Austin. "Would you prefer coffee?" she asks evenly. Austin's eyes flit between the couple. "Regular tea sounds fine. Thank you. Thank you both." Katya grips the handle of the pot and steadies the hot side with a padded glove. Turning toward Austin, she asks, "Shall we get started?" "Sure," Austin says. Katya pivots around and advances toward the living room. "It's nice meeting you," she overhears Austin saying to Lew. As Katya leans her shoulder into the kitchen door, the young man rushes over, reaches around her and pushes the door open. Such a gentleman, she thinks, so refreshing, so pleasant. Katya slips through the doorway. "By the way," she calls back to Lew, "the sugar's on the buffet." Austin brushes past her. "What a great view!" Like most of the homes in the area, their living room faces the water. Where other towns have a small square and monument right smack in the center, Susquadaga has its lake. The mid-afternoon sun is casting a honey glow on the town. Small white houses, much like theirs, run along the curving road that winds around the water. And trees, hundreds of them, some pine, some still bare from the winter, gather in clumps, rising and falling with the rolling hills. The lake, slate gray and still, without a ripple or wave, seems so peaceful. And the ducks are back, sailing over and around the water, up and down and turning, and for a moment it feels as if she and the young man are cradled in spring. Katya nods to the chair that faces the window. "You can sit here," and she puts the pot down on the table. "I'll get the cups." She steps over to the dining room where she stops for a moment and contemplates the teacups. She decides on the only two that match - the Royal Albert pair with roses. Perfect for her nicely mannered man. The cups rattle as she makes her way back to the table and eases into her seat. "Can I pour you some tea?" she asks. "Yes, but allow me," he says. Katya can't remember the last time someone actually did something for her without her having to ask. She sits back in her chair and watches as he does the honors. He has a natural upward curl to his lips that makes him seem everlastingly serene, and she can only remember children as having such long feathery lashes. Sunlight caresses her back, warming her inside and out, and for the first time in months she feels toasty. "Shall I get the cream and sugar?" she asks. "Well, not for me." Katya flutters. Already they have something in common. She reaches out across the table. "Let's begin with your left hand." Austin nests his curled hand into hers. Gently she strokes his palm. With each sweep, his warm dry hand opens wider. "You see," she begins to say, "your hands are like road maps, with lines and mounts and valleys..." And she tells him about the gypsies and the planets and the elements. She presses and pokes, first feeling his left hand, then his right. The more she speaks, the more she forgets about how odd she looks, or how old, or fat. She even forgets about her husband. Lew stands at the kitchen table with his hands in his pockets, staring out the back window. He had summed up Austin the minute he saw him - a know-it-all-pretty-boy-rich kid, who never worked an honest day in his life. No coke ovens, or orange dust up his ass, that was for sure. Lew's seen plenty like him, the president's son, the vice- president's nephew, slumming it at the plant during the summers, getting the clean jobs. Fussed-over pretty boys who were always skipped to the front of the line, given the larger piece of the pie. And that Volvo! How Lew hates foreign cars with their fool symbols and cheap interiors. A real car is a Caddy - a car with legroom, back support; a car that floats on air, drives like silk. Lew's mouth feels dry and bitter from the unsweetened coffee. He looks at the clock. They've been yammering for twenty minutes. Time's up. He pushes open the kitchen door just wide enough to catch Kay's eyes. "I need to talk to you," he calls out. Kay smiles at lover boy, "Will you excuse me a minute," and she gets up from the table and walks toward Lew. Lew opens the door wider as his wife enters the kitchen. After the door swings shut, she turns to Lew, "What is it?" Lew grabs her arm and pulls her close. "Listen," he says in a low raspy voice, "I found a dead baby--" "What?" Lew jerks his chin toward the living room. "In that guy's car," he murmurs, "wrapped up in a towel on the back seat." Kay cranes her neck back to look at him straight on. "What are you saying?" "I was just checking out how they mounted the air bags and there it was." "There what was?" "The baby, well not exactly the baby, but an arm. I saw an arm." "An arm!" Katya coughs out with her hand over her mouth. "So I opened the door. I figured it had to be a doll or something." Kay seems to waver. Lew leans into her, steadying her with his arm. "Anyway, I pulled the corner of the towel around to check it, and... there it was." Lew draws her nearer and places his lips to her ear. "You've got to get rid of him. Act like nothing's happened. Then we'll decide what to do." Kay looks at her husband. "But--" "That's my girl." Lew squeezes her tight then loosens his grip. "I need to write down the license number. As soon as I take it down I'll go into the dining room. That's when you'll know to get him to leave. Understand?" Kay stands motionless and Lew wonders if he needs to shake her. "Kay, are you listening?" She nods and straightens her spine. "Yes," she exhales quietly. Lew opens the kitchen door and Kay passes through. Austin is leaning back in his chair, looking closely at his palms. "I think I found something," he says. A shiver passes through Katya. Lew has found something too. "See," the young man says, and points to a spot. Katya hunches over him. It's a star, tiny but perfectly formed with a center and six off-shooting lines, and it's in the oddest place - on the Plain of Mars, right in the middle of the hand. "That's interesting," she says not wanting to upset him. "Stars are fortuitous, a very good sign. Money, fame, fortune. Yes, and lucky too. The whole nine yards, I'd say." Was she talking too fast? Was she making any sense? How many times has she watched police shows where the murderer or rapist or devil-worshiper was like the guy next door? Just like her guy here. The young man beams. She glances down at him, trying to find something she may have overlooked, some telltale sign. Maybe a tattoo, or pierced hole somewhere, or blood flecks on his shirt or pant cuffs or socks. But all she sees is a neatly pressed man. And she wonders if he is perhaps too clean - the kind of man who leads an obsessive life, who, at the slightest provocation, could fly into a rage if something was out of place. Katya takes a deep choppy breath. "Aren't you going to sit back down?" he asks. "Yes, of course," she says and she slides into her chair. The man moves his hands across the table. Katya doesn't want to touch them. Where have these hands been? Wrapped around the baby's neck, shaking the child senseless? "Is anything wrong?" he asks. Beads of sweat drip down her sides. The man stares at her, waiting. She must say something. She blots her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I seem to be getting a hot fla--" and she stops. Lew's coughing in the dining room. "Where's that sugar?" he finally calls out. "Excuse me, won't you?" Katya says, and she pushes her chair from the table. As she stands up, the table rocks, and his empty tea cup tips over on its side. She rushes over to Lew and whispers, "Did you get it?" "Yes," he says quietly, then adds in a normal tone, "I see the sugar now." Katya returns to the table and stands beside the young man's chair. Looking out at the lake, she says, "I'm afraid time's up." He peers up at her, then reels around and shifts his eyes at Lew. "Oh...okay. How much do I owe you?" Katya flusters. She doesn't want to fiddle for change or touch his money. "Whatever you think is fine." He reaches for his wallet, fishes out a twenty-dollar bill and places it on the table. "I'll walk you out," Lew tells him from across the room. Austin pushes his chair away from the table and rises. "Thank you," he says to Katya, extending his hand. She skims her hand through his, barely touching. "This way," Lew says. The two men leave the room. Katya collapses into the couch. She remembers the oddest thing - the feeling she had as a young girl, leaving the movie theater in the afternoon, with the sun blinding her eyes and her wondering what was real and what was fake. She glances around her living room and all its familiarity dims. Lew leads Austin through the kitchen and out the back door. They walk silently to the car. Dead Babies. Lew's heard about them regularly on the six o'clock news while he sits in front of the TV with his metal tray and nightly baked potato. News stories of babies discarded - some left in oven-hot cars, others strapped in watery back seats; the rest, plastic-wrapped and thrown in dumpsters. Babies baked, drowned, suffocated. All of them dead. Lew looks down at the man's brown shoes. Leather tassels bounce from side to side with each step. Rat-stinking murderers. That's what Lew thinks of baby killers. Just like this kid Austin. He could fit the profile. After all baby killers look normal. He's seen it for himself, once the paper bags were taken off and the cameras got a clear shot. Fresh-cut hair, scrubbed faces, straight teeth, just like they've come from Sunday service. Austin opens his car door and slides in. Lew steps back. "Have a nice drive." Austin leans forward. "Sure thing," he says and he rears out of the driveway in choppy fits and starts. From the perch of the main road, Austin casts a wave in Lew's direction. "Ciao," Lew says to himself and he watches the car charge down the speckled road that's part-sun, part-shade. At the corner, the brake lights flash twice before the car veers out of sight. Good riddance, Lew thinks, and he glimpses at his watch. He figures five minutes to wash up and ten minutes to get to the motel - that will give him just enough time. Of course he'll have to tell Kay he made up the dead-baby story. And maybe he did go a bit too far. But she had promised to be done in half an hour and she was nowhere close. Besides she had made him angry. First the sugar, then the kid, not to mention all that garbage about Venus and Mars. Lew saunters to the house. He has to come up with a good reason. Maybe he could say it was a joke. After all he was a funny guy. He steps into the kitchen. "Is that you?" Kay calls out. "The one and only," Lew answers as he enters the living room. Kay's sitting on the couch, slumped over. "Is he gone?" "Like ticker tape." Kay dabs her eyes with a corner of her shawl. "How can we be sure he won't come back?" Lew reaches into his pocket, pulls out a handkerchief and sits next to his wife. "Here use this," he says, offering his hanky. Kay takes it and blows her nose. "Listen, Kay, about that kid--" "Was it a little boy or a little girl?" she asks between gasps of breaths. "Huh?" "The baby." "Oh." "Was there blood?" "No, no blood. Listen Kay--" "Then why was it in a towel?" "Towel?" "You said the poor thing was wrapped up in a towel." "Well, that's what I said but--" "Were there bruises?" "No bruises, no blood, no nothing." "Nothing?" "Right...nothing." There. Lew was halfway, just two more words - no baby. She gazes at him wide-eyed, her eyes filling up again and for moment Lew sees her thirty years younger. Her face blushed and round. A thick tear collects in the corner of her eye and falls down her cheek. She leans into him, resting her head on his chest. A tingling sensation ripples inside him. "Well, maybe it was an accident," she says, sniffling. "Maybe the little angel died of crib death or swallowed something or was sick with a fever." His wife, all wrinkled and damp, looks into his face. "That's possible, right?" Lew circles his arm around her shoulder and presses her close. She collapses into him and runs her arms along his waist, nestling her face under his chin. He's forgotten how she feels, so warm, so soft. And her touch brings back memories of a different time. The pavilion down at the lake, the yellow lights, the slow dance. "Lew," she says, "do you think it could have been an accident?" An accident, Lew thinks, yes of course. A verbal accident, that's what the lie was, nothing more, nothing less. An oral kink, a blurb. Something that simply fell off the shelf. No one's fault, no damage done. She lifts her head and speaks into his ear. "Are you listening?" And he is, sort of, but not to her words so much as to her rhythms - her breath, heart, pulse; eavesdropping like some thief who breaks in and hears the dripping faucet, the ticking clock of an empty