

Daniel's Inferno

By

Dusty Yevsky

Copyright 2010 by Dusty Yevsky

Smashwords Edition

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This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

"He was nearly blind in his left eye, and said left eyes were the tribal curse of the Finches. Whenever he wanted to see something well he turned his head and looked from his right eye."

From to Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee

Introduction

Daniel Ford drove the night shift at Joe's Taxi. Little old ladies didn't need hauling to the grocery store, beauty parlor or doctor's office, harried tourists weren't frantic for last minute rides to the airport, and folks down on their luck weren't hopeful that grabbing a seat on the afternoon Greyhound out of town might somehow jump start their stalled-out lives.

It was slower paced and the tips were better. He picked up insomniacs, whack jobs and weirdoes and steered them through the dark deserted streets. During those odd hours (and occasionally pajama clad...) the flotsam and jetsam of humanity would wash up from the depths like hermit crabs into the backseat of his hack. He had a certain undeniable attraction to them. They were, to some degree, his kindred spirits.

It was normally quiet after the last driver on the evening shift turned in his keys and put his sled to bed around 11:00PM. The dispatcher was off duty and the night man had the cabstand to himself. There was a canvas cot tucked away in a corner suitable for drifting off into meaningless passages of popular fiction and those cockamamie dreams they invariably induced.

Until around 1:30AM or so, when the bars started closing down and the telephones started ringing up. The town drunks were often lost souls drowning in despair. Though mostly harmless, it did displease Daniel whenever their levels of intoxication forced bile or partially digested food particles to be spewed on the rear floorboards of the cab. The boozehounds typically muttered nonsensically to themselves. Once in awhile and always against his better instincts, he attempted to engage an alcoholic with severely impaired mental ability in relevant discourse, but learned early on that it was better to keep his thoughts private and focus on the business of driving.

According to him, inebriated young females would also occasionally summons him for assistance in escorting them safely home. He said one such lady (perhaps the operative word there is tramp...) stumbled through the rear passenger door of his taxi and started playing with herself. While her harmless merriment seemed mirthful, others like her mostly sat motionless and silent, with blank expressions on their shadowy faces. His rear-view mirror reflected their empty detachment from the world and simultaneously confirmed his own.

Such was Daniel Ford's point of view years ago, when, as a young man coming of age as they say (whoever they are...) in 1975 or thereabouts, he began in earnest to recognize the absurd vulnerability of his own perspective.

Years later he revealed to me the circumstances preceding and following those events. Those discussions ultimately lead to his requesting my assistance in transcribing his story.

D.Y.

Part One: Amazing Grace

"There are things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself. Every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

I

Like Dagmar bumpers on a '57 Cadillac Biarritz, Denise Lohan stood out from the other "professional women" I occasionally ferried about our quaint village by the sea. Her exotic appearance was impossible for me to ignore. I tried my best to look away but failed in that regard. Mirrors don't lie, and those reflecting an accurate view of the past are especially bound to the truth.

Denise Lohan's connection to fine luxury foreign automobile collecting made her even more attractive to a burgeoning enthusiast such as myself. So began my transition from semi-detached admirer of the feminine mystique to flittering moth, powerless against the warm yellow glow of the insect repellant bulb flipped on and burning, as it were, outside her glorious front stoop.

I soon learned the nature of Denise's means of support. And because our small town was mostly populated with shriveled up rich old hags it's perfectly reasonable how a curvaceous seductress with the face of Madonna would attract someone like me with way too much time on his hands.

Covering a day shift and seated behind the wheel of my cab, I was indulging in a cinnamon roll with raisins and walnuts, freshly baked. While stuffing my face and awaiting further instructions from headquarters or for a customer on the street to flag a ride, I spotted Denise gliding along Ocean Avenue in high heels. She entered and exited various shops carrying large bags filled with packaged goods. Glancing up at passersby between bites of my sugary pastry, her frequent comings and goings were distracting, to say the least.

There was the sheerness of her see-through blouse adorning her ample chest, and the long flowing scarves strategically draped around her smooth tanned shoulders. With her pressed slacks and leather pumps she looked classy and relaxed, the way certain women just do. From a distance of twenty yards or so, her auburn hair with fiery red highlights was neatly trimmed to shoulder length, and her dark brown eyes flashed brilliantly in the early afternoon sunlight. Errands completed, she quickly climbed into a British Green 1963 Jaguar XKE Convertible parked across the street. I caught a hint of her smile as she glanced in my direction, popped the transmission into first gear and sped off.

And I thought to myself, "There goes a woman you'll never fuck."

A few days later, during our midmorning stroll along the Carmel beachfront, my canine Sam and I were partaking in minor frolic and minding our respective businesses. It was sunny and clear, and a gentle offshore breeze was stirring the air. I bent over and gathered a stick littering the white sand and tossed it mightily. The beast ignored my effort to spur his vigorous exercise, preferring instead to continue his emphatic sniffing of the decaying remains of a seagull that was entwined in a pile of seaweed that had drifted ashore.

The surf was pounding but from the opposite direction I heard someone whistling over the din. That shrill noise was followed by a voice calling out from the road above.

It wasn't clear, but I thought I heard the person shout "Yoo hoo, hey there handsome fella!" I turned around and the same individual was waving her arms. Was it a distress signal? Or a maneuver seeking attention? As I was some distance away, I smiled goofily (it was unlikely she could make out my facial contortion from where she stood) and waved back. I watched as she hiked her skirt and slid into the driver's door of a gleaming sports car. After adjusting her mirrors and turning the key to ignite her motor, she turned the wheel and headed off down Scenic Road. Though I couldn't be certain she was the same woman I'd noticed a few days before on Ocean Avenue, I strongly suspected she was.

The incident struck me as peculiar. Why had this femme fatale waved, called out and then bolted off like a common criminal? What was the purpose of her overtly friendly gesture? Was it intended for Sam or me? Or was someone else entirely unrelated situated nearby the target of her cat (dog...) calling? Moreover, where was the magnificent green Jaguar roadster? She'd pulled away in a red Porsche 911 Targa. It was a mysterious encounter on several levels and all were equally unsettling.

My dispatch to the corner of 7th and Dolores a few days later brought with it some answers to my growing curiosity.

"Unit 11, get off your ass and climb out of that bucket of bolts. The lady who called it in said she wouldn't be able to hear the horn honking from the street," the voice crackled in the two-way radio's speaker.

The house was down a series of steps, away from the street. I rang the bell. The door opened and she was standing directly in front of me. Her skin was impeccable. Her full red lips outlined perfect rows of gleaming white teeth. Up close she was more beautiful than I'd imagined. I felt slightly nauseous.

"Hi there! It's about time I got you! Give me a second. I'm almost ready, okay?"

"Yes, of course. I'll be in the car. It's parked just down the street, on the left," I said as I swung around to climb back up the stairway.

"Thanks. So, how's your adorable pup?" she asked before I could escape.

"Beg pardon? What? Oh! Um, fine, I guess. So, where to? I think the dispatcher said Cannery Row?" I muttered stupidly.

"Yes, please. I need to be at work in fifteen minutes."

It was clear to me now that this woman had indeed yelled to at least one of us on the beach. However, what prompted her unprovoked shout out was still puzzling me. I wondered why she'd buzzed a cab and what had become of the classic imports she'd been tooling around town in?

She asked if she could sit in the front seat of the taxi with me. She said riding in the big backseat all by herself made her feel lonely. It was against company rules; some bullshit policy the boss said had something to do with insurance liability. Normally I'd refuse such a request, but for her I made an exception.

Her perfume filled the cab when she jumped in next to me. It helped mask the salami and pepperoni odors emanating from an unwrapped hoagie sitting perched on the bench seat between us.

On the way over Carmel Hill to Monterey she maintained a relaxed and friendly tone, while I nervously responded in quick, tongue-tied clips.

"What were you doing at the beach the other day?" she wondered.

"Walking my dog."

"I love walking on the beach. It's so invigorating, isn't it?"

"It's nice."

"It's perfect for letting your troubles wash away and tensions unwind. We're fortunate to live here. Carmel's beautiful. Don't you think?"

"Yes. It's lovely."

"How long have you lived in town?"

"Not long."

"Where were you before?"

"Here and there. Around."

"So, what made you settle in Carmel

The grisly mental image of Hillary's mug briefly appeared. "A love affair I suppose."

"How sweet. Is she still in the picture?"

"Not really."

"Still, it's sad. I'm sorry."

The air was suddenly melancholic and I let it linger on. Instead of replying to her wistfulness I picked up the submarine sandwich stuffed with cold cuts and slices of cheese and bit off a hunk. After thorough mastication I washed it down with a quick slug of flattish soda and stuck the warm can back between my legs.

"Well at least you have your dog. By the way, he's very cute. The basset, right?"

"Yes, Sam, the hound. I'll be certain to pass along your kind words. He's a bit of a dandy. He'll likely be appreciative of your commentary."

I was slightly rattled in her immediate presence and hoped my non-sequiturs weren't too off putting. I trusted other people held regular conversations with their canines like I did. If not, she might've thought something was amiss.

"I'm Denise, by the way. What's your name?"

"Pleasure to meet you Denise. I'm Daniel."

"Same here, Daniel. You know, I adore dogs. And your boy really is a handsome little devil if I say so myself. Maybe the three of us can go for a walk together on the beach some day?"

"It's possible. But let me think it over."

"Okay...Look, I hope I'm not being too nosy, but is there some kind of a problem I'm missing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what's there to think about? A walk on the beach is no big deal."

"Well, to be perfectly candid, it's Sam. He's very jealous. Without my undivided attention he gets upset and eats my shoes. In fact, he sometimes chews shit just for the hell of it."

They were factual statements derived from behaviors I first witnessed in Sam's youth, but I realized I had already given her far more information than was necessary and it likely sounded ridiculous.

"I once had a cat that threw up every time I showered after midnight," she added somewhat sympathetically. "Listen, you probably think I'm some kind of a stalker. Tell you what. How about if I give you my number? You can give me a call if you want to get together sometime, okay?"

She laughed easily and fished around inside her purse resembling a small suitcase for a piece of paper and something to write with. I handed her the pencil stuck behind my ear. She scribbled her home phone number on the back of her business card.

I continued to drive and squinted at the small font on the front, doing my best to avoid thinking about her pussy's late-night cleansing fetish. "So, Desiree, it says here you're a massage therapist?"

"You might say that."

"I might say something else but I'd probably get slapped. Anyway, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you just tell me your name was Denise?"

"Desiree's my professional name, if you get my drift. I sometimes go by Destiny. Listen, I know what your thinking. It's a job and the money's great."

"Sure. Whatever. Do you mind my asking you a personal question?"

"Uh oh, here it comes."

"Don't worry, it's not what you think. I'm just a little curious about something. I've seen you driving around Carmel in several exotic looking automobiles. How come you're using a taxi?"

"First of all, those cars aren't mine. They belong to a friend of mine."

"Lucky you. He must be pretty wealthy."

"Look, we're in business together. We flip cars. He buys them in Southern California, I drive them up here, sell them for thousands more and we split the profits. It's a great way to make some extra cash. Besides, I love driving those incredible machines around while we're waiting for a buyer to surface."

"Sounds nice. So, you're fresh out of stock now? No more iron to move? Is that why you phoned for a taxi?"

"Yes, and I wanted to meet to you."

"Excuse me? I'm not sure I heard you correctly. What did you say?"

"That I wanted to talk to you, Daniel. Honestly, I'm not sure why. You have an interesting face."

Her comment was flattering, but I was clueless why she'd made it. My battle-scarred visage was, on a good day, perhaps mildly thought provoking. Why anyone in his or her right mind might regard my appearance as anything other than unremarkable was news to me. But she sounded serious. Deluded, perhaps, but sincere nonetheless. I thought it over and made a quick decision.

"Interesting, eh? Okay then, I probably will get in touch. But I'll have to clear it with the boss first," I warned her.

"Why would Pete care?" she wondered.

Her question was to me at first confusing. But then I realized she'd hailed a Carmel taxicab before, and had no doubt ridden with Peter Guido, the Italian gentleman who owned of the fleet. Pete was an easygoing fellow with a wooden leg. It had been explained to me that the "Joe" of Joe's Taxi died many years before, but Joe's name in the telephone book had survived, unlike Peter's long-lost limb.

"Not Peter my employer. I meant Sam," I told her.

We rolled up in front of the Monterey School of Massage. Denise grabbed her purse, handed me the fare, threw in a generous tip, jumped out of the sedan, spun and waved goodbye, and immediately disappeared through the double red doors. I dropped it into "D", stomped on the gas, and deadheaded back to Carmel.