house. "Sh," he tells her. Lew can't remember the last time he's held her. "Yes, that must be it," she says aloud. "Of course, what other reason could there be?" Her hair smells flowery like roses. "He couldn't have done such a thing on purpose," she continues. But Lew isn't paying much attention. He tilts his head and presses his lips to her forehead, then to the bridge of her nose. Suddenly she sits upright. Lew reaches for her, wanting to tow her in, wanting to bring her back but she slips away. She steps over to the window and sighs. "He seemed like such a nice boy." Nice boy? What planet was Kay on? Couldn't she see how the kid was playing up to her like some kiss-ass Casanova - opening doors, grabbing her, and all the time grinning like some goon. Lew slaps his hands on his lap. "Kay, nice boys drive around with dirty laundry and baseball mitts in their backseats. Not dead babies!" "Yes, of course," she says quietly not bothering to turn around. The light from the window makes her appear small and round- shouldered. Lew rests his elbows on his knees and considers the braided rug with its winding circles. Somehow he got sidetracked, made a left turn. Is it too late to go back? He rubs his face. When he looks back up Kay is in front of him. She kneels down and drapes her arms on his folded legs. "You're right," she says. "And not just about him but about everything." "Everything?" "You know, about having strange people come to the house." Could it be that Kay is finally coming around to his way of thinking - to forget this mystic stuff and get on with real life? "Yeah, it's like I've been telling you, but you never listen. There's just too many screwballs loose." Kay blinks. "I should've listened to you." He draws her in again. She doesn't resist. "Everything is going to be fine," he tells her. He closes his eyes, strokes her back and tightens her between his legs. She speaks into his ear. "Should I call 911 or do you want to?" A jolt goes through him. His eyes pop open. "And I suppose they'll be wanting the license number." The license number! He hadn't bothered writing anything down. He loosens his grip and leans back. "Now Kay, settle down a minute. Maybe phoning wouldn't be such a good idea. Everyone in town with a scanner will pick up the dispatch when they send a car over. He's still out there, you know. No telling what he might do if he finds out we're the ones who blew him in." Lew shakes his head. "This can't be handled over the phone." "I suppose so," Kay says as she rises to her feet. "I'll wash my face then we'll leave." Lew jumps up. "No, definitely not," he blurts out. "You shouldn't be involved. Besides what more could you tell them?" "Well, I could tell them about his hands." "His hands?" "His lines, you know, and my impressions." Lew feels an argument coming on. "I don't think they'd be interested." "You mean they'd think I was crazy." "I didn't say that." "But that's what you meant," she says tearfully. "I just think we should stick with...the facts. There's no reason for you to get involved. I'll handle it." Kay drops onto the couch. "I do seem to have a headache." "All the more reason for you to stay home." "But what if he comes back?" Lew feels the room closing in on him. Suddenly, the air is too thick to breathe. "No way, that kid's gone for good," Lew reassures her. "He took off like a bullet when I told him I was a retired FBI agent." "You what?" "Well, I had to tell him something. You know, to make him think twice about messing with us." Kay shakes her head. "But an FBI agent - really, Lew." "It worked. The minute I told him, he got in his car and took off. In fact, he was so nervous he almost flooded the damn thing." Kay gazes at her husband. "When do you think you'll get back?" Lew eyes his watch and figures in the time. "Shouldn't take me more than an hour." "And what about the Noonans?" "The Noonans . . . of course, well, I'll have to call them and cancel." His wife shivers in the corner of the couch and tightens the shawl around her. "You'll be all right?" he asks sheepishly. Her face sags, and for a brief moment Lew considers staying home. "I'll get you a blanket," he says, sidestepping into the dining room. "Put your feet up." He opens the bottom drawer, pulls out a blanket and goes back to cover his wife. "I'll call you from the station," he says, tucking her in. "I won't be long." He then stretches over, plucks the telephone from a small table and places it on the floor beside her. Kay lays the back of her hand along her forehead, nods silently, then closes her eyes. Lew turns to leave. "I'll lock up." Driving north on Route 60, past the vineyards and the trailer parks, Lew wonders what went wrong. His intention to tell Kay the truth was there but somehow it got waylaid. It must have been her tears. What was it about a woman crying that made you want to say anything, do anything? He couldn't kick her while she was down. He did the right thing, the only thing under the circumstances. Besides, maybe she learned a lesson, got a wake-up call. Anyway, he'd make it up to her somehow. Lew rolls down the car window. Fresh spring air swirls around him, blowing his hair onto his forehead. He makes a mental note to comb his hair in the motel parking lot. Then he twists off his wedding ring and drops it into his left breast pocket. Highwire With a towel around his waist, T.J. opens the bathroom door of the motel room, walks out and pivots to the mirror. "Aren't you getting up?" he says to the air around him. I see the back of him, his wide shoulders, narrow torso. The slight sheen of wetness glistens between his sharp shoulder blades that rise and ripple under his skin. He lifts an arm and runs his fingers through his sandy-colored hair, tweeded with gray. In his reflected image, he juts out his chin and turns his face slowly, passing his fingers along his taut jaw line. He appraises himself with hooded, sleepy eyes, vaguely reminiscent of James Dean, all edge and adolescence. From the mirror, he gives me a dry, uninspiring glance. "You taking the afternoon off?" "No," I say. "I got another ten minutes. Got here late, remember?" He nods, steps around the bed and collects his clothes, bobbing for socks, underwear. He then walks to the chair, and lets the towel fall. The back of his long lean body is exposed: solid, compact. He bends over and slips up his boxers. My point of interest strays to the flocked wallpaper that's mildewed and curling from the walls. Could someone be spying on us from a hole in the wall? They say it happens. I squint and look for a discreetly-placed blackened lens behind the many spots (mold, blood?) that could be harboring the peeping Tom's camera, and his prying, darting irises. I lie very still and listen for a video camera, its groan and whir. . . . But there is none. We must seem like a married couple (and we are of course, just not to each other) to whomever is leering behind the wall since we have the habit of having sex under the covers. No photo-shoot opportunity here. Not that it was always like this. We had our moments ensconced in his office when he'd call me in just before closing. Could I take a short letter? "Sure," I had said, sitting up straight, legs crossed, with a pad and pencil propped on one knee, my ear keenly attuned to the sounds of an emptying office: the slam of drawers, the clicks and ceasing drone of computers, copy machines being turned off for the night. We'd stay seated, not saying a word as people flitted by, with an occasional "See you tomorrow", "Have a nice evening". His staring watery eyes bored into me as he waved them off. Within moments, beams of headlights from cars exiting the parking lot would arc across the room. "Light in your eyes?" he'd say rhetorically as he turned and drew the blinds. He'd then get up, walk around his desk and quietly close the door. The click of the latch echoed loudly in the cleared silent office, providing the stimulus to my Pavlovian response. Breathlessness and moans would quickly follow. He now asks. "Did you make arrangements for the hotel in Chicago next week?" "Yeah, the Sheraton." He sits, rolls up one sock, inserts his toe, and pulls it to his knee in one fluid motion. Wes, my husband, dresses differently, not only what he wears, but in the order he puts them on: jeans first, socks afterwards. But this shouldn't be surprising, we all have our way of doing things. T.J. groans. "I can't believe I have to spend an entire Saturday with that idiot from R and D." "Oh, big Dick's not so bad. Just make sure he's fed." "Easy for you to say." "What do you mean?" I say with some resistance. T.J. sits back, his knees jut out to the sides. "The guy's a slug. Can't do anything for himself. Pompous ass. You don't know the half of it. Such a big shot. Sends me to get the coffee, like I'm some gopher. Hell, I'm the one making all the deals. He's just there for backup to answer the odd question. It's me that gets them to sign up." The company we work for sells edible desserts made from chemicals and obscure vegetable byproducts. We've cornered the market and cater to those individuals who can't tolerate milk or wheat or eggs which are, as some studies show, 70 percent of the world population. And that's a lot of people, not to mention a lot of eclairs. I lift my head, punch the pillow and settle back in. T.J. shakes his head. "You're going to be late." "Cover for me," I tell him, half wanting to see his reaction, test his loyalty; after all isn't that what lovers are supposed to do? "You're on your own. Got a meeting at three in Batavia. Won't be going back to the office." I scan his smooth relaxed face. Could he be lying? Of course he could. It's what goes on between us: lies, secrets, fabrications of where we are, who we're with, what we're doing. But isn't that part of the excitement standing on uncertain ground, not knowing. This is what I do know. He's been married for thirteen years to a rather tall, angular, unnaturally blond-haired woman named Maureen who works in a bank and wears severe manlike suits and who, when calling the office leaves brief laconic messages, rarely requesting to speak to her husband directly. He loves his wife, so he says, it's just that she doesn't understand him. I've interpreted this to mean certain things in the hieroglyphics of man-speak; specifically that she doesn't perform the way he'd like her to perform, which most likely involves some aberrations from the norm, that is to say any sexual act that is not procreative by form, function or design. In any event he loves his wife, as I love my husband. How to sum up Wes? All American, I'd say. Preoccupied with the lawn, having a spotless car and checking the weather channel at every click of the remote. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but let's face it, it's a never-ending battle; something you can never get your arms around; something that is never quite resolved. T.J. carefully judges the ends of his tie. The ideal knot comes out the best when one loose end is measured to the length of his fingertips. He makes an adjustment. "How's this look?" "A little longer," I say. If Wes wore ties, he'd knot them his own way and wouldn't be asking me for directions. I like that T.J. consults me. Although I have to say, if he did it often enough, I'd probably want him to figure things out for himself. He slips the knot to his neck. "So do you want to meet next week?" Do I? I smile vaguely. His tentativeness makes me think. When do affairs end? And how? Are they supposed to go out with accusations, slamming doors; or simply dry up, like a shallow creek bed in late summer? "On Wednesday? Same place, same time?" I ask. He reaches for his jacket. "Of course." "I'll have to check my schedule." A perplexing look clouds his uncomplicated face. "Your schedule? What's to check? You get an hour lunch." Our eyes make contact through the mirror, distantly and removed. He scratches the back of his neck. "Well, if that's how you want to leave it." My mind wanders in cool detachment. I'm wavering on a high wire in the middle of nowhere with only one place to go, and it's down fifty feet. The motel door slams shut, leaving me alone and chilled. Two men, such luxury. But I don't have two men, not whole ones, that is. They're mostly just pieces, spare parts, exchanged, fitted, to meet certain needs, basic and otherwise. What spare part do I bring to the equation? I look at the sparkled ceiling and wonder. Glitter, fairy dust? EE O NAA Jenna Wheeler reaches under her spare pillow and pulls out the vial. Its slender bottle with tiny cork and rounded bottom sits in the palm of her hand like the smallest of magical wands. She pinches it carefully, reverently, then lifts it to the window. The dark green liquid, opaque as velvet, brightens into a deep emerald shade when held to the light. Mesmerized, she twists and turns it as the warm, thick luminescence laps, then dissolves down the glass sides. Her long wait is about to end. She closes her eyes and rolls the small cylinder between her hands. Her lips form an exhaling breath while she meditates. Within moments the energy of the love potion expands, warming her palms. With deep concentration, she wills its heat up her arms and into her heart. "EE O NAA" she hums quietly, bathed in the mantra she lifted from the middle of his name. For three and a half years, Jenna has been trying to get a man to fall in love with her. Well, not just any ordinary man, but specifically, Leonard Hartnett, her sometime boss in the mail room where she works. She's tried everything from the obvious to the ridiculous, and a little beyond, if that were possible, but then sleeping for three months with a shoe she had stolen from his apartment, or lying within a triangular configuration of burning incense and tree bark at four in the morning with the hope of astroprojecting herself into his heart, might just qualify. But such misguided attempts were months ago, having been driven, she would now say, by erratic hormonal levels that have since quieted from jagged peaks and valleys to smoothed rolling hills, copasetically green. Thanks to a psychic named Verishna, Jenna now has proper counsel as well as a money-back- guarantee to finally, and categorically, make her wish come true. Jenna makes a mental check. Not only are the planets aligned, her Venus with his Mars, but certain small but significant karmic events have foreshadowed that the time is ripe. Specifically, in the last forty- eight hours, a telemarketer referred to her as Mrs., and Marie from next door brought her two tomatoes instead of one. Jenna exhales a cleansing breath and visualizes how it will be in less than ten hours, the true beginning of their life together. Her eyelids flutter as the fantasy materializes. What she envisions is Leonard in loungewear from Calvin Klein, an immaculate, metallic gray robe and pajama set, that, while satiny to the touch, is both manly and blatantly suggestive. The robe is untied, the pajama top, unbuttoned. Does he have hair on his chest? Yes, she decides, the softest brown fleece, not too much, not too little, that climbs up from his washboard stomach and spreads symmetrically across his chest. She sighs deeply and wonders if she should take her visualization further, further in a downward direction. But the drawstrings on his pajama bottoms will have to be toyed with at another time. There are still some preparations that need attending before she must leave for work and set her plan in motion. She reopens her eyes and looks around her bedroom. Tapered, cream-colored candles, the kind that drips molten wax down the sides like heavy brocade, stand clustered in golden brass holders. She lit them the previous night before undressing in the vanity mirror to see the full effect. She wasn't displeased. Their flickering glow made her dull, brown eyes glisten, and her normally hard, angular edges softened and gently curved in the smokey shadows. But now in the stark light of day, she worries how she may appear in the morning when she awakens in his arms and gazes into his eyes. After all, according to Verishna, this is when the everlasting love spell will be finalized, when the love potion will take its final effect. She rises from the bed, angles her mini- blinds closed, and yanks the curtains shut. The room is shrouded in quiet, fading color. Perfect. Her only remaining concern is what to wear to a not-so-ordinary day at the office. Two new sets of bras and panties lie on the bed, one black, one red. It was an easy decision to forego any tan or pink undergarments which, in the store's fluorescent lights, made her skin appear an anemic shade of dishwater gray. Dropping the robe from her shoulders, she stands with her back to the mirror and changes into the red ensemble for the third time this morning. She slips on the panties, fastens the bra, then turns to face her image. Red is not usually her color, too harsh, too look-at-me, but in a room with little light, the cherry red radiates a shimmering glow that is, for lack of a better word, succulent. It's seven-thirty, and she only has a few minutes to make a final decision. Standing back, it comes to her: black for smoke, red for fire. And red it stays. At eleven o'clock, Leonard breezes into the mailroom. When Jenna first met him, she thought he was vaguely odd looking, his face, a bit too round, his eyebrows, overly dark and thick. But as time passed, these features made him cuddly, like a bear cub, and the sexiest man alive. Today, his jacket is off and his shirt sleeves are rolled up. The sight of his hairy forearms makes her ache. Jenna turns her eyes toward her work - triple fold, insert, swipe, stack, and listens acutely for his approaching steps. Tangled up in the din of the mail machine's chug-a-lugging, her heartbeat accelerates to warp speed. "Hey, Jenna, what's up?" She purposely stalls for a moment, not wanting to appear overly eager, then slowly raises her head. "Oh. Hi, Leonard." "We still on for tonight?" "Yes, I went to Home Depot and got the fixture I liked. But it may need some assembly." "No problem. I'll get you up and running in no time." "Great. So I'll look for you at five?" "Meet you here. Sure you can drive me to my car after I finish?" "Leonard, it's the least I can do." "See you later then," he says with a grin. He puts his hands in his pockets and saunters from the room. His stride is effortless, his bulging gluts swagger. Jenna blinks herself back to reality. It was Verishna who had helped Jenna decide on the proper ploy to get Leonard over to the house. It was so obvious, Jenna was surprised she hadn't thought of it herself. Leonard fixed things. Whether it was putting the tiniest screws into eyeglass frames or disassembling the copier machine to find that last ripped sliver of misfed paper, Leonard was The Man. It therefore followed that having him over to her newly purchased, fifty-year-old ranch home for some odd job seemed the best and least obvious approach. For two weeks, Jenna spent every evening prowling the intimidating aisles at the Home Depot trying to find the perfect repair project that would keep Leonard engaged while he ingested the potion. Having purchased a well-worn house, her list of repairs ranged from the minor to the monumental. But she had to be discriminating, nothing outside, in the basement, attic, and certainly nothing too dangerous. A place where she could play soft music and maintain a mood that was, as Verishna advised, "receptive to cosmic ions". Something in the electrical department caught her eye. It was a brass chandelier that came packed in a very small box. She asked a salesclerk how something so large could fit into such a tiny space. The explanation was simple. It needed assembly. He then opened the box and showed her lettered plastic packets of various sizes with seemingly innumerable bits of metal. Assembly, oh yeah, she greedily thought, hours of it. At ten minutes after five, Jenna and Leonard are in Jenna's car heading north on Main Street. The soundtrack from Titanic plays on the tape deck as they sit scrunched together in her Geo hatchback facing forward. Jenna fiddles with the volume. She wants it loud enough for some of DiCaprio's magic to seep into Leonard's subconscious, but not so intrusive as to prevent conversation. "Thank God it's Friday," she says. "So, how was your week?" He readjusts himself in the seat and begins to talk, first about the football pool and how Jamie down in accounting has won three times this season, and how he, Leonard, has been playing for at least five years and has never won once. Some type of record, he figures, and really bad luck. She listens to the smooth cadence of his voice and nods with each sentence. Threaded among his words, her thoughts drift and she reviews her checklist for the umpteenth time. Remember, not more than three doses of three drops in three hours. She glances at Leonard and feels anchored. Twenty minutes later they're in Jenna's dining room. Leonard peers at the hole in her ceiling. "You got Romex. Not bad." Jenna squints into the mass of wires. "That's a relief." He takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back rung of a dining room chair. Clapping his hands together, he says, "All righty now." He then curls his fingers around a loose corner and pries open the cardboard box. "Can I get you something to drink?" "No, I'm fine thanks." Jenna's smile freezes. This part isn't supposed to happen. If he doesn't drink anything, how is she supposed to give him the potion? He reaches in the box and takes out a folded pamphlet that has Instructions written across in several languages. He fans through a few pages. "Doesn't look so bad." "Good. I was worried that it would be too complicated." "All you need for any job is common sense and the right tools." "Oh, Leonard you're so smart." Jenna says as her stomach wrenches. He pulls out a chair, sits down, and with the directions splayed in front of him, he rips open the bags and begins to separate the nuts from the bolts. Jenna excuses herself to the kitchen. Common sense rattles in her mind as she stands at the kitchen counter. Suddenly, an idea surfaces. She stretches into the cupboard for the salted nuts and potato chips. Surely, after a few handfuls of these, he'd want a drink. She sets up a tray with two bowls and a tall frosted glass of Pepsi. Only one final step remains. She rolls out the silverware drawer. A white folded napkin lies diagonally across the stacked forks and spoons. Lifting it from the drawer carefully, she places it on the counter and pinches the fold open. Two long cylinders, the love potion and eye dropper, are nestled together. She breathes deeply. There's no turning back now. She twists the tiny cork free then, bringing the vial to eye level, she plunges the dropper deep into the potion and pumps the tiny black bulb. Green liquid climbs up the slender tube. She lifts the dropper out and centers it over the fizzing soda. She watches, hypnotized, as each drop, one. . . two. . . three. . . plunks invisibly into the dark brown effervescence. She places her hands together, as if in prayer, and whispers "EE O NAA". A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. Soon she'll be able to trade that middle of Leonard for the real thing. With calculated calmness she grabs the sides of the tray and leaves. Back in the dining room, Leonard is making disturbing progress. Already, the loopy stems of the chandelier are formed. "My, you're really good at this." "It's nothing." "How can you say that? I go in the kitchen for a few minutes and look at what you've done!" She hopes the anxiousness in her voice isn't showing. At this rate she may have to accelerate the doses. He beams. "Listen, you've got to have something to eat. Take a break." "Cashews. Love those things. Well, maybe I will after all." She sets the tray on the table and hands him the glass. He takes it easily and gulps some soda. According to Verishna, the first manifestations of the love potion are memory loss and awkwardness. After this, laughter, difficult to control, will follow, as well as a general sense of well-being. Finally, she should expect a deep trance-like state where time loses its continuum and a Tantric communion between souls will take place. Jenna turns on some carefully preselected music - new age melodies that weave soprano voices with deep bass drums - then takes a seat. She nibbles on a potato chip and observes him carefully. Leonard is absorbed with his project, but every so often between tightening and snipping, he reaches for a handful of nuts and washes them down with soda. Suddenly, something draws her attention. His lips twist to one side, and he appears to bite the inside of his mouth. "Is anything wrong?" she asks. "This A screw is longer than it should be." Jenna squints across the table. Between his thumb and index finger is a small stout metal shard that he holds up for her inspection. "See?" She agrees. "Now, the two B screws " He stops abruptly, laughs, then adds, "I'm sorry." Jenna feels a blush surface and smiles. "Don't be." "Don't be what?" "Don't be sorry." He grins widely. "Why would I be sorry?" Giggling, Jenna twists a strand of hair behind her ear. He leans back in the chair and rocks with the rhythm of the music. "Nice stuff." "The music?" "Yes." He's staring at her now, taking her in, consuming her with his gaze. Blindly, he reaches for his empty glass. "Let me get you more." He nods. "Sure thing." Back in the kitchen, her hands are shaking. She refills his glass, then pours some for herself. A corner has been turned, there is no question in Jenna's mind. His dark eyes have never settled on her so nakedly. She feels a mass of red-hot nerve endings. Adding three drops to his drink, she wonders: if she loved him before, how would she feel with a small dose of her own? With a quick pinch, a heavy bead ka-plunks into her drink. Taking a sip, she lets the liquid stay on her tongue and wash between her teeth. She then swallows. The soda glides down her throat like warm cider. Leonard is no longer in the dining room, but stands in the corner of the living room looking at her CDs. "Nice selections," he comments. She hands him his glass. "Thanks." "Mind if I play something?" "Of course not." He guzzles the drink then exchanges the discs and pumps up the volume. A familiar tune from high school fills the room. She feels seventeen again. He turns to her. "Let's dance." "Oh, Leonard. I'm not very good." His hands reach out. "Come on. There's not much to it." Jenna quickly drinks what's left of her Pepsi and places the glass next to his. His arms slip around her waist, then, rather roughly, he pulls her in. Their hips come together as he guides her across the rug. He nibbles on her ear. His warm breath gives her goose bumps. "Oh, Leonard," she moans. He holds tight and sweeps her through the lyrics: Do it to me one more time, once is never enough with a girl like you . . . After the song ends, he takes her to the couch and sits her on his lap. Hungrily, he kisses her mouth, then sucks her lips. His hands travel up her sweater and an electrifying jolt passes from her nipples to between her legs. The next thing Jenna remembers is waking up naked with Leonard by her side. Light streams into the bedroom through the crack in the blinds. Her glance rivets to the clock. 