II

Daniel Ford had one properly functioning eye, his right as it turned out, and through it he perceived the world.

Daniel lost sight in his left orb in a freakish accident early on. Rumor had it that a forceps-wielding obstetrician had miscast his hook.

Shortly thereafter an overzealous mohel snipped a little too much off the top.

These two random and seemingly insignificant snippets of fact surrounding Daniel Ford's birth are in many ways responsible for what later unfolded.

D.Y.

On a dubious looking used car lot on Van Nuys Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley, looking like she'd been dipped in a vat of drain sludge, the battleship grey paint slathered on her body must've caught my eye. I was sixteen years old.

Slow and gutless, my first set of wheels, a 1963 VW Bug, rattled noisily and leaked oil profusely. Not long after, when visiting the local library, I bumped into Hillary, my first "serious" girlfriend, who exhibited eerily similar traits.

It was the first car my father and I saw for sale in my limited price range. His disinterest in helping me find a more desirable mode of transportation (let alone an alternate choice...) wasn't because he didn't care. Instead, he seemed preoccupied with other pressing matters that day. He was notoriously fastidious about grooming his nails and suddenly realized he had made a prior engagement.

"We'll take it." He told the salesman, who immediately turned and ran to his desk to complete the paperwork before we came to our senses.

"Son, sorry, but I gotta go. I'm late for my manicure."

Dad was a meat broker and his peers held him in high regard. That distinction is somewhat difficult to corroborate, since, despite repeated efforts, the National Society of Professional Meat Promoters hadn't yet come to fruition. Had such an outfit been successfully launched, the annual banquet and awards ceremony would no doubt feature the very latest in designer cocktail wieners artfully displayed next to elaborate chopped liver sculptures of swans or elephants, depending on that years chosen theme.

At any rate, in his line of work, after a sixty-mile commute to his office at the Jimmy Dean Sausage Company, my father would then drive all across Southern California to meet with customers, large, medium and small accounts alike, in the supermarkets, restaurants, and delicatessens dotting the Southland, where he would discuss various grades and quantities of edible flesh. He'd shamelessly hawk hot dogs and cold cuts, as well as briskets, ribs, sausages, pastramis, salamis, kishkas, and kielbasas, and everything else imaginable between nose, hoof, and tail, be they cured, pickled, salted, peppered, or raw beef or pork products.

Clearly, those meat meetings were essential to my father being able to provide for his family and put food on our table. A natural born salesman, mostly traveling by car, he required both reliable and impressive wheels, so he purchased a brand-new vehicle every September off the showroom floor, usually a humongous made in America station wagon, ostensibly to carry around his boxes of samples and order forms. At least that's what he told my mother at the family dinner table, where we ate mostly meat.

Anyway, leaving aside my father's apparent obsession with automobiles and getting back to my story, my lowly Bug survived two years before the motor ultimately conked out.

Looking back on it now, the demise of that vehicle is a mildly infectious sidebar, but at the time I thought not. I had just graduated high school when a former boyfriend of my oldest sister Veronica needed a ride to the Bay Area, and I was up (or was I down for it? It was hard to tell up from down back then...) for a road trip.

I volunteered for the job. Joel, as I recall his name, although it could have been Alonzo or Horace, was a budding scholar who'd landed a job as an assistant professor at UC Berekely.

We packed up the Bug, tooled up State Route 1 and stopped in Big Sur for the night. We pulled into the Fernwood Campground, secured an idyllic spot next to the river and shortly thereafter, over a scout worthy open fire prepared pork and beans mixed with the kosher dogs my father tucked thoughtfully inside our portable cooler, as a last minute bon voyage.

A controversial dish on several levels, we scarfed down the grub like a couple of dietary outlaws sedering in the O.K. Corral.

Bloated, I wandered off to explore the local scenery and pass wind. I soon spied an older hippie woman twirling in an adjacent meadow. She wore flowers in her hair and was clad in a long, flowing white peasant dress. Purely by chance one thing did lead to another. Mind you, pasture dancing, frolicking in fields and engaging spontaneously with the opposite sex were fairly common occurrences back in those days. And probably still are, especially around the nearby Esalen Institute, but I digress.

By older I mean she looked to be around 25, which seemed ancient to me at the time. It turned out my slightly wilted flower child had secured a woodsy cabin for the night and invited me to join her there for "a spot of tea." I had a lingering case of heartburn from the cuisine I earlier ingested and welcomed the thought of sipping a calming, soothing brew. I was an idiot and it didn't immediately register in my brain that her suggestion we share something hot and wet wasn't necessarily referencing a potion made by infusing the dried, crushed leaves of a plant steeped in boiling water.

Still and all, another floozy's willingness to assist directly in the launching of my pocket rocket seemed unlikely in the near or distant future. Despite her somewhat annoying British accent, I decided to allow this free-spirited damsel to dock my missile numerous times before dawn crashed through the slatted blinds of our rustic love lair.

Unfortunately, the nearly continuous vigor of our nightlong romp severely chafed my small propeller. Bruised yet unbroken, it survived. Rubbed raw, it resembled a small, pink shrimp when I inspected my dingy the following morning whilst pissing. I'm told no footnotes are allowed but as an experienced linguist I am deliberately employing a modified version of the Queen's English at the end of the last sentence. My aim in doing so is to broaden my audience and specifically target an appreciative British fan base, although no one from across the pond (...see, there I go again) has yet dared to step forward or swim across and I am certain they, like their American counterparts, never will.

Nevertheless, upon returning to the campsite as the sun was rising through the redwoods, I observed Joel curled in the dirt, balled up in the fetal position and lying next to my barf-toned Beetle shivering like a pathetic cur. He was hardly a sight for sore peepers, or pee pees for that matter. His jacket and sleeping bag were visible through the shut windows of my locked car, sitting next to the canvas sack wherein my tent and its pole assembly remained still tightly packed.

The car keys, situated safely inside the right pocket of my Levi's, were rubbing up against my tiny sausage, precisely where I'd placed them the night before. It simply never occurred to me how that seemingly innocuous gesture would ultimately separate the Joel shaped ice sculpture now prone before me from our stowed away camping equipment.

We motored on.

After a week exploring the town and university that would later beckon my return, I headed back to L.A. It was a pristine, cloudless and gorgeous California day, without the slightest hint of wind.

The Bug, which normally sputtered and coughed like a phlegmatic rabbi, was now at one with the universe, somehow suddenly propelled into Enlightenment by God knows what. Rated at 40 horses, the plugs grazing in my engine bay were usually all a sickly bunch of nags with three hooves in the glue factory and the other skating on a frozen lake in the dead of winter. Anyway, something within the engine's internal components shifted alarmingly as I powered up the motor after stopping for gas.

The car was performing perfectly as I started out on the freeway. The accelerator was unusually sensitive and responsive when I pressed it with my foot. Maybe the Berkeley filling station I stopped at prior to heading off poured a little extra something in the tank? Was it some specially formulated acid magically boosting the performance?

The Bug was reborn and regenerated. It rose above the asphalt ribbon of highway like a hovercraft flying in supercharged resurrection. Then, some ten minutes into what should've been my eight-hour journey the damn thing gave up the ghost. It went out with a bang, but not in a good way. I heard a loud explosion and the Bug immediately lost power.

I exited the freeway, limped through a maze of surface streets in downtown Oakland and bucked my way into the nearest "Authorized VW Service Center." The facility soon morphed into a Kafkaesque Black Flag Roach Motel. "Bugs check in, but they don't check out."

I explained to the service technician what had happened. I was on my way back to Southern California and my Bug was running flawlessly, better than it ever had before and then, out of nowhere, it farted nastily and lost power. He smiled sympathetically and said it would take him some time to thoroughly analyze the problem, but from what I'd described, it wasn't sounding good.

He was wearing a pair of neatly ironed trousers into which he had tucked a monogrammed shirt identifying him as Buddy. His face was remarkably honest and in combination with his uniform I had adequate reason to place implicit trust in the gentleman's ability to render fair judgment regarding the status of my wounded motorcar.

The problem was diagnosed as a seized a piston and low air pressure in the front left tire. Trapped and barely alive inside the mechanic's lair, my clunker needed hundreds of dollars in engine rebuilding I didn't have. In a Zen-like moment of clarity, I saw myself entering a state of Buglessness. I had no choice but to bag the Bug, put a label around its flattish big toe, and hitchhike back to Southern Cal.

As is foretold in many an oriental cookie, out of misfortune sprout the seeds of destiny (or something similarly vague and inane...) and thus a major step forward in terms of power, class, and coolness followed. It arrived in the form of the Fish, although according to the Chinese calendar I'm a Dragon and this all took place in the Year of the Dog.

Anyway, I was a carless and careless young male in the land of eternal sunshine and sought immediate remedy to that intolerable state. It came, in the form of a 1964 Plymouth Barracuda with 32,000 miles, a small block 273 cubic inch V8 coupled to a four-speed transmission, being offered for sale in pristine condition by an engineer who was employed at a large defense contractor designing weapons of mass destruction that were produced to carpet bomb thousands of innocent North Vietnamese peasants.

His asking price was $850.00 and I was more than happy to rescue the Fish from the evil clutches of that murderous war profiteer. Sure, the slide rule pushing, Buddy Holly glasses plastic shirt-pocket protector military-industrial complex wearing geek was simply doing his job to protect the world from the scourge of Communist World Domination and spread American Freedom and Democracy globally, but again I digress...

The Barracuda's massive rear window and flip down back seat was ideal for storage, camping, fucking and, of course, stargazing. Advertised as the first ever Sport Utility Vehicle, the Fish was thoughtfully designed with the rugged sportsman in mind. It was a responsive and tight machine and the spacious backside was an ideal setting for my intimate couplings with two or possibly three or maybe more women, but sadly I've long since lost count of their exact number, names, or faces for that matter.

Anyway, the Vietnam War had finally ended and civil and political unrest at home and around the globe had also quieted down substantially. Life, while not entirely good, was at least temporarily on the path toward getting better.

That is, until things rapidly took a turn for the worse, from a strictly world macroeconomic perspective. Shortly thereafter everything else on the planet literally went barreling out of control.

The oil embargo of 1973 turned the economy completely upside down, immediately throwing the US and other developed countries into deep recessions. Throughout America, lines formed in unemployment offices and at gas pumps as the price of energy quadrupled overnight when OPEC decided to cut off crude oil supplies to nations supporting Israel after the embarrassing pummeling Syria suffered at the hands of the Jews in the Yom Kippur War.

I sensed the smattering of literature and philosophy courses at Berkeley I'd absorbed in pursuit of my higher education, with economic conditions rapidly shifting, simply weren't going to cut it in the real world, not that they would have even if a severe global recession had somehow been avoided. Sensing something foul afoot, I carefully examined my prospects and determined it was, historically and metaphorically speaking, time to excrete feces or dismount the chamber pot.

Somewhat flummoxed and deeply immersed in modern translations of Russian and Polish literature, I pondered the tack my life was taking. When the cloud in the crystal ball cleared, the answer appeared to me like an oasis rising in the desert. Only time would tell whether the watering hole that appeared as a vision was real or a nugatory, insidious mirage designed to trick me once again into the crossroads of oblivion.

In one of the dumbest decisions of my life I sold the Barracuda for $500 and in its absence acquired a two-toned midnight and baby blue 1968 Dodge A100 Sportsman Van.

One month later I was homeless, but not exactly a street person. With a rolling shelter, I was more of a road guy; broke, living on food stamps and $35 a week in unemployment insurance benefits.

The previous owner had cleverly converted the van into a moveable ski lodge. It sported Colorado plates and the interior was hand crafted in the mountains of the High Rockies. The driver's door was bashed in and inoperable, but there were other suitable entry and exit points and I overlooked that primarily cosmetic flaw.

It was a modern studio apartment on wheels, absent a shower and toilet facility. Viewed through the blinders I was wearing at the time those were only minor discommodes. The otherwise comfy cabin on wheels, with its bed, sink, fridge, propane stove and heater, allowed me easy access to what I most desired. And that was the freedom to roam about at my will and explore the world at large.

My transition from suburban apartment dweller to rootless motor coach wanderer made perfect sense, but in all fairness, I was by then sucking down copious amounts of freshly burned ganja leaves.

In the altered landscape inside my head and the changes I witnessed sweeping across the broader horizon as reported in newspaper headlines of the day, change was constant. Throughout this maelstrom I clung to one piece of solid matter–my hound and steadfast basset, Sam. He'd tripped over his ears and into my purview years before. Sam's resolute and enduring faithful companionship was my anchor in an otherwise stormy sea. The beast's soulful gaze was the compass guiding my unfaltering restlessness.