7:50 A.M. Groggy and with a headache, she finds the energy to lean over and kiss his forehead. He doesn't stir. Scanning the room she sees the remnants of what happened. The candles were burned to the quick and their clothes lie strewn in a path that leads into the hallway. Two empty glasses sit on her bedside table. Did they have sex? She couldn't recall. She considers Leonard's sleeping face, so angelic, so peaceful. Lifting a finger, she outlines his profile, from his hairline, to his eyes, nose, and lastly, to the soft curves of his lips. He continues his deep sleep. Jenna stretches in bed and sighs contentedly. Her fairytale romance has a happy ending. And that's just the beginning. She lovingly covers the blanket over his bare shoulders and slips from the bed. She needs to wash up and make herself presentable. From the looks of things, they had been in the bathroom. Candles that she used for decoration were burned deep into their small votive holders and the soft netted bag with aromatic oils was ripped apart. Wet towels, balled up, are discarded on the floor. Damn, why can't she remember any of this? She looks into the mirror. Other than her tousled hair and pounding headache, she appears remarkably well-rested. Her dry skin glows with a slight pink undertone. Opening up the medicine cabinet she takes out a bottle of aspirin and continues into the kitchen. The power light on the CD player glows red. She presses the button and hears a slight popping noise. Passing through the dining room, the chandelier remains a spidery shell of shiny brass. Once in the kitchen, she opens the fridge and reaches for bottled water to wash down the aspirin. Abruptly, her stomach lurches. On the top rack, next to the water, milk, and condiments, lies the vial, barely visible but distinct in its clear empty state. The cork top is nowhere around. She pokes her head in further. Her eyes run across the shelves looking desperately for the spill. But there are no green drops anywhere. A sinking thought disturbs her. Did they take the entire amount? Verishna had warned her repeatedly about not exceeding the dosage. Could this be why she has such a wicked headache? And why can't she remember anything? A horrifying panic rushes through her. She bolts into the bedroom and calls his name clearly. "Leonard." He doesn't move, not a twitch of an eye, not a moan. Gingerly she reaches out and feels his skin. It's warm. Certainly that's a good sign. "Leonard!" she says sternly. "Time to get up." No response. Sweeping off the blanket, she grabs his wrist and heaves his body up. He's dead weight. She lets go and he flops back into the bed. My God, is he unconscious? Her hand shakes as she hurriedly pokes 911. The silence between each ring is interminable. Three hours later, Jenna sits in a molded plastic chair in the emergency room waiting area. She has been placed there by a guard who remains seated at the door. After the ambulance brought Leonard in, she had become hysterical. "Unresponsive", "Stat", followed by a flurry of activity over Leonard's sheeted body, drove her mad. Now, totally dried out from hours of crying, she feels calmer, and ready to take the blame. What had she been thinking? How could she have been so stupid, gullible? Verishna lived in a trailer camp, for Christmas sake. Any fool would have realized that a true love potion would have netted the psychic a penthouse apartment in the Trump Towers. Now, the man Jenna loved, lived for, would be a vegetable, or something worse dead. A man in hospital greens pushes through the swinging door. "Ms. Wheeler?" "Yes?" she mutters. "We have good news. Mr. Hartnett is conscious now. Other than having a very bad headache, his vitals are fine." "Thank God." Relief she has never known sweeps through her. "When can I see him?" Leonard is in a small room by himself. The head of the hospital bed is cranked up and he's sitting with a breakfast tray in front of him. A nurse busies herself in the corner. "Hey, Jenna." Her breath catches in her throat. She rushes to him and kisses his cheek. He smiles brightly. "What's that for?" Jenna laughs nervously. How ridiculous that neither of them can remember what happened, but there'd be more memories to make once everything returned to normal. "Just happy to see you." His dark eyes are luminous, and he, like herself earlier in the day, has a rosy glow. The nurse comes over to bed. "I'll leave you two alone." Leonard's glance passes beyond Jenna. "Thanks, Maria. But don't go far." Jenna turns and glares at the woman. She is young, with poreless skin and deep almond eyes. Her long eyelashes flutter as a blush, crimson red, spreads across her cheeks. Jenna pivots abruptly and studies Leonard. His eyes remain tangled up in the nurse's gaze. "Was Maria here when you woke up?" "Yes, how did you know?" Jenna doesn't answer. Verishna's words echo in her ears. "It is only after a deep sleep, and after the eyes meet, that the final connection, the everlasting communion, is made." Jenna steps back, stung by the two radiant faces. "EE O NAA," she wails and collapses to the floor. D M V Nothing was going to ruin Mia's afternoon, not the rain, not the long line she was standing in at the DMV. The wall clock read 12:15. Paul expected dinner at six. Figure two hours for the sauce, add in the shopping, prep, and there was plenty of time. Heck, time to burn. Relax. What a dingbat. In the line she shifted her weight and considered the menu, his favorite, Chicken Parmesan fresh chicken, not frozen, vine- grown tomatoes, not hothouse, and of course grated cheese, none of that powdered stuff like last time. Oh, she almost forgot. She dug a pen and slip of paper from her purse. Grater, she wrote in a jittery script. She'd have to make up for the morning. She was just tired. The flight from Cancun had been a bear stuck in the Atlanta airport with no sleep, no shower, and junk food for twenty-four hours. She woke up with a dull headache and couldn't get into it. She'd make up for everything tonight. Put on a negligee, give him a little show. Maybe the black lace or the thong and push-up. But she'd have to try them on first, take a good look at herself in the three-way and make sure she didn't look fat. Inside her pocket the cell vibrated. She fished out the phone and flipped it open. "Hello?" "Hey, baby." "Hi, honey." "Been calling the house. Where are you?" "At the DMV. Remember?" "Oh yeah. Listen, about this morning. I'm really sorry. Won't happen again." "It's okay." "Had a lot on my mind. Getting back to work after the honeymoon, the stress, the craziness. Man, I don't know what I was thinking." "No problem, really." "I'm the luckiest man alive. About tonight, forget dinner, let's order out." "But I want to try the recipe again." "Baby, cooking isn't your strong point. We'll order Chinese. Besides I've been thinking," his voice became a whisper, "maybe we could get the camera out and make another movie." "Paul . . ." "I love you so much." "I love you too." "And big daddy loves you too. Do you love big daddy?" "Oh, Paul, I " "Say it." Mia glanced around, cupped her hand to the phone and murmured, "I love big daddy." "Atta girl." "Next," a disembodied voice called out. Mia glanced around. She was first in line. "Honey, I gotta go." "Sure baby. See you tonight. Can't wait. Love you." "Love you too." Disconnected, she pulled the phone from her ear, snapped it shut and headed for the teller. "What do you need?" said the woman at the window. Mia passed the form. "Change of name." The woman checked it over then turned toward the computer. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. Tat-tat-tat. Mia's hands shook. She loved Paul totally. Things would be fine. "Okay," said the woman, swiveling around. "Sign at the X." Mia picked up the pen and wrote, Mia Fort . Midway, she stopped and blinked hard. "Oh no, I'm signing the wrong name." "No problem. I'll print another." Mia felt flushed, embarrassed by such stupidity. Tat-tat-tat. Moments later a clean form was in front of her. Mia was about to sign when the woman reached over and grabbed Mia's hand. "Girl, you sure you want to do this?" How did the woman know? Mia wanted to defend herself, tell the woman that Paul's a doctor and she deeply loved. Instead, she jerked her hand free. Mia Brockman, she signed, officially and forever Paul's wife. Back in the car, Mia pulled down the rearview mirror. She needed to check her make-up, to adjust, to adapt. She needed to not see the black eye. Moose At the wedding reception Marcy & Dale Forever had been written across the cocktail napkins, but forever fell a tad short, and they split before their tenth anniversary. It was a civilized break- up, no recriminations of who left the toilet seat up or down, no blaming of who forgot whose birthday. They simply lounged on Adirondack chairs one summer evening on their deck, not a season old, and discussed the situation. Dale began with what most errant husbands tell their soon-to-be ex-wives. "I love you, but I'm not in love with you." Marcy took the news better than most. She sipped her vodka tonic, popped a few olives in her mouth and said, "Will you be taking Moose?" He answered probably not since he was downsizing to an apartment, hers, the woman he was in love with. And it was at this defining moment that Marcy stood up and sternly said, with no room for debate, "You wanted him, he's yours," leaving Dale to ponder, in the elongated shadows of a setting sun, a serious dilemma Laurene, the woman he was in love with, was a cat person. Moose wasn't. Moose, a 150 lb., four-year-old Newfoundland had soulful eyes, deeply rich and chocolate brown, that belied the animal's true nature. While the dog appeared oafish and good humored (he rarely barked, or jumped, or bared his teeth), unlike most dogs his breed, he had a singularly narcissistic nature, complemented by a slew of bad habits. And so, before Dale called Laurene to tell her the good news, he telephoned Kareem's Dog Obedience School and enrolled Moose in an intensive three-week behavior modification program that cost six hundred dollars, which according to the proprietor, was one-hundred percent guaranteed. The class at Kareem's was small, only two other dogs with their owners. A Doberman with a sleek coat, the color of wet pavement at night, was muzzled and restless, as he pulled and twisted his lead, tangling up his master's legs. A Chihuahua yapped incessantly in the crook of an older woman's arm. Moose dropped to the floor and yawned. Disclosure followed. The Chihuahua, Buffy, terribly bloated, with buggy, protruding eyes, teetered on legs as scrawny as popsicle sticks. Not only was the animal hugely disproportionate, but as Dale learned, it had a nasty habit of snapping at small children, specifically bolting upright and lunging for their noses. Ruben, the 9-month-old, skittish Doberman, came from a pedigree line of insomniacs prone to suspected hallucinations (he stalked and growled for reasons unknown). Dale deduced generations of inbreeding probably caused a proliferation of recessive genes that left the animal incapable of dealing with stimuli. It was as if his nervous system were tightly strung with an inordinate amount of neurons, like an overloaded plug in a rented room, which flooded his brain with near lethal doses of electrical current. What else could explain the flash in his eyes, his constant vigilance? Dale was encouraged. Even though Moose was gangly, he was otherwise proportional, calm and, from all appearances, a concrete thinker. Clearly a prince whose problems paled to these two. Dale, like a proud father in a child's waiting room, reached down and patted Moose's head. "Good boy." Moose acknowledged his master's gesture by passing gas, a silent bomb that filled the room. When Dale was asked what brought him and Moose to class, the other owners looked at him expectantly, solemnly, as if they all were on a sinking ship. Dale's mind locked. He wanted to be discrete, tasteful. "Moose is really quite good. A tad lazy perhaps but . . . well, he can be a bit stubborn when it comes to . . . ah . . . personal hygiene." Eyebrows rose. The trainer, a woman in overalls and a ponytail, asked, "Could you be more specific?" "He has accidents." Commiserative nods followed. "And how old is Moose?" Dale lied. "Around a year." "That old? How have you been managing?" Dale wondered that himself. But of course he wasn't the one doing the managing. He thought about the steps Marcy had taken. "He's in a restricted area during the day. You know, where there are hard surfaces like the basement, garage." "And at night?" "Stays mostly in the kitchen." "I see," said the trainer. "Are there any other concerns?" Concerns? What was this, group therapy? Dogs Anonymous? Dale refused to go into further detail. "That's about it." "Has Moose ever been crated?" "I'm not sure what you mean." "Kept in a cage, "said Buffy's mother. "No, of course not," Dale answered. "Well then, that's where we'll start," said the trainer. An hour and one hundred and ten dollars later, Dale and Moose headed home with very specific directions and a very large crate. Moose's lifestyle was about to change. At a stop light, Dale reached over and scratched Moose behind his ears. "Times are a'changin buddy." He then thought about Laurene and her silky thighs. The weeks following Dale and Moose's trek to Kareem's were emotionally trying but productive. Since Dale had to postpone his move into Laurene's until Moose's behavior was more under control, he relocated into the spare room. Marcy, when home, slammed around in the kitchen and left sticky notes on those things she intended to keep, which pretty much included everything but the rowing machine, vaporizer, and of course Moose. Dale wasn't about to argue. On the upside, Moose progressed beautifully. That very night after class, he slept in the crate and woke up clean and dry. Dale wanted to tell Marcy, it was just a matter of scheduling, consistency and showing who's boss. Moose ate one meal per day and was taken out once in the morning and twice in the evening. The rest of the time, he was confined. Within weeks, Moose morphed into a model pet, and all systems were go. Laurene lived in a second floor apartment with vaulted ceilings and sky lights. Throughout the day and depending on the angle of the sun, diffused light would cast soft shadows onto the walls and upholstered furniture, all buff-colored. Often following an afternoon romp, Dale, reluctant to leave, had lingered while Laurene prepared dinner amid the classical strains of Bach and the sweet scent of vanilla candles. As Dale now climbed the carpeted stairs with the new and improved Moose (recently bathed in aromatics at Kareem's), he was ebullient. The months of wrangling two women were now over and he could finally be immersed in the sex and serenity of Laurene. At the door to her apartment, Dale knocked then squared his shoulders. "Be there in a sec," Laurene called out. Dale pulled Moose's leash to have him sit. Once on his haunches, Moose looked at Dale expectantly, waiting for a treat. Dale put his fingers to his lips and shh-ed. A moment later, Laurene, in a tight, white T-shirt and faded jeans, opened the door. As her glance fell to the dog, her wide, bright smile froze. "So this is Moose." At hearing his voice, Moose stood on all fours and pitched forward, aiming his nose inches from her crotch. She reared back. "My, he's big." Dale shortened the leash by looping it around his wrist. He then tugged discretely. "Yeah, this is my baby." Laurene opened the door wide, allowing enough room for a three-man moving crew and refrigerator. Dale and Moose crossed the threshold and entered. Halfway into the living room, Moose stopped dead. Asleep on the couch in the folds of a tapestry throw were Curly and Moe, Laurene's two Persian cats. Dale tightened his grip. "Be good, Moose." Moe, a fat ball of tan fur, lazily lifted her lids. Upon seeing Moose, her eyes popped open. Immediately, she catapulted from her spot and dove beneath the couch. Curly, having been jostled by Moe's movement, raised her head, pulled her ears back and screeched. Laurene rushed to the couch. Dale pushed hard on Moose's back. "Down, boy," he said sternly. In response, Moose collapsed to a prone position and panted. Saliva dripped from his mouth. Laurene gathered Curly in her arms. "Pretty kitty, don't be afraid," she cooed. The cat flailed at her chest, trying to escape. Dale reached over to pat Curly's head. The little czarina hissed. He backed off and said, "I know Moose is big and a bit intimidating but he wouldn't hurt a fly. Pet him. You'll see." "I have my hands full," she said with a hint of irritation. "Darn kids," Dale said sheepishly. Laurene didn't seem amused and began pacing, holding the cat as if it were a crying baby. "Honey, with time they'll get along. Besides, once the house is sold, we can start looking for a bigger place." Laurene's shoulder's loosened. She walked around the room keeping a watchful eye on Moose then settled into the couch. "But what are we going to do till then?" Dale had it figured out. "I'll set the crate up in the spare bedroom. It'll be out of the way and the cats can still have the run of the house, and maybe (he wanted to sound tentative, but it was hardly negotiable) after I get home from work, we can let him out and have them get acclimated to one another." As Dale spoke, Laurene stroked the underside of Curly's chin. "When will we be able to move into a house?" "I don't know, maybe six months." "Six months!" "Well, it's hard to say. But, heck, if you like, we could start looking now and buy on contingency." Her face seemed to soften, the downward corners of her lips relaxed and she made eye contact. He continued, "In fact there's no reason why we can't start looking this weekend. Maybe take a drive and see what's available." Stroking Curly's fur, she asked, "Really? We could do that?" "Sure. Why not? Where would you like to live?" "The suburbs, of course. But which one? And I suppose we should consider the schools." "Schools?" "Just in case," she said in a teasing tone. Dale smiled. They hadn't discussed children, but then they never did too much talking. Curly's eyes were half-closed. In less than ten minutes, familial bliss seemed well within reach. Dale relaxed his grip on the lease and Moose's head dropped to the floor. "There's a beautiful development off Route 75. How much do you think we'll be able to afford?" she asked. "I'd have to figure that out." "They're around two fifty." Two hundred and fifty thousand! Had houses gone up that much? Laurene continued. "Of course, a house is an investment. When you think of what you get, three baths, a two-car garage with everything brand-new, it's really quite reasonable. And guess what else? Instead of electric street lights, there are gas lanterns and the roads have French names. Dale, it's so quaint." "French, huh?" "Yeah, like Arc de Triumph and Champs de something-or-other." Laurene's eyes were shining now, full of life. "Sounds elegant," Dale commented, even though he thought the la-de-dah names were a marketing ploy for frustrated Francophiles, who, like most Americans, preferred the knock-off to the original. "No harm in looking. Right?" She beamed. "Right." "So when would you like to go?" "Tomorrow after breakfast?" "Works for me." She glanced down at Moose, whose head rested on his paws. "He really is quite tame, isn't he? Not like a bear at all." "Yeah, he's terrific, You'll see. So, do you think Moe will be all right?" he asked, more out of reciprocal kindness than true concern. "Don't worry. She's timid with everyone. And look at Curly, why she's already fallen asleep. Can't be that upset." "It's official then, we're a blended family," Dale said, feeling relieved. "Yes, I suppose you're right. But then you always are," she said in a velvety, throaty voice. "Oh, I almost forgot. I have a cheesecake in the oven. I'll put Curly in my bedroom for now. Would you like something to drink?" "Sure." Laurene got up from the couch with Curly in her arms. On the way out, she bent down and pecked Dale on the cheek. The scent of her body wash reminded him of the foamy showers they had taken and how the suds had clung and ran down her slick body. Alone with Moose, Dale nudged his foot into the animal's fleshy side. Moose raised his head. "What up, dawg?" Dale said. Moose's tail thumped on the rug. "Nice crib, huh?" Moose stared expectantly into Dale's eyes. "I take that as a yes," Dale responded. In the background, Laurene could be heard in the kitchen. The oven door closed and water ran from the tap. "Need any help?" he yelled. "No everything's under control." Looking around, Dale noticed that the dinette table was set with linens, fresh flowers and tapered candles. "Pretty fancy table. Are you expecting company?" he called out. "I'm making a special dinner for us. All your favorites," she said as she entered the room with a glass of red wine. Sitting on the arm of the chair, she handed him the drink. After he took a sip, she reached out. "Can I have a taste?" He handed her the glass, but she set it on the coffee table. Bending toward him, she said, "This kind of taste." She then nibbled his lip and explored his mouth with her tongue. "Mmm," she said, then whispered in his ear. "I'm feeling naughty." "Naughty is good," Dale murmured. Laurene ran her hand over his chest, then unbuckled his belt and slipped her hand beneath. With each stroke, he swelled harder. Distracted, Dale let go of the leash. For so many months, sandwiched between stolen moments, Dale's sexuality had been programmed to respond quickly. Not yet accustomed to the limitless span of hours, days, he wanted to take her fast. Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her hand away. "Straddle me," he said. Fully dressed, she complied and faced him on the chair. He yanked her T-shirt off and fumbled with her bra. Topless, she arched her back and he took a nipple into his mouth. She moaned. Fiddling with her jeans, she suddenly lurched forward, ramming into his face. "Oh my god! Something's crawling on me." Dale half-stunned, craned his neck to see. "What the " he said and began to laugh. Moose had gotten up and was standing directly behind Laurene. Had he poked his nose into her back? "He must like you." "That's not funny, Dale." Putting his arms around her, she collapsed into him. "You're right. Sorry. Maybe he thinks you're attacking me." She shivered. "Why is he staring? Get him away." "Down, Moose," Dale said firmly. Immediately, the dog fell to the floor. "See, there's nothing to worry about," he said as he nuzzled into her, wanting to pick up where he left off. Laurene hoisted herself off him. "I can't do this. You've got to put him in his crate." "It's in the trunk," he said lamely, hoping for few moments to thrust and finish up. But she already was slipping into her T- shirt. "All right. It shouldn't take long. Bookmark our spot." He stood and zipped his pants. "Where can I leave Moose?" She looked askance at the animal. "Will he be okay where he is?" "Yeah, this is probably the best spot. If I put him in the bedroom, he may scratch the door. You can keep an eye on him and he won't get lonely. Can you manage?" "I suppose. You won't be long, will you?" "Heck, no. A couple of minutes. Tops." "Will he stay lying down?" Dale scanned the room, then considered his chair. "Here, I'll secure the leash to the bottom of the chair leg. As long as he's tied up, he won't move." "You sure?" "Scouts honor thanks to Kareem's Obedience School. Moose is a graduate, you know." A small smile creased her lips. "Bachelor's?" "Master's, actually." "That's reassuring. While you're doing