To the assorted women we met along the way likewise seeking respite from life's inevitable setbacks and crushing disappointment, Sam's white tipped tail was a mighty beacon. However, if truth were told, those fair lassie's visits to our itinerant palace were infrequent and usually short-lived. Incense was burned, candles were lit, but the ambiance of the inner sanctum could not compete with the stench emanating from Sam's vertically challenged frame and perpetually drooling mouth.

A finicky nosher who flatly refused to eat dry kibble, from puppyhood to maturity Sam had been a loyal consumer of canned Skippy dog food. Unfortunately, the cumulative effects of his ingesting that low-grade tinned slop wreaked an ugly toll. Though otherwise happy and healthy, my cohort continually comported the odor of a backed-up sewer line.

Those prospective female comrades bolting from our motorized chalet in disgust brought Sam and I knowing glances. I suppose such failed denouements weren't solely the result of his faulty fragrance. Rather than confront my own inadequacies, I instead laid blame on the dog.

Sam and I pawed our way up and down the coast as brothers until my heroic self-image began to fade and my landlubber pirate lifestyle grew wearisome. It was high time to pitch the eye patch once and for all. Shortly thereafter we jumped ship in Carmel-by-the-Sea, the quaint little village tucked up next to the Pacific in Central California.

III

I needed desperately to replenish my non-existent bank account and rapidly depleting physical body. Putting my nose to the proverbial grindstone, I beat the provincial pavement up and down Ocean Avenue. I knocked on several doors and one cracked opened, however slightly. The following day, I was pearl diving at the Scandia Restaurant.

After nearly a year of surviving on rations of canned chili, ramen noodles and peanut butter sandwiches painstakingly prepared in the galley of the van, the act of grabbing what remained of unfinished platefuls of overpriced tourist fare wasn't nearly as distasteful as it might sound. I took full advantage of what is arguably the lone fringe benefit available to those entering the profession. Health insurance and 401K plans are seldom on the negotiating table, but leftovers frequently are.

That being said, I regained in a matter of weeks the 25 pounds that had previously melted off my body. The manager didn't care as long as the plates were particle free, the saucers spotless, and the goblets glob-less. Besides, in addition to featuring a variety of seafood specialties, the menu offered the finer cuts of meat, including sirloins, rib eyes, filets mignons, T-bones, and porterhouse steaks. Mind you, it wasn't beneath me to scarf the occasional torte or truffle coming my way either.

My shift ended. I walked over to a bar across the street. It was quiet and dark, much like my mood. I sat at the long mahogany bar, its glossy veneer polished by the suede patched elbows of plaid wool sports coats worn by the countless miscreants who came and bent before my naked funny bone got anywhere near the joint. The bartender sidled over and asked me what I was having.

"A beer. Malty and dark, like my mood," I replied.

He drew a Guinness from the tap and slid it in my direction. I tilted my head back and sloshed it down my throat.

"You work around here?" the barkeep asked in a cheery tone.

"Over there," I said jerking my thumb toward the opposite side of the road.

"So, how's the new chef working out? I heard they finally hired a talented guy from Finland."

"What? The chef's new?

"That's what I heard. He any good?"

"How would I know? I've watched some Arab guys putting shit in the microwave, hit the start button and walk away until it quits sparking. I don't eat there. I work there."

There was no way I was going to admit I was grinding down table scraps like a masticating human garbage disposal.

"You got a name, friend?"

"Yes."

"What do folks call you?"

The name Hobart Sears Kenmore immediately came to mind, but I stuck with Daniel.

"How long have you been in town?"

"About six weeks. Give or take."

"Like it so far?"

"What's not to like? The scenery's beautiful, weather's fair and the pace slow. I've been on the road a while. Might as well settle in here and see if I can make a go of it."

I told him about the van parked on the street. The bar was empty and he asked if I minded letting him take a quick peek inside my ride. He stepped away from the bar and followed me outside. The grand tour lasted two and a half seconds.

"Wow, that's wild. You fuck a lot of women in there?"

"Not really. Did you get a whiff of the near comatose stench factory in there? I know that dog may look like a chick magnet, all cute and cuddly, but it's not enough. He rode in years ago on the B. & O. Railroad and I can't seem to shake him."

It wasn't the first time I'd blamed my personal shortcomings on Sam, but he was sound asleep and likely missed my jab. If not, I'd hear about it in the morning.

"So, you live in it? That's cool."

He was imagining the same scenarios I did when I bought the van and hastily picked up stakes and moved into it. Wall to wall women at my beck and call...glowing sunsets parked at the beach...waking up to crisp clear mornings breathing in the fresh offshore breezes, what more could I need? Peace and quiet or lust filled one-night stands with sex crazed earthy hippie chicks whenever the urge struck.

The empty stretches of reality were only lightly peppered with a mere smattering of trifling encounters, and the novelty of searching out Kerouac's footsteps on the road was beginning to seriously wane. Sam agreed our adventure was more like Steinbeck's Travels with Charley. It wasn't bad, but we longed for more permanence and stability in our daily routine.

"To be honest, the nomadic life is wearing a bit thin these days. The van's a piece of shit and I'm hoping to get rid of it. I've got my eye on a little house to rent downtown."

"So, you need another set of wheels?"

"Probably. Why?"

"I might know of something."

"Oh? Like what? I'm very particular about what I drive."

"My grandmother's Toyota. She's thinking about selling it. It needs some work."

"A Toyota? Rumor has it they build fairly decent cars over in Japan. Interesting. So exactly what kind of work are we talking about here?"

"I'm not sure, maybe an engine? The oil pressure light comes on after a while and stays lit. But you could put a piece of tape over it."

"What's she asking?"

"Make an offer. I think she'll take $300."

IV

The one-bedroom cottage was neatly tucked away in the middle of downtown, partially hidden down a dirt driveway on San Carlos Street between 7th and 8th Avenue. It was slightly larger than the van and rented for $125 a month. I had an old smelly dog, no references, and a dead-end part-time minimum wage job. I caught a break when they cut me some slack and handed over the keys.

A real estate company located in the office building fronting the property managed the rental house in back. One of the salesmen took me under his wing. An elderly corpulent gentleman with a kindly demeanor and a crop of wavy white hair, Mac said I reminded him of his youth, when he was starting out in life. He reminded me of Uncle Pennybags, the affluent character in Monopoly sporting a top hat and droopy mustache.

Mac was semi-retired and didn't seem concerned about earning a living hustling real estate. He'd apparently stashed away enough coin to sit back with his feet on the desk and dabble in the market. He drank gallons of coffee flavored with shots from the monogrammed silver flask tucked inside his suit jacket pocket and read the newspaper cover to cover before calling it a day when it wasn't yet midmorning.

Not long after moving into the house I got hired on as a driver at Joe's Taxi. The cabstand was located around the corner. I could literally fall out of bed and end up in the front seat of Unit 11, my favorite hack.

One day Mac pulled me aside, placed his hand on my shoulder and offered up some fatherly advice. He suggested I work in the real estate game and start making some real money. He thought I'd meet plenty of sales prospects driving cab.

Mac offered to pay for the training course I needed to get through the California State Real Estate licensing exam. It was either a really good opportunity or a lousy proposition. I had to think it over. Doing something respectable as a "professional" something or other seemed a tad bit smarmy.

Anyway, I completed the courses, passed the test, closed a transaction on a little old lady's condo in Carmel Valley and paid Mac back the money he advanced me from the proceeds of my first (and as it turned out last...) sales commission within two months. It seemed way too easy.

I went out and bought new threads, a suit and a pair of black leather shoes from a store where the word thrift didn't appear on the sign out front. Except my necktie felt like a noose. And my Filofax didn't match my briefcase. I couldn't work the lockbox combinations. Nothing seemed kosher. I was becoming a sellout.

So, I dabbled in real estate on the side and drove the taxi full time in order to keep my soul from self-destructing.

It's impossible to straddle both sides of the fence, unless you don't mind putting your balls in harms way. Respectable employment brought with it a slime factor I couldn't quite shake. I started to change in ways I knew were wrong. I put on airs and cheap cologne. I felt like a complete phony and was one. I tried to hold on but was sliding down the all too slippery slope of becoming a contributing member of society.

The second I started fooling myself trouble was nipping at my heels. My self-deception lined the stars up for a real showdown. From then on, and as they should under those circumstances, things began zipping wildly out of control.

I had a day off. It was a sun-drenched California Saturday morning in early spring. With nothing particular in mind, I decided to head out the door and drive down the coast to Big Sur. I wanted to grab a relaxing meal, take in the views at Nepenthe, hike in the woods, and perhaps round out the afternoon pleasantries by reading meaningless popular fiction in a nearby secluded glen.

All might have gone according to plan had she not been standing in front of the Phoenix gift shop when I rolled up there in the mid afternoon. She was talking to someone in an accent I couldn't quite place that sounded vaguely British. She appeared somewhat older and reasonably attractive. Sound familiar? Though there were a few grassy fields close by, at least this one wasn't twirling like a Dervish in a flowery meadow.

She seemed in a hurry to leave but suddenly turned around and stopped to speak to me. We had a brief conversation lasting no more than five minutes. She told me her name and I immediately forgot it. I gave her the business card I carried with me misleading strangers into thinking I earned a living selling real estate.

When I walked down to the parking lot, she followed me. The moment I got in my car, she leaned in the passenger window and stuck her head inside. She had green eyes and an Afro hairdo. Her curls brushed up against the headliner.

"This is an interesting looking car. What is it?" she asked.

"Its a 1966 Toyota Corona Deluxe 1900 Sedan. Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but do you mind stepping away? I'd love to chat more, but I'm afraid I'm late for an appointment. I'm scheduled to meet with a client back at the office in 45 minutes," I lied, glancing at my watch, a second hand Timex.

"Of course. It was very nice meeting you...Daniel." She was reading my name off the small printed card I'd just handed her.

I turned the ignition key, dropped the three on the tree into first gear and floored it. Minutes later I reached the end of the parking lot and veered left, north toward the little cottage in downtown Carmel and my thoroughly empty calendar of to-dos. Unless cooking a pot of ramen noodles and falling asleep in front of the television is worthy of further analysis, in which case I could go on and on.

I had a floor duty at the realty shop the following weekend. For those who might not be aware, that's when you sit around the office all day long waiting for the phone to ring or someone to walk in the door looking to purchase property. Since nothing ever happens it's well suited for exploring meaningless popular fiction or doing crossword puzzles.

I was midway through an early chapter when the phone rang.

"Dan, it's for you. Pickup line one," announced the other salesman on duty who'd eagerly grabbed the receiver hoping to land his next huge financial deal.

There'd never been a call for me, ever. The blinking light mesmerized me. I'd been immersed in the protagonist's primary motivation. I wondered who in the world had the temerity to ring me up and derail my train of thought?

"How are you? I've been thinking about you," the female voice cooed on the other end of the line.

"Hello. Who is this? What number did you dial?" I demanded.

"It's me, Carrie. Remember? We met last weekend in Big Sur."

"Oh yes, of course. Hello. How are you? Looking to purchase a little piece of heaven? We have some fantastic listings of beautiful Monterey Peninsula property I'd be more than happy to show you. Are you free on Tuesday? I can move a few things around and squeeze you in. Or is Friday better?"

I was trying to impress my eavesdropping co-worker with my well-honed sales spiel.

"I don't know. I'm in the city. Why don't you come up and visit me?"

"What city?"

"San Francisco. I'm staying with friends."

"Gee, I don't know. Maybe. What would we do?"

"Whatever you want," she laughed.

"I'll think it over. But say, I was curious. Your accent? Where are you from?"

"South Africa," she replied.

We signed off and despite my small penis, six weeks later Carrie and I were married.

V

I suppose I should confess what prompted me to take my brief excursion down the coast in the first place. In fact, it was the prior "situation" I'd put myself into with Denise Lohan. As a result of that, certain pressures had been building and they'd come to head. I needed to get away and clear my thoughts.

I left the house with the best of intentions. But somehow my jaunt only further complicated matters, seeing as it set into motion a series of events that ended with my marrying a refuge seeking political asylum in America. Though I'd like to, I can't really blame anyone else. It was my choice to take the odd fork in the road.

Allowing a hooker looker to climb into the front seat of my cab was my first big mistake. I knew the rules and broke them. And the rest, as they say, was his story.

We started out slowly. Denise's unusual lifestyle intrigued me. She certainly wasn't a normal, every day sort of gal. She had a unique vibe and style I'd never been up against before. I needed to figure out what made her tick.

And I was equally pressed to determine why she seemed to enjoy hanging around me. I was barely scraping by driving hack and I wasn't exactly an awe-inspiring physical specimen either. She was rich and beautiful. I was poor and ugly. It doesn't take a math whiz to add that equation up and piss a big fat yellow zero in the snow.

Maybe she thought I was normal? Someone she could safely befriend? Over time I learned Denise was, despite the questionable nature of her chosen profession, a down to earth and for the most part cheerful person. Those qualities made spending time with her less complicated than one might suspect and we started hanging out with greater frequency.

That is, until the focus on my emotional center started to drift off course. Wouldn't it be wonderful if life were simple? Unfortunately for most, if not all of us, it is a rather sticky wicket, as my friends across the Atlantic would argue snootily.

Ultimately, my need to defuse the inner workings of Denise's uniquely complex personality conflicted with my own perpetually demented state after I began (was unable to possibly avoid...) desiring her physically. Clearly, she wanted a reliable friend and little more. I, on the other hand and against my better instinct, found myself sliding down a far more slippery slope.

We decided to take a road trip to Southern California together. I hadn't seen my family in awhile and she wanted to drop in on her friend John Mayall, the blues harmonica player. We packed up the Corona, threw Sam in the backseat, and the three of us headed down the coast to the land of eternal sunshine and make believe.

I'd phoned ahead and my sister Veronica agreed to put us up at her place. I revealed few minor details beforehand about my traveling companion, and rightly assumed there would be a rather unorthodox reaction to her once we arrived. There always had been, no matter the appearance or intelligence level of any female I happened to bring by for an intro. As it turned out, my father was visiting as well and he answered the door when I banged on the knocker.

"Hello, son," he smiled.

"Dad? I wasn't expecting to see you here. How are you, old man?"

"Who's this?" he asked, screwing his eyeballs onto Denise as my question regarding the general overall nature of his health and welfare evaporated like smoke into the already smog filled air blanketing Hancock Park.

"Dad, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Denise," I said, by way of introduction.

He was clad in a tee shirt depicting two copulating pigs, one mounting the other from behind doggy style, with the caption "Makin' Bacon" written in script above the animated caricature.

As a lifelong purveyor of foodstuffs and employee of the Jimmy Dean Sausage Manufacturing Company, I suppose his wardrobe selection wasn't entirely inappropriate. Nevertheless, I stared at his chest in shocked disbelief as he in turn so viewed Denise's.

Later that day I sat in the Corona outside the semi-famous harmonica blower's Laurel Canyon house. Denise emerged after an hour or so. I assumed her mission, and his emission, were successfully completed.

"So, how'd it go? Everything up to snuff? Things come off without a hitch?"

"You know, Danny, John's such a great guy! I've known him for years. We met when I was living in San Francisco."

"How nice. I'm thrilled, for both of you."

We occupied my sister's guest bedroom that night. Actually, we shared the bed and I feigned slumber. She, on the other hand, drifted off into the land of nod, rather soundly as I recall. I remember her exiting the bathroom in flowing silk pajamas and switching off the nightstand lamp. Not long after, the steady lyric of her rhythmic snore eagerly caressed my waiting and open ear.

How extraordinary, I thought, to be finally lying next to her. All the moments I'd spent envisioning how the scene would play out were wrong as the reality of it fell far short of my well rehearsed but poorly constructed fantasy. I was close, but still millions of miles away from being able to reach out and touch her. I was paralyzed and frozen like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming semi tractor-trailer.

We can't know the reasons why things sometimes slip through our fingers like sand. I didn't know it then, but everything happens to us as the cosmos intends (there is really no other possibility...). I struggled with trying to resolve how she could willingly sell her body to random, strange men and at the same not openly share it with a person she seemed to more than enjoy freely spending time with. It was a disconnect speaking to the confusion I suspected she was dealing with inside herself.

Seeing as I wimped out and never put an actual move on her, technically Denise never rebuked me. I confess I was, in essence, a total pussy with a totally fine pussy. Genius or idiot? Hard to tell, but at the time my ego couldn't risk being rejected by her. That, or I wasn't at all prepared for what might have followed if she hadn't.

In the following days I tried to convince her there were other, less destructive ways to manage her affairs. My words rang false because they were either selfishly motivated or too uninformed. But sharing this woman with other men, who in her case were paying customers, was simply unimaginable for me.

I suppose the money she earned servicing clients was too tempting for her to resist. Long before we met Denise had crossed over a line and into a particular lifestyle that was no doubt exceedingly difficult for her to overcome. Sadly, Denise, through her own will, wound up caught in a world where her attachment to materialism overwhelmed her ability to exercise proper judgment.

I was struggling against falling in love with her. In personal turmoil for several months, and because my emotions were in a constant state of flux, I kept secret from her my truest desires. But it was unlikely she was even remotely capable of exploring anything close to a meaningful relationship with me or anyone else for that matter.

For the first time in my life (others would follow...) I recognized I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Somehow, I was able to extricate myself from that rather tight pickle relatively unscathed.

The outcome was already determined, in the front seat of my cab on Ocean Avenue, when months before I picked her out from the rest of humanity meandering by. Our drama just took some time to evolve and resolve. In the end, I would only play a limited role in Denise Lohan's life and likewise she in mine, but there were consequences in that truth.

VI

I was on the rebound from whatever lunacy I'd cooked up in my brain and clearly did not have my head screwed on straight. My "infatuation with the prostitute" phase was in the process of winding down when the JAP from Johannesburg (she was Jewish...and soon-to-be an American... princess from a wealthy family) I mentioned earlier showed up and told me she needed to marry someone (me, anyone...why me?) because she didn't want to return to South Africa. Her homeland was reeling from the ravages of apartheid and she feared for her physical safety.

Her theory about the natives being restless seemed a bit far-fetched. I was raised to believe people were basically decent and could work their differences out in a civilized manner. But she appeared genuinely frightened and I was a suitable ticket to her green card and US residency. I must've felt a certain degree of sympathy for her plight, apparently enough to enter into the institution of holy matrimony. Although the doors to a number of other institutions were available to me at the time, for some reason I plowed my way through the unlikely portals of wedlock.

Of course, there is much more to the story, but in the interest of brevity I will skip forward in time and past the bulk of those gory details.

In short, my first marriage, like this chapter, was not long. We stayed together for about a year.

I know very well glossing over this span of time might be cutting corners, but the more important matters following this interval need to be discussed and there are only so many pages once can reasonably stuff between the covers of a book.

VII

Eventually I arrived back in Carmel yet again, this time wife and dog free, and one of the first activities I explored had roots going back many years. I joined a small theater group and made a long-anticipated return to the stage. My debut performance in the dramatic arts occurred at the tender age of six as a victim of filicide. In a University of Southern California production of the Greek tragedy Medea by Euripides, my stage mother plunged a knife into my chest, horrifically stabbing and murdering me on a nightly basis.

My return some 25 years later to pounding the boards was marked with questionable reviews in the local press. In that case, I may have been personally responsible for murdering the play. Nevertheless, I connected with several interesting fellow actors and actresses. And through that avenue I discovered and cultivated a true sense of purpose, belonging and community.

It was during this period when my involvement with Wall Street began in earnest. Though washing dishes and driving a cab were less stressful forms of employment, the wages were a tad bit higher in the financial services game. I had always been fascinated with the gyrations of the stock market. An opportunity arose and I snuck into it through the back-office door.

Having secured an active social life and respectable gainful employment, life was actually beginning to mimic normalcy, whatever that meant. Then one day, while attending a social gathering in Carmel Valley, I swung at a curveball that, had I checked my swing, would have be ruled a wild pitch.

I was immediately drawn to her and had very little time to sort things out. An urge to unravel her inner workings seemed to infuse me from the outset of our initial encounter. I surmised she wasn't a prostitute and proceeded from there.

We met at a party one warm Sunday afternoon in late July. I was seated by the swimming pool staring into space when she occupied the chair next to me and introduced herself. We sipped champagne together for a couple of hours.

She was pretty and well proportioned, had a pleasant demeanor in her smile and gentle, friendly eyes. She told colorful, good-humored stories in a charming manner. She was wearing unpretentious white shorts and a pink short-sleeved blouse. Her legs were tanned and muscular, and her sandaled feet exposed ten (I counted them...) neatly groomed and highly polished red toenails.

She said she was a language instructor at the Monterey Institute of International Affairs and held a Masters Degree in Linguistics from the University of Minnesota, not far from where she grew up.

As our conversation grew livelier, I leaned in closer and rubbed my hand lightly, but deliberately across her knee. She had complained it was mildly contused from playing tennis the day before.

The afternoon sun was slowly dropping behind Huckleberry Hill when I said I was feeling slightly buzzed from the alcohol we'd been consuming. I had a curtain call in less than an hour. She was curious about my role and the play itself, Neil Simon's comedy The Sunshine Boys about a retired vaudeville team "Lewis and Clark" reuniting for a CBS TV special in 1972.

I played the part of Ben, the producer of the television show, who was the peacemaker son of the nicer of the two crotchety and bickering Jews who'd had a falling out years before, mostly about poorly executed spit takes.

Anyway, Bridget insisted on driving me back into town and said she'd haul me back out again to pick up the Dart after the show ended. I accepted her offer. I could have piloted myself safely enough, but it might have been missing her point. I sensed she wanted our conversation to continue. We hopped in her old, beat up Malibu station wagon and ferried into Carmel together.

She dropped me off at the theatre shortly before the curtain went up. The audience stayed past dessert, an indication the performance was perhaps marginally decent. Bridget met me after the show as promised, and taxied me back to pick up my car, after which I thanked her and said goodnight.

The telephone rang early the following Saturday morning. It was Bridget, or rather Bridge Mills, as she identified herself, calling to apologize for what happened in the course of our first date the night before. I told her she was forgiven. We'd been drinking and smoking grass and things turned a wee bit strange in that fuzzy fog. I remembered kissing her, and shortly thereafter, her becoming hysterical. The unusual display was followed up with her case of mild nausea. Realizing it was my cue I exited stage left.

Another week transpired during which we met casually for lunch or a walk along Carmel beach. Then, after a movie, around midnight, she said she felt sleepy and asked if I wouldn't mind calling it a night. Before dropping her off at her house, I told her the impression on me she was leaving was still vague. She was probably tired and didn't press me for further clarification. Again, I followed her lead and scurried offstage.

I was beginning to feel our time together compressing, knowing she would soon be traveling to Yugoslavia on a Fulbright Fellowship to teach in Sarajevo. If anything between us was going to happen, it needed to relatively soon. She acknowledged my point of view when the subject was breeched as the end of our second movie date drew near. She told me I could call her if I had a desire to see her again before she departed overseas.

As I walked out to the Dart, the situation struck me as utterly absurd. I was thinking, "She's not the first piece of ass that'll dodge your dwarfish ding dong and won't be the last. She's leaving soon. Just let her go."

The following day the phone rang at 8:00AM. The female voice chirping in my one good ear inquired if I'd like to join her for a walk in the afternoon. I was half-asleep. It took me a while to figure out who was calling. Surely it couldn't have been Bridget Mills. The last thing she'd said to me when I left her the night before was that I should call her to arrange any future meeting.

"I'll pick you up this afternoon around 4PM, okay?" she asked cheerfully.

I was a bit flummoxed by her call. Did she have a sudden change of heart? The timing of her phone call and her innocuous request caught me off guard.

"Fine. I'll see you then. But next time, if there is one, please don't telephone so early." I hadn't fully awakened when I babied the receiver back to the cradle.

We walked her friend's dog in Mission Trails Park. It was late in the afternoon and the weather turned cool. She was wearing a thin short-sleeve blouse, printed in a blue and black tiger stripe design. She looked sexy in her tight jeans and cowboy boots. I walked behind her in the dappling light of towering pines, mostly staring at her ass. She stopped occasionally to dig her socks out of the bottom of her boots, and other than one accidental misstep into a pile of shit previously belonging to a large dog or small pony, her gentle sway started to excite me.

I was unable to resist making slight and occasional physical contact with her. Things were coming to a head. I wanted her. I could feel the tension building inside me. Certain situations arise when men lose their minds and are transformed into Richard Craniums needing release. This was one of them.

In the company of an attractive and liberated female (a situation that generally made me apprehensive to the point of nervousness...) the serene forest setting acted as a soothing balm on my growing lasciviousness. After finishing the walk, Bridget and I went to dinner at the Scandia, where not so very long ago though it seemed like ages, I earned my living as a professional, non-union pearl submariner.

She was once again an energetic and enthusiastic conversationalist. I, on the other hand, was reserved and didn't have much in the way of pearls of wisdom to add to the chinwag. It seemed to me that any feedback I might offer would have merely interrupted the near constant stream of words pouring out from her mouth. Or I couldn't get a word in edgewise. In either case, she did most of the talking. It was nearly 8PM when her monologue ended and we ended the meal. Curtain at the playhouse once again loomed half an hour away and I believe she was wearing a pearl necklace.