that, I'll get the room ready." On his way out, Dale stopped, wrapped his arms around Laurene's waist and kissed her neck. She swayed into him and whispered, "Hurry." Taking two steps at a time, Dale jettisoned down the flight of stairs, flew out the front door and ran to the car. The metal mesh crate, partially disassembled and folded, needed wrangling before freeing it from the trunk. He then grabbed the metal floor insert and jostled each item under his arms. Climbing the porch stairs, he had to stop, not once but twice, the cumbersome load kept slipping. At the front entry, with his arms full, he kicked the door open. Banging through the doorway, knocking and scraping the door jamb, he froze. Moe, Laurene's cat, cowered in a dark corner of the vestibule, suddenly bolted between his legs and bounded off the porch. "Damn," Dale said under his breath. Had he left the upstairs door opened? The crate clattered to the floor as he dropped everything and sprung after the cat. For a lazy ball of fur, the darn thing was on fire. After barreling down the steps, she hair-pinned deep into a cavernous overhang of bushes. Dale hit the ground and peered through brambles and spider webs. Hunched along the concrete foundation, Moe looked at him with dark saucers-like eyes and hissed. Dale inched toward the cat, digging his elbows into the gritty dirt. Branches poked and scraped his face as he crawled. Within reach, he said, "Nice kitty." The cat's glance parried left and right as Dale dove forward with a grasping hand. A fleeting tail slipped through his fingers. From his perspective on the ground, he saw the cat bound into the open and spring across the side lawn. Dale retreated from the tangle of brush. Slapping off the dirt from his knees and elbows, Dale vowed to catch the pisser and wring its neck. But as he turned the corner of the house, the search and destroy mission was over. Twenty feet above in a sugar maple, Moe was continuing her ascent. Climbing the stairs, wrangling the crate, Dale considered his apology. Yes, he probably left the door ajar, and yes, he was sorry. The next step was to call 911, which he would do. As far as continuing their romantic interlude. Well, that would take some diplomacy and a few drinks. At the landing to her apartment, the door was wide open. Had he been that absent- minded? Entering the hall and passing into the living room, an uneasy feeling overcame him the chair that pinned down Moose's leash was toppled over. Quickly scanning the area, his stomach sank. Puddled on the floor was the tablecloth amid a tangled mess of broken dishes and scattered flowers. Moose! He must have been chasing Moe. "Laurene?" Dale called out. A whimpering came from the kitchen. He rushed to the doorway and stopped dead. Moose was humping wildly to something prone on the floor. Beneath his tail, were Laurene's slippered feet. "My God," he exhaled. "Moose, heel," he screamed. But the dog was on automatic pilot. Reeling across the floor, he lunged for the animal's neck. The dog's strength was yeoman. Dale head-locked Moose and twisted his head to the side forcing the animal down. With the dog hauled off, Dale got a glimpse of Laurene. Her face was dazed and contorted. "You all right?" he said with Moose still clutched in a bear hug. She sat up and took a deep breath. Looking over at Moose, she rumbled, seething with anger, "Get him out of here." Dale scurried to his feet and retrieved Moose's lead. "I'll take him into the bedroom." "Like hell! Get him out of this apartment." "Out of the apartment? But " "There's no way I'm living with that . . . that animal!" "But we agreed to " "Listen, he not only attacked Moe and trashed my house, but he fucking molested me, Dale." "Molested you. Well, isn't that sort of, umm . . ." "Of umm what?" "An exaggeration." She was standing now, pointing to a wet spot on her jeans. "This is no exaggeration!" "It's just that we never got around to having him fixed. He gets frisky sometimes. Listen, I'll call the vet and make an appointment." "That dog is demented. It's either him or me, Dale. Your call." "You're upset. I realize that. Now let me get him in his cr " "Get Out!" she bellowed. "Okay, settle down. Now about Moe." "What about Moe?" "She's up a tree." With no warning, Laurene grabbed a kitchen knife and lunged for Moose. "You mother fu " Plunging to meet her advance, mild- mannered Moose, bared his teeth and snapped at the knife. Dale gripped the lead with two hands and yanked hard. "Laurene, you're being unreasonable." Her face tightened. Suddenly she was an old hag, thin-lipped and spitting mean. "How dare you!" "Fine, we're going," Dale said, grasping Moose's collar to haul him away. As the two sprung from the kitchen, a pot careened past Dale's ear and smashed into a wall. Fearing bodily harm if he were to make another trip, Moose's crate was left behind. Several hours later, Dale and Moose registered in a motel thirty miles east of the city off the interstate. They had tried to return home, but Marcy had the locks changed. Sleepy Tyme wasn't a bad place, a bit musty, but there was plenty of land (an abandoned railroad track ran the length of the property)to take walks. The owner was amenable to Moose as long as he didn't bark. The room had three double beds, cable and a complimentary single pack of instant coffee. The first night they picked up a pizza and stopped for beer. In the supermarket, Dale considered buying dog food but decided against it cans would require an opener, a dish, spoon, and the dry stuff would stink up the room. It was then that Dale figured that they'd both eat take-out until either Laurene or Marcy returned his calls. After three weeks, neither did. Faced with unwanted, unintended bachelorhood, Dale stopped shaving and wore wrinkled clothes to work the beginning of his downward spiral. Weeks of drinking too much, eating garbage, and slamming the ham followed. But a few days before Thanksgiving, Dale had an epiphany. It wasn't about him specifically, or Laurene, or Marcy. It was about Moose. The realization came on a Saturday afternoon during a Notre Dame football game. He and Moose were lying on the double bed closest to the television, eating potato chips (his were regular, Moose's were barbecue) when Dale said something about needing a drink. Moose lumbered off to the bathroom where a pack of ice was melting in the tub, and retrieved what was left of a six pack. Crawling back onto the bed, the dog dropped the two cans that were still connected to the plastic web. Dale forgot about the impending field goal, grabbed Moose's face and looked deeply into the animal's eyes. "What's up with you?" he said. "Not only are you not crapping or humping or passing gas, but you're getting my beer?" Moose, of course, hadn't yet learned to talk but he did wag his tail. It was then the epiphany occurred. It had to do with being restricted and living in a crate. The next day, Dale and Moose moved into an apartment. A Father's Love My earliest memory was at the kitchen table, in the morning, while I made Rice Krispies. I had to stand on the chair to pour the milk (partly missing the bowl) and when I sat back down, puddles of milk and cereal dotted the table from the overflow. Between mouthfuls, I blew on the scattered rice that looked like little boats sailing away. And with my finger, I connected the puddles, making rivers, and when the spilt milk was too thin to spread I'd spoon some extra from my bowl. Out of nowhere came Dad. At first, I thought, he was going to holler, but he grinned and lifted me high off the chair. "How's my little queenie," he said. He then carried me to the living room and sat me on his lap. He kissed my forehead, scratching my cheek with his face, and it tickled. But after awhile I wanted to get up. Daisy was crying in another room. He didn't seem to notice, and with his arms locked around me, he said, "Daddy's got to sleep." There were many times he didn't come home at night and we were left alone. And every morning, before going downstairs, I'd peek in his room to see if there was a mountain in his bed. It wasn't a problem though, because I knew how to take care of Daisy. Then one night I woke up to a loud noise. At first I thought it was thunder. I curled up along the wall on the far side of the bed with a blanket nearly covering my head and waited for a flash of lightning. Instead another sound pounded the walls and shook the room. It came from under me somewhere. I jumped up and bolted to the window. That's when I saw the tops of two men throwing themselves against the back door. I got scared like never before. Shrieking out into the hall, I ran to Dad's room and threw myself into his half-opened bedroom door. I blinked once, twice, wishing what I saw away - the bed was flat. The house shook again with a loud cracking noise. I rushed to Daisy's room, gathered her the best I could and dashed up the attic stairs. I stood on the top landing, stuck, afraid to move. Daisy whimpered and I covered her mouth with my hand. I couldn't hear any more thuds and for a second I thought everything was over. But heavy footsteps and gruff low voices echoed up the stairwell. They were in the house. "We're going to play Hide and Seek," I whispered to Daisy. She looked at me wide- eyed. My heart pounded but I knew I was good at this game, in fact I was the best - one time I hid in a wastepaper basket with sheets on top of me. The attic was dark. Still I could tell from the outlines of things that on the other side of some boxes, two mattresses leaned against the wall. It was a perfect spot. I slid sideways between the cartons and jammed my shoulder into the middle seam. It separated. I held Daisy tight and I tucked in backwards, pushing as hard as I could with my feet until total blackness and padding wrapped around us. Once inside I let my body slide down to the floor. We crunched up and I put my finger to my mouth with a "sh." They were on the second floor now. Something crashed. A few seconds later, footsteps, the loudest I ever heard, came up the attic stairs. It became very quiet and a flash of light sparked by the tiny opening we had just made. "Junk," a man said. "This whole place is junk. Let's get outta here," said another, and they charged back down. The attic door slammed. The next thing I heard was Dad's voice screaming my name. A triangle of sunlight shined in between the mattresses. "Here we are!" I yelled. But my voice was swallowed up by the thick padded walls. I shoved Daisy in front of me, forcing her ahead. Dad called me again but he was sounding further away. Desperate he would leave, I pushed Daisy so hard she popped out and fell flattened on the attic floor. I clawed over her and sped down the stairs. When Dad saw me, he ran and scooped me up, lifting me as high as I had ever been. He spun me around so fast my legs flew behind me. I criss-crossed my arms around his neck and closed my eyes tight. "Where's Daisy?" he asked. But I wouldn't let go. He asked me again and we tore up to the attic. He carried us around all day. It was better than being on any ride, especially when we went up and down the stairs. I told him everything and he promised he would never leave us alone again. The police came with sirens. Dad told them we were all asleep when it happened. He told me he had to say that so he wouldn't go to jail. He also said I was very brave and the best daughter he could ask for. When they came over to fix the door, they put in a metal one with screws as long as my finger. Still, it didn't seem enough to stop someone from breaking in. After that Daisy and I went to sleep in his room and he slept on the couch - just in case. This went on for a while until Daisy wet the bed. Eventually, we ended up in our own rooms and things got back to normal. I helped around the house the best I could. He taught me how to scramble eggs and make toast and I learned to set the table and pour beer without spilling any. When he had his friends over to play cards, I'd make sure the bowls were filled with potato chips and I'd take away the empty bottles and get cold ones from the fridge. It was fun, especially when they'd wink at me and give me quarters. Back then I never mouthed off because I knew it was hard for him raising two girls. I tried to get excited with him about sports, but I wasn't very good at it. Once we went to a hockey game but Daisy threw up after she ate a hot dog. We even tried fishing down by the river, except Daisy would scream over the worms and get tangled up in the line. He didn't have the patience for our outings. Under his breath he'd swear. But they were just words and I got used to them. I don't remember us doing too much together except being together. Kids would talk about trips they'd be taking with their parents