She drove me home to pick up my car. When I got out, I leaned in the window and asked if I could see her again.

"Come by tonight, when you're finished," she replied.

After the show I headed over to Bridge's house. We talked, smoked some weed and opened a bottle of wine. When I glanced at my watch it was 2:27AM. She'd spent several more hours yakking at me non-stop. I was amazed at how much she talked. Despite her perpetual drone there was no denying she looked good and smelled even better. But the hour was late and I was on the verge of nodding off.

Gathering my wits together and preparing to leave, I leaned in and kissed her. Our passionate spit swapping session ended abruptly, after which Bridget again, in a move that bordered on a mild case of hysteria, announced she was certain she faced immediate death. She said she was confused and couldn't make up her mind. She broke away from me, moved to the other side of the couch and announced she was having difficulty breathing.

"Relax, I'm not going to force you into having sex with me," I told her.

She stared at me as a look of puzzlement swept across her brow. Maybe it wasn't what she wanted to hear? Then her trachea constricted further and she started gasping for air. A full-blown panic attack was unleashed in full force.

I felt she was being a tad bit over-dramatic. I started toward the front door in an effort to flee. The scene was spinning wildly out of control.

And just as quickly as her onset of neuroses arrived, her near instant recovery from said temporary mental hiccup suddenly made our parting seem semi-formal. I suggested she sit down. Moments before she looked like she was about to faint. Then suddenly she stood before me, fully in control of whatever wayward emotion had previously swept over her, with a coquettish expression on her face.

"Women, what freaks," I thought to myself.

Again, she told me I could call her. I walked out to my car in full retreat, grateful to have dodged a nasty bullet, certain she was totally whacked and that I'd never see her again.

Alas, I was mistaken. Not, as you might imagine, about Bridget having a few screws loose. On the contrary, it might have been that I, having run into Bridget in the first place, had inadvertently sped into a widening pothole of existential ennui and banged my curiously vulnerable ball joints completely out of alignment.

The next Sunday evening Bridget phoned me yet again. The breadth of our conversations had started wearing thin. She insisted on sharing a correspondence she'd received from one of her ESL students. An older Japanese man, to satisfy a homework project, had written her a letter. In it he described Bridget, his instructor, as "a very mysterious person."

She quoted from the letter directly. It began with the phrase, "I cannot begin to plumb your depths. You are a flower in the desert thirsty for water but the garden is parched from lack of rain."

Not bad, I thought. His pithy appraisal was accurate and perhaps even mildly poetic. The guy was either a multilingual genius or he was merely trying to worm his way into Bridget's pants. In either case I admired his spunk.

We chatted for yet another hour or so and made a date for the following afternoon to play tennis. I hadn't played tennis in years but figured running around the local clay court with Bridget, sweat and balls might inspire an indoor match of similar ilk.

The energy and chemistry between us were palpable. The timing, however, could not have been worse. Complicating matters was easily avoided if we kept our relationship strictly platonic.

Not to be outdone by a cheap Japanese import, I penned Bridget a letter of my own. In it I told her I was strongly attracted to her and speculated about us taking things to the next level, hinting that it might be a risky proposition. Mostly lies, it was nevertheless a well-typewritten and concise missive. I discussed what I believed was happening in our relationship, that we had an obvious attraction to each other coupled with an equally apparent lack of time to let things develop naturally.

I concluded by thanking her for giving me the opportunity to get to know her and expressed a desire to continue seeing her casually until she left for Yugoslavia. I stated as a friend she was important to me and intimated that it perhaps wasn't wise for either of us to speculate on what might or might not happen between us in the future.

I signed it "Love, Daniel" and dropped it on her doorstep.

VIII

She fell for it, hook, line and sinker. We had marital relations. Some days after, Bridget left for Yugoslavia. We'd had a brief, mildly chaotic and sweet romance lasting about two months. After her departure I suffered from a minor case of post-coital blues.

Our letters crisscrossed the Atlantic. And then one day, smoking reefer and staring at the cabin walls, I wondered if visiting Yugoslavia might not be such a bad idea. The subject had been broached briefly prior to Bridget's leaving. With nothing otherwise important going on I figured why not? When in doubt, travel. Hit the highway! Road trip! Transatlantic jumbo jet excursion!

In letters, I kept Bridget informed of my plans and the progress I was making getting a passport and plane tickets. In the beginning, she was excited and looking forward to my visit. Her correspondence indicated she was feeling lonely, homesick, and a bit miserable. She said Yugoslavia was a nightmare and that she missed me.

Then something shifted and she must have had a change of heart. Her letters grew less terrifying, and less frequent. She telephoned and told me "I'm not the person you think I am." Bridget's concern about my upcoming holiday was voiced in no uncertain terms.

The letters I'd been sending her had been hopeful and somewhat romantic, and I spoke about our possible future together. I thought it was what she wanted to hear, being lonesome and so far away from home in a foreign country.

We were living on different continents, and it was starting to sound like we weren't on the same planet, let alone the same page anymore.

She telephoned once again and I listened carefully to what she had to tell me. Essentially, it was that our relationship had lost its momentum. There was too much distance between us, or there wasn't enough juice to begin with. In any event she warned me not to expect anything from her upon my arrival.

Perhaps it should have, but her revelations did not alter my decision to vacation overseas. I'd already purchased the tickets. My plans were to spend three weeks in Yugoslavia with Bridget, during which time we would travel to Greece for New Years, and another two weeks in London afterward, where I would meet up with a group sightseeing tour prearranged by the Theater Department at Monterey Peninsula College.

As far as my expectations with Bridget were concerned, I cut them to practically zero. I had a modicum of hope things might work out once we were reunited. But I understood that anything could happen once I landed in Eastern Europe.

I flew from San Francisco to London, where my flight connected to Yugoslavia. The JAT Airways departure was delayed an hour for some official delegation to board. Waiting on the tarmac, I watched the ground crew wheel carts full of pre-cooked meals from my window seat onto the aircraft and listened to the hum of foreign sounding languages inside the cabin.

Two Greek women sat next to me. One of them, a tour guide from Athens, spoke English. Directly in front of her was a well-dressed man, a Croatian who had emigrated to Canada. He was telling the person next to him about visiting his family in the old country and beginning a sabbatical from his professorship at the University of Toronto Department of Mining and Petroleum Engineering.

The plane eventually rolled down the runway with gathering thrust and was airborne. Four hours later we approached Zagreb airport. It was dark and raining when the wheels touched down. I was officially behind the Iron Curtain.

Well, maybe not THE Iron Curtain per se, but it was a Socialist Federal Republic soon to be on the brink of political turmoil. Perhaps the US State Department classified Yugoslavia then as a non-aligned metallic window treatment? They were a notoriously secretive bunch. Did anyone ever know what those guys were up to?

The Zagreb airport was a madhouse. The flight connecting to Sarajevo was delayed due to fog. Bridget had forewarned me about the Yugoslav transportation system being notoriously inefficient and postponed schedules were commonplace. She said to expect the unexpected.

Fortunately, I befriended the Croatian-Canadian professor and learned he was also traveling on to Sarajevo. Starting with the customs office in the Zagreb airport, he guided me through the increasingly terrifying maze that had grown in my fertile imagination into a mini-Gulag. He spoke Serbo-Croatian, and interpreted for me the announcements garbling over the antiquated airport PA system.

I never knew from one minute to the next if our flight would be cleared for takeoff. The professor and I agreed to share a hotel room in Zagreb for the night should it become necessary. Then finally, after two hours, the Boeing 727 departed for Sarajevo and landed there half an hour later, to the delight of the passengers who weren't busily puking their guts out.

Bridget met me at the airport. She looked happy. We took a cab back to her apartment and went to bed. I told her how much I missed her.

"I know," she said.

It wasn't exactly the kind of response I was hoping for, but instead of wasting time arguing over semantics, we made subdued, dispassionate love. Together once again, we experienced boring, mechanical sex. Reunited after our long separation, we participated once again in marital relations. Whatever.

I explored Sarajevo the following day. Crowded and grungy looking, the air was choked with a grey layer of smoke and dust. Noxious fumes from the diesel engines powering the cars and trucks moving around the city permeated the litter-strewn streets. It was drab and colorless. Then again, the atmosphere might have been tinged in the afterglow of my previous night's unenthusiastic coitus.

The old section of town was called Starigrad. Built by Moslems in the 15th century, it was more vibrant than "new" Sarajevo. There were some 70 mosques scattered around the old town, and its central shopping district was filled with native artifacts, ornate rugs, copper utensils and traditional clothing. The food vendors offered a dish called burek that consisted of pastry-like dough filled with seasoned meat, potatoes, or cheese dipped into a cup of plain kefir. It was considered a fast food snack, and a huge hunk cost fifty cents. People were walking around stuffing this delicacy into their faces everywhere I turned.

The impact of the 1984 Winter Olympic Games on the city was overwhelming. The mascot's likeness was plastered on billboards and plastic trinkets everywhere, a wolf named Vrucko. Likewise, was the image of Marshall Josip Broz Tito, whose mug also graced the walls of practically every shop, restaurant, business and building. Tito was instrumental in saving the struggling anti-fascist Yugoslavs from the Germans during the World War II, and later kept the Communist Soviet Union from taking the country over during the post war period. He was adored and worshipped for his bravery and heroism.

Vrucko, the aforementioned Olympic mascot, innocent looking on the surface, may have represented something far more sinister and threatening. Lurking behind his smile I sensed the dingo carried with him the plague of unfettered capitalism.

I was introduced to Bridget's landlord Novak Jokovich. To avoid the possibility of scandal, and at her behest, I posed as her cousin. Apparently, the Yugoslavs were a bit culturally prudish when it came to unmarried people sharing the same apartment. I assumed the penalty for this behavior, were it to be discovered by the authorities, was some sort of a fine, but I couldn't completely rule out deportation or death by hanging. Nevertheless, it was necessary for me to register with the local police. I surrendered to Novak my passport and visa for a time, so he could satisfy the official governmental decree.

It felt odd handing over my traveling documents to a virtual stranger, but there was nothing I could do about it. Later, after the above matters were settled, we sat at Novak's kitchen table and passed around a bottle of his potent home brewed red wine. After swallowing two glassfuls of the swill my attempt at normal locomotion morphed into cartoonish loco motion. I had no recollection whatsoever of the ensuing events, but do recall the following afternoon hangover, where a circus monkey with a pair of brass cymbals used my head as a trampoline.

During the next few days I was introduced to several of Bridget's friends and neighbors. She'd met many people in the course of her relocation and her apartment was a makeshift headquarters for the constant flow of her students and associates who moved into and out of her portal. The telephone also rang incessantly. It was a veritable beehive of activity.

Before the devastating civil war in the 1990's and the terrible siege that would all but destroy the city, to the casual observer like myself, Sarajevo was a laid back and happy place. The friendliness of its people was contagious. Bridget was occupied at her teaching job most days, so I'd venture out and explore the local scenery and museums on my own. I was settling into the rhythm of daily life and beginning to feel a relaxed sense of belonging.

Then, on day five of my visit, Bridget sat down at her kitchen table and told me it wasn't working out between us. She listed the reasons why she thought my coming to Yugoslavia had been a huge mistake. When she finished talking, I quietly sipped the glass of wine in front of me and swallowed her statements without comment.

I suppose I knew it was coming. Traveling to visit her was a risky proposition from the outset. What transpired then was not a particularly pleasant experience. It was unfortunate, but not unexpected. When she'd finished talking, I asked her what she thought I should do.

Her suggestion for me to travel alone for the remainder of my two and a half weeks stay sounded reasonable, but not entirely practical. After some discussion back and forth, she finally agreed to let me use her spare bedroom as a base of operations, rather than insist I pack my shit up and find a hotel. I pushed away from the table, got up, and headed for her bedroom. I started moving my crap one door over and closed it behind me when I finished the task five minutes later.

IX

Foreign travel can be challenging, especially when the dialect is nearly impossible to understand. Serbo-Croatian, Yugoslavia's native tongue, with its complicated structure based on South Slavic languages, was no exception. Most inhabitants there are helpful, but not always patient with tourists. For me, the language barrier was formidable, and I soon discovered English was rarely spoken. In addition, the transportation system was hopelessly confusing for the unfamiliar and uninitiated.

What I really needed was a guide, a local who knew the ins and outs of the country I was visiting. Fortunately, Nina, a neighbor living across the street from Bridget's apartment and herself a third-year English student, introduced to me to her friend and study partner.

Boris spoke fluent English and we formed an immediate friendship. He was in his early twenties, intelligent with a sharp wit and easy manner. His knowledge of American and English literature was impressive. He could quote long passages of English poetry and seemed to know more about the United States of America than I did.

After meeting and talking with him over the course of a few days, I asked Boris if he'd like to travel with me to the Adriatic coast for the weekend and act as my guide. I offered to pay his expenses for the journey if the idea met with his approval. On Friday afternoon after his classes ended, we boarded the eastbound train.

I confessed to Boris the true nature of my relationship with Bridget and how I was not, as he was previously led to believe, her cousin. I told him the real reason why I'd come to Yugoslavia.

"Daniel, listen to me, American women are strange creatures. I really can't figure them out. I think they're crazy. Forget about Bridget. You are a guest in my country and here to enjoy yourself. This is Yugoslavia. Dubrovnik is a magical place. Everything will be okay now, I promise. You'll see."

It was a sobering statement and exactly the one I needed to hear.

After stopping for dinner in the seaport town of Kardeljevo and getting on a bus to take us further down the winding coastal highway, Boris and I arrived in Dubrovnik, "The Pearl of the Adriatic," two hours later. Even though it was the middle of December and Sarajevo had been bitterly cold earlier that same day, the night air was balmy and pleasant.

We got off the bus and started walking. The quiet, nearly deserted streets would hopefully lead to an open hostel. We climbed down a small hillock expecting to see a variety of hospitality offerings, only to find all were closed for the winter.

As a sympathetic ear and part-time counselor Boris was a much-needed asset. But his competency as a tour guide was turning out to be highly questionable. I feared we might be forced to spend the night camped on a park bench. We turned around in search of other hotels in another part of town a previous passerby advised might still be open. As we approached an upcoming intersection a sign pointed us in the direction of the Hotel Lero.

Out of nowhere a taxi stopped in the middle of the street some twenty yards ahead of us. A woman dressed in dark clothing emerged from the back seat. She paid her fare and started walking in our direction. The raven-haired looker was tall and slender.

"Zdravo." Her sultry greeting was that of a willowy high-class hustler on the make.

Immediately the woman and Boris engaged in a highly animated conversation. I had no clue what they were discussing, but after an initial burst of energy their conversation took on a more even cadence.

"Boris, what's going on?" I asked.

"Relax Daniel. I know her," he replied.

They continued talking for a bit when Boris told me about his prior connection with the woman. It seems they'd grown up together in the town of Mostar some 50 miles away, and hadn't been in contact for three years. I found it oddly coincidental that they were reunited in this unlikely manner and setting.

Boris' earlier claim that Dubrovnik was a magical place was prophetic. In the middle of the night and in the dead of winter, against what seemed like impossible odds, his running into an old acquaintance just like that was apparently nothing out of the ordinary.

Boris introduced me to Jelena. She walked with us to the lobby of the Hotel Lero and joined us for a drink in the bar after we finished checking in. She spoke very little English. She and Boris were catching up while I furtively ogled her and listened to her seductive sounding voice. After knocking back a third glass of wine my lingering melancholy surrounding Bridget's dumping me was slowly melting away.

The next morning Boris and I walked to the outer walls of Dubrovnik, where a magnificent 16th century Turkish fortress stood overlooking the clear blue green waters of the Adriatic Sea. We toured the surrounding town for several hours and walked along the narrow cobblestone streets smoothed by footsteps tracing back over 1300 years of history. We ventured across the thick walls that once served as a protective barrier from invading armies, and now offered panoramic views of the coastline, ancient city below and surrounding countryside.

Later in the afternoon, we checked into a room in a private home renting for five dollars a night and included breakfast. We dined that evening at a small cafe and afterward had drinks in a lively bar nearby. We departed Dubrovnik in the morning and stopped in Mostar overnight, where I was introduced to Boris' family and a few of his friends.

I was a foreigner and couldn't speak or understand the native tongue, but despite those circumstances the surroundings felt familiar. The people I met were genuinely warm and friendly, and they instantly welcomed and treated me like a brother.

The Yugoslavians I'd encountered in my travels all seemed united in the concern they held for the well being of one another. I learned there was essentially no violent crime to speak of in the country. No theft, no rape. Yugoslavian culture then seemed to reflect on a people striving to live well, despite their having to perhaps endure some economic disadvantages. For example, single young people could not afford to leave their parents home and many struggled financially, until marriage finally enabled them to establish their own households.

A few years later and quite tragically, deeply rooted ethnic and religious grievances would boil over and rip apart the entire region in a horrific conflict and bloody civil war that killed as estimated 100,000 people.

X

Boris and I arrived back in Sarajevo late Monday night. Staying at Bridget's wasn't exactly comfortable, but moving into a hotel for the remainder of my stay seemed impractical. Some lingering tensions continued, but we were handling the situation like adults and behaving respectfully toward one another. I did my best to stay out of her way. She was gone most of the day teaching and I avoided her as much as possible in the evenings, going out to meet Boris or reading meaningless popular fiction in the spare room.

The damage to our relationship was beyond repair. Little survived past superficial politeness and courtesy. I needed a place to sleep and store my belongings and Bridget showed a modicum of kindness by letting me continue staying at her apartment. We both did our best to make the situation more or less tolerable.

Bridget and I had tentatively planned a trip to Greece prior to my leaving the States. Since we obviously wouldn't be going there together, I decided a solo vacation to Athens wouldn't be such a bad idea. I sought out a few travel agencies in Sarajevo for help with finding a tour.

The literature describing their package deals was all in Serbo-Croatian. Verbal explanations of what the itineraries included was virtually indecipherable to me.

There was one intriguing offering leaving Belgrade on the 29th of December and returning on January 2nd. The five-day tour, including round trip airfare, hotel accommodations, and a New Years Eve party cost a paltry $160. It was a ridiculous bargain and one I couldn't justify passing up. Although I hadn't completely fathomed exactly what I'd purchased, I crossed my fingers, plunked down the cash and hoped for the best.

I'd secured an overnight train ticket to Belgrade with a reserved seat on the 11:00PM express out of Sarajevo. I arrived at the station 30 minutes before the scheduled departure.

Seated in my compartment were five Yugoslavians. All appeared to be in their mid-twenties. One of the passengers was a soldier whose uniform field cap was center pinned with a now familiar looking red star. The train departed and there was muted conversation for an hour or so when I finally broke my silence and inquired, quoting directly from the little translation book I carried with me, if anyone spoke any English.

A girl seated directly across from me responded by saying malo, "a little." And she meant it. From that point forward I sat in muted silence listening to the foreign voices inside the compartment, and somewhat later on, to the peaceful snores of my fellow sojourners. The clank and clatter of large steel wheels rolling across the train tracks steadied me some, but I remained apprehensive and unable to fall asleep.

According to my watch, we arrived in Belgrade an hour and a half late. I hoisted my pack on my shoulder, got off the train and exited the terminal.

"Beograd?" I questioned a stranger passing in the crowded street.

"Da," he replied.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. If I hadn't inquired and understood the reply, I would've never known where the hell I was. It seemed like I was walking on a different planet. All the street signs, as well as those appearing on buildings and in shop windows, were written in Cyrillic. I was in the Serbian part of Yugoslavia. By contrast, Sarajevo was in Croatia, where the Latin alphabet was used.

I combed the area around the train station for about twenty minutes without success looking for transportation to the Belgrade airport. The few people I asked for help didn't speak any English.

I wandered further and stumbled upon the right bus stop, where I stood and waited for the tram's arrival. I clung to the only solid piece of information I had in hand, a printed brochure saying my tour to Greece was scheduled to meet at the Belgrade Airport at Desk 13 at 8:30AM.

"Desk 13. It must be a bad omen," I thought to myself, staring at the paper and wondering why I hadn't recognized the obvious clue before in my feeble brain.

I arrived at the Belgrade airport 30 minutes prior to the tour's scheduled departure. It had been a long, sleepless night and nerve-racking morning, but everything was now, relatively speaking, under control. I relaxed slightly, for the first time since departing Sarajevo twelve hours earlier.

People began arriving at the airport in greater numbers. I approached one tall, officious looking man in wire-rimmed glasses who was scribbling on some papers attached to his clipboard. I assumed he might be a tour leader. He was and thankfully spoke English. He informed me the trip he was handling was going to Moscow and pointed me to Desk 13, where the group traveling to Greece was gathering.

I got in line and presented the documents I received in Sarajevo to a woman standing behind the counter. She looked at my name and searched through two thick stacks of papers in front of her, attempting to match my information with her manifest. She mumbled something under her breath after I showed her my passport.

"Come back in ten minutes," she said in broken English.

Panic ensued. It was too good to be true. I gave the Sarajevo booking agent $160 in Yugoslavian Dinars, and she handed me back worthless pieces of paper. I'd been scammed!

I returned to the end of the line and stood there, sweat leaking from my pores. I feverishly lit a cigarette and tried to calm myself down. I gathered my last remaining bits of composure, breathed deeply, twisted my neck until I felt it pop, and slowly lifted my eyes to reorient my view.

Fifteen feet away, an exotic and stunningly beautiful woman with a lavender scarf tied around her neck was engaged in conversation with another female. They appeared to know one another and no males hovered around them anywhere nearby. I leaned against the column I was standing next to for support.

She glanced in my direction. Our eyes met and locked together momentarily. We stared at each other without smiling. She seemed to be aware of my eyes intently following the contours of her face.

Something reached back and forth across the room and connected us. I resisted the temptation to move toward them and properly introduce myself, knowing the likelihood of our sharing a common language was remote.

I settled the details regarding my ticket at Desk 13, after which I continued observing the women calmly talking to one another. I waited for movement; people picking up luggage or shuffling their feet, anything that indicated progress was being made toward boarding an airplane.

The flight to Athens was delayed for three hours out of Belgrade. My fantasies surrounding the woman in the lavender scarf began to wane. Fatigue was setting in and I sought out a comfortable seat to occupy until departure. I spotted an empty wooden bench and opened the volume of meaningless popular fiction I carried with me.

The plane touched down in Athens at 4PM. I was waiting for my bags to appear on the carousel when the woman in the lavender scarf walked over toward me, accompanied by the same woman I'd seen her talking with in the Belgrade airport.

As the two of them approached, she seemed a less daunting figure than I previously envisioned. She had dark brown eyes and long chestnut hair with coppery highlights. A look of determination was cast in the lines of her strong, angular face. Etched in her features, along with her aquiline nose and high cheekbones, appeared a hint of sorrow or sadness. It seemed difficult for her to smile for more than a brief moment, if at all.

I mustered my best Serbo-Croatian and asked her if she spoke any English. She looked at me, deliberated slightly, and answered "malo."

"Where are you from?" I probed further.

"Sarajevo," she replied.

"Really? So am I."

"You live in Sarajevo?"

"Yes. Well, no, not exactly. That's not what I meant. I'm visiting a friend who's living there."

"Where are you visiting from?"

"California."

"Where?"

"I'm sorry. I'm from the United States. America."

"Oh, yes. California. I've heard of it."

We chatted while waiting for our bags. She dug around inside her purse, pulled out a pack of smokes and offered me one. I took it and lit hers with a match I had jammed inside my pants pocket, before setting my own on fire. She asked me if the person I was visiting in Sarajevo was Yugoslavian.

"No. American," I replied.

"I studied English in high school. It's been awhile since I practiced. Sorry, I don't speak your language very well."

We could, with some degree of uncertainty, understand each other. With the help of her friend, the three of us combined our limited cross language skills and reached a somewhat clearer comprehension of one another.

When the bags were finally off loaded from the plane, we separated to collect our luggage, and in parting exchanged good wishes to one another for our upcoming vacation. I neglected to ask for her name and failed to offer her mine.

I cleared Greek customs and exited outside the airport terminal. There, three buses were idling. The tour was randomly divided into three groups, each assigned to a separate hotel. I boarded the bus destined for the Hotel Stanley and took a seat next to window. I peered through the glass and watched as the woman with the lavender scarf and her friend climbed aboard the motor coach parked behind mine.

I spent my first evening in Athens alone. I found a small neighborhood restaurant and dined on a hearty plateful of dolmas, spanikopita, a gyro and salad. It was still warm outside when I paid the check. I wandered around the vibrant city, working off the heavy meal settling in my stomach, before arriving back at my hotel around midnight. I hadn't closed my eyes in forty-eight hours and fell asleep instantly.

A light rain was falling the following morning. I ate the complimentary continental breakfast, washed it down with a cup of espresso, and once again started walking through Athens, exploring museums and shops and taking in the sights. In the evening I dined with four Iranians who were studying dentistry at a medical college in Belgrade. They spoke English fluently and were all equally obsessed with two subjects, sex and Western women. It was like pulling teeth getting them to talk about anything else.