or going for rides in the country. We just stayed home. But that was fine for us. Soon I forgot about the robbery and stopped worrying that it would happen again. In a way I thought the whole thing was a blessing. Then one night for dinner Dad made us noodles with green specks in them. Daisy never liked her food to touch and she especially didn't like it all mixed up. But once in awhile he'd try something new. At first, Daisy tried to scrape the flecks away with her fork but they wouldn't come off. Dad told her to cut it out but she didn't listen. Instead she started to pinch out the spots with her fingers. Her hands got all gummy and when she picked up her fork, it slipped to the floor. He yelled "Eat it!" but she shook her head and said, "No." He reached over to her plate and grabbed it and flung it against the wall. The dish shattered but the food stuck to the wall like a clump of dangling white worms and I laughed. "So you think this is funny!" he said. He snatched my plate and hurled it towards the sink. It cracked the kitchen window. He stood up, lifting the corners of the kitchen table. Glasses tipped and tumbled, spilling milk everywhere and silverware crashed to the floor. "Get out of here!" he roared. We ran into the living room and that's when we heard it - "I'm leaving you kids," he said. "Tonight!" Daisy started to cry and asked if he was going away again. I told her no, that he was just talking. But I said that to make her feel better. Suddenly he kicked open the kitchen door and ripped towards us, red-faced. "Didn't I tell you to get out!" Daisy gasped for air and I froze, not sure what to do, where to go. He lunged at us and twisting both our arms, he threw us towards the stairs. "Go to your rooms!" he said. I helped Daisy with her pajamas and told her everything would be alright in the morning. Then I went to my room and sat on the bed listening for sounds from downstairs. I couldn't hear anything so I crept into the hall. I still couldn't hear anything. Slowly I inched down, step by step, until the rush of running water became clear. I crouched down on a stair near the wall where he wouldn't be able to see, and listened to the clatter of dishes. After a while he came into the living room and turned on the TV. I slipped back to my room and before going to bed, I opened my window so I could hear if the car was being taken out of the garage. Then I got into bed and fell asleep. In the middle of the night I woke up. Dad was in my bed with his arm around me. He told me how sorry he was for what happened earlier and that he loved me and he stroked my hair. I told him I loved him too. He stayed there for a long time, rubbing my leg and being close to me. I smelled beer on his breath. I fell back asleep and in the morning, he was gone. The next day when I went downstairs, he and Daisy were talking and laughing. He kidded me about being a sleepy head and I sat down and had some toast. It was a spring morning. We finished breakfast, grabbed our lunches and headed out the door. He kissed Daisy and she skipped out in front of me. He then told me he acted silly the night before. I said it was okay. As I left the kitchen, he slid his hand from my waist to my backside and gave me a pat. I turned around and looked at him - he had never done that before. He smiled. I waved good-bye. After that things changed between us. He would come to my room every so often and lie down beside me. It was usually after I was already asleep. When I was too young to realize, he made funny noises and would rock in the bed. It didn't bother me all that much, I suppose. Besides anything was better than to have him leave us. Now when I think back to when it started, it was more like a dream than anything else. The Cabin "There are drivers and there are passengers," my father says, "and there are the wannabes." He takes his eyes from the road and glances at me. "Those are the people you got to watch out for." He hasn't bothered to shave. A patchy gray stubble pokes out along his sagging jawline. Or is he growing a beard? "A passenger wanting to be a driver," he says, "a driver wanting to be a passenger. Doesn't work." "Hmm," I manage and focus on the passing scenery. Without snow, late fall in western New York is depressing, as if the dim, colorless landscape were lit by a bare hanging lightbulb. A stark forest of leafless trees encroaches upon the highway. The ground cover is littered with decaying leaves and fallen branches. There are no signs of life, redemption. He continues. "Just as well your mother didn't want to come. Drives me crazy, so tensed up, telling me to slow down, watch out for this, watch out for that. I tell her, 'you drive', but no, she just wants to make me miserable." I keep quiet. Defending one was used for ammunition later, something like You know Marge, Christie agreed that you complain too much, especially when I'm driving. Instead I say, "None of this is remotely familiar." "It's the highway. Built twenty years ago. It'll cut the travel time by half." "You've gone back?" "A couple of times." "How'd the place look?" "Gone through some changes." "Good or bad?" He shrugs. "Hard to say." I could ask what he means, but I already suspect storms rage, moss gathers end of story. My father pushes a lever and the window hums down. A rush of frigid air breaks into the comfy heat, rattling my eardrums. He takes a deep breath. "Smell that." Diffusing into the car is a dank odor reminiscent of wet dirt and worms. I button the collar of my coat. "Cold?" he asks. "I'm fine." "No, no, I want you to be comfortable and enjoy the ride." The window then slides up, cocooning us in quiet. We are heading to the cabin. The one my father owned for three years. He had bought it when my brothers were teenagers and I was around twelve, starting my period, trying to figure out how to curl my hair, wear eye shadow. The drive was an hour and a half over asphalt, then gravel, then dirt. The place had been purchased to reel us in, to keep us from growing up, moving on, but by the time we were teenagers, it was too late. We all wanted to stay in the city. We had lives, lives that were put on hold in the 'boonies', 'the dueling banjo backlands', my brothers would say. Every minute there had been endless. I wonder now if we had electricity. My father laughs. "Electricity? Of course. And running water and a propane tank. All the comforts." "But time went on forever," I say, "as if we were in a blackout." "Problem was you guys didn't like not having a television." "That must have been the problem no television." "But there was plenty to do. We had a radio, books. Your mother brought games, cards." A memory comes to mind how after a couple of hours the playing cards stuck together and couldn't be shuffled. "Oh, yeah. Blackjack." And we fall silent. I was supposed to be taking my mother Christmas shopping, going to the mall, having lunch, but Thanksgiving dinner took a nasty turn when my brothers, Rob and Dan, related anecdotal stories about the cabin, stories that made my mother laugh and my father head for the bourbon. By the time the pumpkin pie was sliced, my father had gone from blubbering to caustic to blubbering again. 'Ingrates' became 'assholes', before he started to weep. It was then, as my brothers corralled their wives and kids and slunk into the night, that I promised to join him on this trip, a hopefully brief detour down memory lane. Mentally, I begin a Christmas list. My nephews are getting to be a funny age, too old for toys, too young for clothes. I couldn't go wrong with video games, but I don't have a clue. "So, Dad, what would you like for Christmas?" He snorts and checks the rearview mirror. "Don't get me anything, honey. Just want you to be happy." Oh, brother. My parents never talk about my marital status single and approaching forty, but there's always a lingering sub text in their questions, "Should we set another plate?" , "Did you do anything special for your birthday?" Of course, I could mention Jeff and finally put to rest any assumptions of theirs that I might be too picky, too shy, or a lesbian. But the relationship, at this juncture, is tentative he still has a wife. "Dad, I am happy. Does that mean I can cross you off my list?" No response. Clearly a sign I'd be heading to the men's department to buy something brown. "What's your shirt size again?" The car barrels down the forsaken stretch of highway. "Ask your mother." Amid the desolation, there arise the occasional new builds, full of angles and skylights, tucked neatly into wooded areas flanked by shiny SUVs and satellite dishes. Who'd live there? I assume a large percentage are energy-squandering isolationists with more than their share of disposable income to burn. In reaction, I consider the cabin. Its modest simplicity almost seems beatific. "When you went back, did you get to see the inside?" "No, just parked by the road." "Sorry you sold it?" "Had no choice." Whether that was a yes or a no, I couldn't be sure. My recollection was that the ownership of the cabin came to an abrupt halt after both my brothers, one a senior in high school, the other a junior, skipped school, loaded themselves, eight friends (three of whom were sexually compromising young women) along with a keg of beer into a van and drove to the cabin, where, for twelve hours, a party ensued that would have gone unnoticed, except for a bonfire that spread to some adjacent trees threatening to decimate the area's only redeeming feature the woods. Subsequent to the event, my father was served with papers, taken to court and fined five thousand dollars, an exorbitant fee at the time. Shortly thereafter, the place went on the market and both brothers got jobs in a nursing home kitchen where they had to wear hairnets. I was thrilled. "Why not look for a place now?" He fiddles with the rearview mirror. "Wouldn't be the same." I have no parry, no words of consolation, support. Perhaps chasing the past, then reeling it forward is trickier than one would suspect. For the third time that day, I check the signal on my cell. Jeff promised to call. He's probably en route as well, heading back to Chicago from his in-laws in Cincinnati. Holidays for him and his wife are still spent together for the sake of the generations both above and below. There's no reason to do otherwise. My commitment to anything long term is likewise uncertain. At least for now. From the highway, an exit looms. My father puts on the blinker. "We're almost there." We veer to the right. He's staring ahead. The corners of his mouth are relaxed in a faint smile. Soon we're maneuvering along a worn country road that curves, rises and falls. Scrubby homes with mismatched windows, peeling paint, hug the road. Rusty Interstate signs and mailboxes that stand on crooked posts roll by. The newfound wealth and mini- estates seen from the thruway have not stretched this far. Signs of life appear. A cat stares out beneath a car without plates; a Shepard-mix, chained to a tree, freezes. The forsaken animal bares his teeth and lunges at us. His eyes bulge as the taut chain yanks hard. The dog yelps in pain, then cowers. God, get me out of here. Before long, the car slows. Less than twenty yards ahead is a sign with an arrow. I decipher the faint lettering Sherwood Lane and my father makes a left. Immediately, we are facing a steep incline. The Chevy engine revs up, sounding heavy, lumbering. Gravel spits out from beneath the tires. I grab the hand rest. The angle is unsettling, unnatural in a car, prone as if in a dentist's chair. How could I have forgotten this? Still, one thing is familiar my ears pop like before. The dismal road tightens even more, barely wider than a single drive. "Are you sure there are still houses up here?" His judges the sides. A wayward branch scrapes the car. "Of course." Barely perceptible the path splits and a more reasonable incline appears. He navigates a slow, bumpy turn. Within moments, I'm sitting upright but the progress has slowed. My heart is beating hard and I want this to be over. What if we can't turn around or crash and burn into a ravine? Miraculously, however, there's a clearing. I lean toward the dashboard. "It's coming," my father whispers. An open area yawns before us. The road widens and there's order to the otherwise untamed woods. Grass is planted on both sides of the gravel road. To the right, lined-up railroad ties prevent a roll down a disappearing embankment. On the left, grass climbs a sloping mound. My glance travels up the hill. There it hovers, staking a solid claim in the wilderness. The cabin's mostly hidden behind a sizable, protruding deck. Propped and leveled by huge posts and crossbeams, the porch extends well beyond the sloping hill. Attempts to hide the underpinnings have begun. Sheets of lattice are tacked on in some spots. He turns off the ignition. "This is it. What do you think?" "That deck. It's new, right?" "Yeah, wasn't here last time." He surveys the area. "Gotta be a great view from up there." "Hmm." "Maybe I'll just get out for a minute and stretch my legs." I don't like the sound of this. "You're not going up there, are you? Dad, it's not our property." "Don't be silly. Can't do any harm to take a look." I'm horrified. Sure it's an empty building, but there's something creepy about my father nosing around like some stalker. "Dad, they probably have motion detectors or alarms." "Christie, I'm not going to break in. Come with me." Not wanting to either stay behind or head up the hill, I begin to protest when a disembodied voice calls out, "Looking for someone?" The human voice is unnerving. At first I'm not sure where it's coming from. Then, I see. Standing on the slope, half-hidden in the shadow at the far side of the deck, is a stocky, gray-haired man in a flannel shirt. I lean toward my father. "We should leave. Tell him we're lost." "Don't be silly," Dad says. He pops open the door, gets out and calls up. "We used to live here. I'm with my daughter to see the place." "Want to take a better look?" The guy waves. "Come on up." "Sure it's no bother?" The two men's voices echo, sounding louder than they should. "Hell, no. Good to have company." The place must be doomed. Not only off the beaten path, but a portal, once entered, leaves every soul desperate for stimulation. Dad turns. "C'mon Christie. Let's see the place." My imagination slams into overdrive. Who is this guy? Where's his car? How many city slickers has he shot and buried? "Dad, I don't think " "Suit yourself," he says and turns on his heels. My father doesn't climb the grassy slope but walks toward a timberline where a gravel driveway turns upward. I now recall a circuitous route that travels up and around the cabin, which then merges into the road we just came off of. I re-evaluate the man. On second glance, he appears less sinister. He's wearing wire-rimmed glasses and Dockers. My father climbs the driveway and the man walks down to meet him. They shake hands, then both look appraisingly at the cabin. What the heck, and I get out of the car. "Bought the place three years ago," the man says as we enter through the side. The kitchen area is no longer. Gone are the metal cabinets and cracked linoleum floor. I'm standing in a mud room. The walls are knotty pine and the tile floor is ceramic. A blue and white gingham caf‚ curtain covers the lone window that, from the upper half, shows the woods behind. Cubbies, like the kind used in Kindergarten classes, line one wall. Some coats and sweaters are hanging inside. Footgear Rubber Duckies, winter boots, slippers are neatly paired and resting on a mat. My father reaches down to untie his shoes. "Don't bother," the man says. "Wife's not here." My father nods knowingly and we cross another threshold. The first uncensored words from my father are, "Holy shit." I'm likewise awed. We are standing in the back of a large room with a finished, vaulted ceiling dotted by recessed lighting. The room is remarkably bright, glowing, actually. Soft beige walls and an open floor plan fill the expanse. A modern, downsized kitchen with stainless steel built-ins fits snugly into a U-shaped corner. Nailhead leather furniture, a couch and two chairs with ottomans are placed strategically around a gas fireplace. Beautiful Navaho-design rugs cover the floor. But all this is secondary to the view. At the far side, where the deck has been added, there's a double bank of sliding glass doors. I'm drawn forward. Standing on the precipice but still inside, I look toward a westerly direction. The sun, lowered in the sky, is breaking through some clouds. We are on very high ground. A sea of pine trees spreads out before me. But it's the sky that's the most breathtaking. Striations of color purple, pink, green consume the vista. Never have I seen such majesty. "What a view," I say. There's no response. I turn around. The man is pulling down a hidden ladder at the far end. "Has a loft. Threw in a couple of windows. Sleeps four comfortably. Great for the grand-kids." My father nods but seems distracted. "You've done a lot of work." "I'll say. The place was too confined. Needed to open it up." My father steps toward a door, the only room separate from the great room. "Was this the back bedroom?" The man turns the knob and pushes the door open. "Not anymore. Made it into a full bath. Separate shower. Tub's got some jets." My father glances inside. "A lot of tile work. Must have cost a pretty penny." "Son-in-law did it. He's a plumber. Not too expensive. When did you own the place?" "Long time ago, twenty-five years or so. Just a getaway, you know." The word getaway makes me smile. I want to say, "get-as-far-away," but I don't. I then think about myself and Jeff. "Do you ever rent it out?" The man shakes his head. "Nah. It's only empty for a couple of weeks in the spring. We go golfing." Ironically, I'm disappointed. "Christie, " my father says, "we head back. Your mother's probably making dinner." The man says, "Bring your wife sometime. Door's always open." "Thanks for the offer but my wife . . . well, she doesn't care for the country." Back in the car, I say, "What a place." My father shrugs. His excitement has waned. "And that view. How could I have forgotten something like that?" My father revs up the car. "They tore down all the trees in front. Place is nothing more than a glorified suburb." "What?" "All fancy, smantcy." There's no point in arguing. I pull the seatbelt across and click it on. The strap presses on my cell. Before we head back, I make sure it's still working then place it on my lap. By the time we reach the thruway, my eyes are feeling dry and heavy. At four-thirty we pull up to the house. Not only has the winter darkness seeped into the afternoon hours, but the home blends in too easily with the surrounding shadows. Neither the kitchen nor living room lights are on. The home looks as if the residents are out, perhaps gone on a vacation. Dad swerves onto the driveway. "Your mother must still be shopping with Aunt Pat." "Maybe they went to dinner." But once inside, a light is shining from beneath my parent's bedroom door. "Mom?" A weak voice answers. "I'm in here." Dad throws his keys on the table and heads to the bathroom. I knock lightly. "Come in," my mother says. Still dressed, she's lying on top of the made bed with an afghan draped over her. "Taking a nap?" "Yes." But she's lying. Crumpled tissues are piled on the bed stand. Her eyes are bloodshot. "How was the trip?" she asks. "Mom, what's wrong? Are you sick?" "I have a headache." "But your eyes are swollen. Have you been crying?" She puts her finger to her mouth, then nods toward the open doorway. "Where's your father?" she whispers. "In the bathroom. Why?" She leans forward. "Close the door." None of this is unusual behavior. Whenever I'm around, my parents take the opportunity to gossip about each other. I shouldn't appease her, but I do. After shutting the door, I return to the bed and sit on the edge. "So what's up?" "What was it like?" she asks. "What was what like?" "The cabin." "Oh. You wouldn't have believed it. The place is gorgeous. Totally redone on the inside." She rears back, looking horrified. "You went inside?" "The owner was there. Gave us a tour." "And how was your father?" "I'm not sure what you mean." "How did he react?" "Didn't seem impressed." She has a spurt of energy and sits taller. "Really?" "Yeah. Here's this absolutely great place and he was totally nonplused." I shake my head. "Seemed like he missed the old place." My mother's face freezes. Suddenly, her eyes well up and she's reaching for another tissue. "What's wrong?" "Nothing. I'm just emotional." "Doesn't seem like nothing " There's a knock at the door. My mother grabs my wrist. "I can't see him like this." At the door I peek out. "Mom's not feeling well." He stretches his neck, trying to look inside. "I think she could use some soup. Would you mind?" "Right, I'll run down to Chin's and get some wonton." "Great idea." Back on the bed, I say. "Okay, what's going on?" She slams her fist on the mattress. "That damn cabin." "Mom, what's with you and the cabin?" She gives me a hard look. "You don't know? Your brothers never told you?" "Told me what?" Her voice is remarkably forceful. "About your father's love nest." "Excuse me?" Her face crumbles. "Oh, Christie. He used to go there with Mrs. Lambert, the woman who lived next door." Lambert. Lambert. Yes, she had two young children. A redhead. "Mom, you sure?" "Your brothers found them. They had skipped school and saw them together with their own eyes. Through the window in the back bedroom." The floor suddenly seems to slant. The story can't be believed. But then . . . "The fire wasn't accidental, Christie. Your brothers were so upset with your father, they tried to burn the place down." I jump from the bed. "WHAT?" "Christie, please don't be upset. I just " "Everyone knows about this except me?" She reaches out. "Honey, you're not the only one. Your father doesn't either." "Mom, that doesn't make sense." "Oh, Christie, he doesn't know that I know or that the boys know." "You two never talked about it?" She looks small and scared. "God no. I couldn't, not ever." I return to the bed and put my arms around her. "Mom, I'm sorry." She's trembling. The bones in her back feel brittle. If I squeeze too hard, they might break. "Everything's fine," I say. "Besides, that was years ago." Sniffling, she pulls away. "It was his idea to run out for the soup." I'm confused. "Yes." "Then he must still care. At least a little bit." Suddenly my cell rings. I pull it from my pocket and glance at the read out Jeff. The incessant, intrusive ring is called dancing raindrops. "Honey, aren't you going to get that?" With each cloying tone the pull to answer it weakens. I turn off the power. "It's not important." Teddy Bear At 11 a.m. Sunday, Ted Blaine sat in the alcove of his rented room. The chores for the week laundry, shopping, changing the sheets had been dealt with, leaving only one distasteful task: the dreaded weekly visit from his sister, Meg. As the water boiled, he reached for a package of store- bought cookies, ripped it open, then moved the plastic tray next to her waiting cup. He figured the more he prepared for the visit, the faster she'd be in and out. Never really worked. He looked out the window and down to the street. The spot where she parked her Cavalier remained empty. His eyes ran up the road. Nothing moved, not a soul, not a car. God, he despised Sunday, the lifelessness of it. He scoured for signs of life, perhaps a shadow or the glow of a lit cigarette amid the dark windows and unevenly pulled blinds of the weathered brick building across the street. But the desolation continued. His glance finally settled on, what appeared to be, piles of coal along the street. Of course the craggy mounds were just exhaust- encrusted snow. Ted shook his head. This hapless view was nothing compared the sequin waters of St. Petersburg. Damn. Instead of returning home to Buffalo, he should have gone west. But then again, wounded animals tended to head for familiar territory. He sighed and turned his attention back into the room. The door to the bathroom was cracked open. Deep inside his chest he felt the familiar ache Stacy. What he missed most was her rinsed-out lingerie on the shower curtain rod. What he missed least were her lame excuses for not coming home, two, three days at a time. Leaning forward, he reached for his wallet. He had made promises (often broken) to limit the times he'd indulge. But it was Sunday and the morning had gone by with hardly a thought of her. Tucked behind his driver's license was her picture, naked in bed, lying on her side, her head propped in a folded elbow. He ran his finger across the tacky, creased surface. In a drugstore check out somewhere in Tennessee, they had picked up the Polaroid. She liked having her picture taken. Before snapping the shutter, he'd lingered. "Come on, Teddy Bear," she'd mumbled through a forced smile. "Take the damn picture." But he took his sweet time. It was only through the viewfinder that he'd have her singular attention, feel a modicum of control, however fleeting. In the distance a car door slammed. Ted leaned forward and peered out the window. Meg's solid, squat figure, clothed in a heavy black coat, stepped off the street and onto the sidewalk. Ted gave the photograph another longing gaze. He followed the curves, the way her body dipped and rose, finally feasting on those full breasts with dark nipples. His calloused hands, she'd sa