The following day I toured Sounion, 60 kilometers outside of Athens, where the starkly magnificent Temple of Poseidon was erected in the 5th century B.C. There, the grey storm clouds hovering above the sea timed their parting to perfectly frame for my camera the brilliant light of the sun as it set behind the magnificent ancient ruins. I arrived back at my hotel in the early evening of December 31st, 1984.

It was, of course, New Years Eve.

XI

The large Greek restaurant where the New Years Eve party was pre-booked was located a few kilometers away from the hotel. I showered and dressed, realizing after a lengthy debate with that certain someone in the mirror, that attending might prove somewhat more interesting than remaining in my hotel room and brooding with him about the ludicrous state of affairs we'd managed to put ourselves in.

At 9:45PM the bus for the restaurant departed with the Yugoslavians, a few Iranians, and one Yankee, me, on board. We were all going to ring in the New Year, to bid farewell to 1984, the one George Orwell said would transition the world into rule by totalitarian regime.

Meanwhile I plunged deeper into the shit filled toilet of my self-induced foolishness. My mood was so deflated and defeated that a volume of meaningless popular fiction seemed the most logical of dinner companions. True to form, I'd forgotten my copy of Pet Sematary back at the hotel.

I entered the facility and was guided by a friendly hostess up to the second-floor balcony along with the rest of the unfamiliar looking and sounding beings accompanying me. Climbing those stairs, I contemplated the odd series of events that had brought me there. I'd traveled half way across the world to be with a woman I'd barely known who'd dumped me five days later. Not only was I now completely on my own, it was highly unlikely that I'd meet anyone with whom I might engage in a half way intelligible conversation. I seriously questioned what had drawn me to this place, at this particular time, and specifically to this hopeless and remarkably depressing circumstance.

What was I doing there?

Where the fuck was I?

Nothing made the slightest bit of sense. To say my plans, such as they were, had gone awry was putting it mildly. Instead, on a deserted winding road at midnight they'd smashed through a guardrail over a sheer rocky precipice at 90 miles an hour, sailed gracefully through the air and exploded upon impact into a gigantic ball of flames at the bottom of a jagged ravine, where pounding ocean riptides swallowed the wreck and pulled it out to sea.

Okay, so maybe I had spent a little too much time cruising on Highway One near Big Sur without a care in the world. But this was different and I had to figure out a way to get over myself.

I shifted gears and kicked into survival mode.

I headed toward the left side of the restaurant balcony that overlooked the dance floor below. The building was filling to capacity and buzzing with excitement. There were a few empty seats remaining at tables already partially occupied. I slowly walked past all of them and edged ever closer toward the spot that would mark the absolute end of my forward progress. Once I arrived there, I would be up against a literal and figurative brick wall.

Something held me back. I stopped dead in my tracks seconds before I reached the last table situated beneath the glowing neon exit sign. I stretched out my hand to grab a chair in front of a vacant place setting, but hesitated just as I was about to clasp onto the wooden seat and move it backward to sit down.

A voice in my head said "Hold on. Slow down. Not so fast. Wait, Daniel, for one more second."

My eye suddenly lifted and scanned the balcony on the opposite side of the room. Seated there was the woman in the lavender scarf. There was an empty chair directly across from her. My body pivoted and reversed direction. I walked around the entire length of the balcony, retracing all of my steps, and proceeded toward her.

I arrived at the table and stood there fearing the one remaining empty seat opposite hers was reserved for someone else.

"May I sit?"

She looked at me with dark, smoldering eyes.

"Please," she replied as she reached for a cigarette from the pack in front of her and torched it.

"Thank you. I'm Daniel. It's very nice to see you again. We met briefly at the airport. Do you remember?" I said as I settled into the empty seat.

"California? Right? I'm Grace. This is Angela," she said, introducing me to her friend.

Conversing above the clatter of dishes and waiters scurrying about taking orders from guests was a formidable challenge, as was our lack of a common language. Somehow those obstacles were systematically broken down as Grace drew me into her and away from myself.

When the bottle of wine I'd ordered arrived the pattern of our conversation began to ebb and flow more naturally. We lifted our glasses to toast each other and the New Year.

Grace insisted we adhere to an old tradition.

"When we toast in Yugoslavia, we look straight into one another's eyes, and we don't look away until our glasses are empty."

"But we're not in Yugoslavia. We're in Greece," I countered.

"So, pretend," she said.

On the floor below us Greek singers and dancers added local color to the traditional food spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon. I was only partially conscious of what was happening outside the perimeter our table. The eyes positioned directly across from mine commanded my full attention. The rest of the world faded into the background.

At the stroke of midnight, we filled our glasses and drank to good health, prosperity and the New Year, repeating the traditional Yugoslavian eye swap thing, and exchanged a kiss on the cheek.

Grace suggested we walk, instead of riding the bus back to our hotels with the pack of now drunken revelers we'd arrived with hours before. She pulled out a map of the city she'd carried in her purse.

"It's no problem. We'll find the way," she said confidently.

We exited the restaurant and emerged into a glorious warm winter night. I was sandwiched between Angela and Grace as we strolled arm in arm through the brightly lit avenues alive with scores more drunken revelers now staggering about the city celebrating New Years Eve.

We arrived back at my hotel bar minutes before it closed. We ordered coffees and talked there until the wait staff turned out the lights. We moved to an empty conference room situated down the hall.

We each shared bits and pieces of our life stories and talked without concern for the lateness of the hour. Grace was an economist and worked for a Sarajevo bank. I told her I too worked for a financial institution. She said she'd previously worked in "commerce" but had recently left her job. She'd been the only female among her male counterparts who'd risen to the level of determining policy outcomes in a decision-making capacity. She'd felt discriminated against at work because of her sex. She said her former boss was upset when she'd finally had enough and notified him, she was leaving the company, and he'd begged her to stay on.

Grace sounded intelligent, straightforward and was certainly not shy about expressing her opinions at work. She also indicated she was, in her current position, not getting along very well with her new "chief" at the bank.

"She doesn't like me," she admitted. "I'm not sure why, but she's always irritated with me."

"Grace, is there anyone special back in Sarajevo?"

"My family," she replied.

"Are you married?" She wasn't wearing a ring but it didn't hurt to ask.

"Married? No. I meant my parents and sister. We're very close," she explained.

"That's wonderful. Is there a special man in the picture? Do you have boyfriend?"

"Not really."

"I'm surprised. Are you sure you're telling me the truth?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?

"No reason. It's just that I'm a little curious why another man hasn't snatched you up. I mean I'm delighted to hear you're single. I hope you're not taking this the wrong way."

The language confusion was starting to mangle the meaning and interpretation of words a bit.

"Daniel, please. It's not important. I don't want to talk about it."

"Sure. I understand. Let's drop it. It's really none of my business."

"He's dead," she replied. "Forget about it. It's over. Finished. Let's talk about something else."

"Okay. I get it. Sorry I brought it up," I replied.

It sounded like she'd been involved a relationship that had ended in a nasty breakup and wanted to get on with her life.

It was approaching 3AM. Before we said goodnight and they returned to their nearby hotel, we agreed to meet for a walking tour of Athens later in the morning, after we all got some much-needed sleep.

I went up to my room and lied down. Sleep was hijacked and road blocked by a previous New Years Eve, the one I'd spent in a downtown L.A. hospital recovering from surgery, that despite my exhaustion, had crept inside my skull.

"I just got off the phone with my wife. She's driving around the San Fernando Valley. She told me she swallowed a bottle full of Valium."

"Where are you?"

"What difference does it make? It's a long story. Look, I really don't have time to go into all the details. I'm calling because there's nothing I can do to help her, and I think she's really in some kind of trouble."

"Where is she?"

"I already told you. She's driving around, somewhere in the San Fernando Valley. I'm sorry, but that's all the information I have."

"Okay, thanks. We'll take it from here."

I felt ridiculous, but had no choice other than phoning it in. They probably fielded thousands of those calls and were used to them, especially around Christmas and New Years.

Women. What freaks. And I drifted off to sleep thinking "why do you even bother?"

I met the Grace and Angela at the hotel where they were finishing up breakfast. With map in hand, we started hiking the broad streets and narrow alleyways of Athens.

The Acropolis was closed for cleaning, so we explored nearby antiquities, including the Odeon of Herodes Atticus and the Theater of Dionysius. There, against a panoramic background of the sprawling city below, I snapped Grace's photograph and told her I was an actor.

"You're an actor? How come I never heard of you?"

"Why would you? I only perform in a small theater in the village where I live. I haven't made it to or anywhere near the big screen. The reason you haven't heard of me is because I am not famous. Maybe one day, who knows?"

"Are you a good actor?"

"I'm working on it. There's always lots of room for improvement," I confessed.

"I think one day you will be famous. Then I can tell my friends I know you. I think Dustin Hoffman is a good actor."

"Yes, he is very talented."

"Do you know him?"

"Certainly. Dusty and I are practically best friends," I joked.

Angela wanted to stop for coffee and a bite to eat after we came down from the hill where the Parthenon stood. We walked through the Plaka back toward Omonia Square. We passed a restaurant with an ambiance mimicking a Burger King. I suggested we look for something with a bit more atmosphere so we continued down a side street in search of a local taverna.

An hour later, our collective hungers now raging, we arrived back in the center of town. The entire time we'd been schlepping around I kept on insisting we'd find a decent restaurant on the next block, or on the next street over. Angela was ready to kill me.

"Daniel, you are crazy! I'm starving. Let's stop somewhere already and eat something!" she begged.

We ate at a crowded diner, under an umbrella at an outdoor cafe. Our conversation took on a more serious tone through the course of our meal. The subject of sex was raised.

"It's amazing, a man and a woman coming together. There is nothing on earth like it. Two people, making love. It's bliss," I observed.

"Yes, Daniel, what you say is true. But it's difficult. When love is over. It's very hard to make it last," Grace replied.

"Maybe you're not doing it right?"

"Five minutes. It's all the time a man and a woman have together."

Grace stared briefly into the middle distance before dropping her eyes. She withdrew to somewhere deep inside herself. She toyed absently with the food on her plate with her fork, neglecting to take another bite. She looked up, pushed aside the dish in front of her and sighed.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yes. I just remembered something. I'm fine now. Don't worry," she smiled weakly.

Her face had altered dramatically and darkened in a shadow of gloom.

Restored energy after dining inspired further touring. The late afternoon turned cooler. We paced our walk in an effort to stay warm.

"Tell me about your friend in Sarajevo. What is she like?" Grace asked.

"She's okay. There really isn't much to tell," I said, doing my best to evade the question.

"Can you please explain? When did you meet? How do you know her?"

It was foolish of me to keep her guessing so I confessed as much as I could in words I thought she might understand about what had happened between Bridget and me.

"It's over. It's no big deal. She's history," I said finally.

"I'm sorry for you, Daniel."

"Thanks, but you needn't be. It's nothing. Really."

"Okay. I believe you."

We arrived back at their hotel in the early evening. I asked about their plans for later that night. We agreed to meet in one hour for dinner. They never showed and I wondered if I'd said something stupid.

XII

I spent my few remaining drachma on snacks and cigarettes before departing Greece. The bus left the hotel at noon and stopped at the Acropolis. After an hour there it would ferry us to the airport.

Grace and Angela were standing in the crowd. I caught up to them just outside the Parthenon.

"Why didn't you meet me for dinner last night? What happened?" I asked.

"I'm sorry. We fell asleep. We were very tired," Grace replied.

"Yes, so was I. We had a full day yesterday as it was. I forgive you."

Grace snapped some photographs. I was carrying some meaningless popular fiction in my jacket pocket. Grace asked if she could borrow the paperback novel for a minute. I thought she wanted to try reading it a bit, but instead she scribbled something on the inside cover and handed it back to me. It was written in Serbo-Croatian.

"What does this say?" I asked.

"Please remember me when you hold this in your hands."

She'd signed and dated it "Atina, 2,1, 1985."

Later, I was sandwiched between them in the middle seat on the plane back to Yugoslavia. The girls were returning from a short overseas holiday and would soon resume their normal lives back home. I would be facing five more days in Bridget's apartment before my heading off to London and the start of the second half of my winter vacation.

The sounds of weary but happy passengers crisscrossed the cabin. A bottle of whisky was passed around. People were laughing and chatting as the plane rolled down the runway and lifted off.

Grace had never seen an American passport so I handed her mine and asked to see hers in exchange.

"Daniel, your birthday. July 17th. It's the same as my father. My father is a wonderful man. You must be a very good person."

"Well, I try, but I'm still a little rough around the edges."

A man stood next to Grace in the aisle, talking to her in Serbo-Croatian. I wondered what Angela, who was occupying herself with nervous anxiety about the certainty of our impending crash, thought I should do.

"Angela, listen, I really like your friend. That shouldn't surprise you, but what am I going to do?"

"I don't know. Challenge him to a duel?"

"Not about the goofball standing in the aisle. What should I do about her?"

"Forget about her, that's what," she said curtly, her face pale from nausea.

"Forget about her? That's impossible. It's not that simple. I can't. She's a beautiful, intelligent, and sensitive woman. Why do you say forget about her?"

"Simple. She has problems. That's why. Now, please leave me alone."

Angela was clearly perturbed. No doubt I'd rubbed her the wrong way ever since we met. Was it now my schoolboy-like questions about Grace's and my future or the bumpy plane ride making her sick?

"Everyone has problems. That's life. What kind of problems does Grace have?"

"She doesn't feel anything inside. Let's not talk about it, OK? Here, look out the window. You really need to stop bothering me." Her face was twisted with pain.

"Angela, what are you talking about? Explain, please. It's important I understand this."

"You don't listen. She's already told you. When you asked her if there was someone special in her life. Don't you remember what she said? 'He's dead.' It's the first time I've heard her speak out loud about it."

"Speak out loud about what?"

"Daniel, Grace had a boyfriend. He was killed. I thought you already knew that."

"What? You're joking, right?"

"Why would anyone joke about something like that? Are you crazy?"

"Oh my god, no. I had no idea. What I mean to say is that I didn't understand. When she said dead, I thought she meant they'd broken up, that their relationship had died. With our language barrier...I didn't realize...oh my god, that's horrible. What happened? How long ago was this?"

"Car crash. Last summer. He was trying to pass someone and a truck smashed into him head on. He was killed instantly."

I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. I started mentally reconstructing our conversations. And recalled her muted reactions to questions I'd asked her about marriage and boyfriends.

"Were they together a long time?"

I turned and glanced over at Grace. She was still talking with the man standing in the aisle next to her. She hadn't been listening to us.

"Two years, I think. She never talked about him. I never met him. They were supposed to get married last September. Please, no more questions. I don't feel very good," Angela pleaded.

Then she turned toward the window and put her hand to her forehead and started rubbing her temples. Her face had lost all its color and she looked like she was on the verge of fainting.

I turned toward Grace and saw for the first time how her recent tragedy was now unmistakably etched and deeply carved. Her suffering was darkly evidenced in the pain filled beauty of her grief-stricken face.

To make matters worse I misinterpreted or overlooked the true meaning of her words. How could I have misunderstood her? There is nothing more straightforward or unmistakable than the word dead, regardless of its language of origin.

I felt a terrible sadness for her. She'd loved this man and was obviously just beginning to try to put the horror of it all behind her. The vacation to Greece with her girl friend was likely the first step in the lengthy process ahead, of her being able to somehow jettison the past and begin to move on with the rest of her life.

The man next to her returned to his seat. I wanted to tell Grace how sorry I was and how I'd finally grasped the source of her singular, quiet despair. But I couldn't bring myself to mention the unmentionable again, recalling the words she herself had used.

"Never mind. Forget about it. It's finished. I don't want to talk about it."

Instead, what I did utter was so completely insane, a comment so foolish and absurd that only I could have possibly thought it or spoke it aloud.

"Grace, will you marry me? What do you say? We'll make beautiful babies together."

And before I realized it, those precise words had actually escaped my mouth.

"Yes," she replied without hesitation.

"What?"

"Yes, Daniel. I will marry you," she replied calmly.

"You will?" I asked.

"Yes, of course."

And it was then we both started laughing out loud.

"Well, that was simple, wasn't it? Now here comes the hard part. What do we do next?"

"Never mind, it's easy. You go live in America and I'll stay in Yugoslavia."

While her suggestion immediately struck me as a one possible solution, it seemed a rather unlikely scenario. I offered an alternative counterproposal.

"Why don't you come live with me in America?"

"I don't know. It's very far, your country. What would I do there?"

"I have no idea, but I'm certain we'll eventually figure it out. It'll be an adventure. What do you say?"

"Maybe. I don't know. What about my family and my friends? I'd miss them too much. I love my country. Yugoslavia is my home. It's where I belong."

"Grace, suppose you told your parents you met a man in Greece and you decided to get married and go live with him in America. How do you think they'd react?"

"First of all, they'd think I was joking. If I were able to convince them I was serious, they'd think I was crazy. My father would be shocked and worried, but I think after awhile he might accept the idea. But my mother, she'd cry every day, many, many tears. It would be terrible for her. She'd be very sad. But it doesn't matter. They'd never believe me."

"What about you? How would you feel?"

"I don't know. It's too much to think about. I have many ideas, but my language is a big problem. I can't explain many things. English is very difficult for me."

For the remainder of the flight my brain still squealed with speculation. I had no idea what Grace was thinking. She'd likely dismissed my sudden proposal as the preposterous, deluded ramblings of a hopeless romantic buffoon on vacation from reality and his homeland.

Snow was falling when the plane landed. I had pre-purchased my return flight to Sarajevo at the travel agent while booking the Greece tour. Grace and Angela had not made similar arrangements and it was questionable whether or not they'd secure seats on the last flight out of Belgrade. Since it was the final day of the busy New Year holiday weekend, it was likely that the flight back to Sarajevo was already sold out.

I caught up with them at the JAT ticket counter after going through customs, as they were finishing up securing the last available seats. With departure an hour away, I bought some munchies and we sat in the coffee shop and waited.

I pulled out my paperback copy of Berlitz Serbo-Croatian for Travelers. To pass the time we had a language study session. I read some simple phrases and they translated them into English. We tried reversing the process and quickly discovered my grasp of Serbo-Croatian was hopelessly lacking.

There was an announcement over the PA that our flight was delayed due to worsening weather conditions. At first, we'd been told there would be a 45-minute delay. After those minutes passed, we were informed the plane would depart in one hour. Finally, at 8:45PM, the flight was cancelled outright.

After cashing in our tickets, we jumped on a bus headed for the Belgrade train station. If we hustled, we could make the last train out bound for Sarajevo. It was scheduled to depart in less than half an hour.

The train station was packed with people. The ceramic tile floor was covered with thousands of muddy footprints dragged in from the muck of the slushy mess outside. We sloshed our way past a huge crowd of people standing in lines waiting to buy tickets.

It was freezing inside the station. People were jammed like sardines into every nook and cranny, in heavy boots and overcoats, with scarves, hats, gloves, and mountains of luggage. Throngs of disheveled travelers were anxious to get home and not one of them looked remotely happy about being there. Angela and Grace sauntered through and past the huddled masses and marched out toward the platforms.

"Shouldn't we get tickets?" I asked, stopping for a moment to adjust the weight of my backpack and pointing toward the people who stood waiting in endless lines.

Angela turned toward me without breaking her stride. She growled something I couldn't quite understand. I stood and looked at her with a puzzled look on my face.

"Keep up or we're going to lose you!" she barked in no uncertain terms.

I moved forward, or tried to. My feet slipped out from beneath my legs. I was running wildly in place without purchase, cartoon style. I nearly broke my neck on the dirty, icy floor.

We found the train for Sarajevo sitting on track 9, steam billowing from the idling locomotive. We boarded, found some empty seats in the compartment marked "reserved" and stuffed our bags into the overhead bin. Two minutes later, the people who had the foresight to acquire tickets ahead of time arrived. We moved on to the next empty cubicle and occupied it.

Three minutes later, the people with confirmed reservations identified those seats as belonging to them and booted us out. Forced to once again move on, we found yet another empty compartment where we sat hoping the train was about to pull away from the station.

It was then I learned how the Yugoslavian transportation system was designed around the game of musical chairs. The last ones seated when a train started forward progress "won" regardless of who might show up afterward, even if the person was holding a "reserved" ticket.

It all made perfect sense. It was a simple concept based on the theory of "if you snooze, you lose." After all there's really no excuse for tardiness. Arriving late should not be rewarded. The rules of society must be maintained. If not, chaos ensues.

When the train suddenly lurched forward, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. The aisles were jammed with people and those unfortunate latecomers ended up standing for the duration of the rail trip. We were amazed at our timing and good fortune.

"Better us than them," Angela smirked, flipping her thumb toward the aisle window.

The trip from Belgrade to Sarajevo is twenty minutes by air and seven hours by train. We settled down for the long ride back through the black and wintry night.

XIII

In addition to the three of us, three men occupied our train compartment, a young soldier and two gentlemen who looked to be about 50 years old. During the first hour of the journey, one of the older men, seated on my left, provided most of the conversation. He spoke at length, a virtual non-stop cadence of words that to me were utterly unintelligible. His monologue was broken by periodic interjections from the man seated across from him, and by the occasional acknowledgements of my two female companions. The soldier, on the other hand, had drifted off to sleep the moment the train pulled away from Belgrade.

Grace seemed distraught by something and I asked her if anything was wrong. She was upset our flight had been cancelled and we'd been forced to take the train. She had to be back at work the following morning at 7:00AM and had serious doubts about being able to make it on time. She took out a cigarette and offered me one.

"I can't sleep on a train. I'm going to be in a terrible mood tomorrow. If I don't show up at work, my boss is going to murder me."

"I won't be able to sleep either. We'll keep each other company. It won't be so terrible. Besides, there's really nothing we can do about it now, is there?

"You are a good friend, Daniel."

"Grace, what is this man next to me talking about? He hasn't stopped yakking since the moment he sat down."

She laughed. "He's very boring. He has a bee farm. He says his honey is the sweetest in all of Yugoslavia."

The soldier got off the train at a stop about an hour outside of Belgrade. An unkempt man, with filthy clothes and greasy hair, appearing to be about twenty years old, boarded and occupied the vacant seat next to Grace. The scruffy looking man suddenly sprang to his feet and thrust open the window. It was snowing heavily outside and a blast of ice-cold air instantly chilled our cramped quarters. It was at first a bit refreshing, but our small compartment soon turned bitterly cold.

One of the older gentlemen stood up and closed the window. From behind his newspaper, the newcomer blurted something out, in a harsh tone of voice. He dropped the paper to his lap, revealing his wild eyes as they feverishly darted about. He was more than merely disturbed by the shutting of the window he'd opened a minute or so earlier. He looked maniacal. He bounced up, shouted something angrily again, and then gathered his belongings and abruptly exited.

Two minutes later, the man returned and repeated the same ritual, opening wide the window to again let in the frosty and damp outside gusts of wind.

"I think this man is not right. I am very frightened," Grace whispered in my ear.

"He looks crazy."

My adrenalin was pumping and were he to try something really weird, I was ready to physically react and stop him. Someone got up and closed the window once more. The nutcase looked around and laughed directly in our faces. The look in his eyes was evil and psychotic.

Then he got up, shouted something else, and once again exited the compartment without warning. He remained standing just outside the door, leaning on it and staring back in, looking as though he could easily kill us all without giving the idea a second thought.

I drew the curtains shut.

We turned off the cubicle's overhead lights. Angela and the others slowly fell asleep. In the faint light, I saw Grace was wide-awake, looking as though she were deep in thought. I leaned forward and took her hands in mine. We talked alone together, really for the first time since Angela had always been close by and fully alert before then.

"Grace, our meeting in Greece was incredible. And this, our traveling to Sarajevo on a train together, I'm not sure what to make of it all."

"What do you mean?"

"It's difficult to say. I can't really easily explain."

"Daniel, what do you see when you look in my eyes?"

"Sadness. They say the eyes are the mirrors of our souls. Grace, I know the pain and heartache you're going through now is fresh, raw, and very, very difficult."

"I am not a happy woman."

"I know. But I also see the hope beyond your despair. You will be happy again. Maybe you don't see it yourself now but you will, in time, regain your balance. Your eyes will again brighten once your burden begins lifting. I hope you are able to start letting go of your grief. Not to bury it like you did your fiancé, but to somehow replace your loss with a renewed sense of possibility."

I took her hand and gently squeezed it in mine. We sat together in the darkness. Her eyes reflected a faint but visible light, not of joy necessarily, but with the recognition that her heartache was beginning to ease.

The train arrived in Sarajevo at 5:30AM. Grace told me to telephone her the following evening between the hours of 5:00 and 6:00PM. I hugged her gently and waved goodbye as she turned and walked away.

I picked up my backpack and started off in the direction of Bridget's apartment a short distance away.

Although it was early in the morning when I arrived Bridget was already up and on her way out the door to go jogging.

"So, how'd your trip go? Did you have a good time?" she asked.

"It was great, really nice. I met some wonderful people. Hey, we can talk later if you want. Enjoy your run. I'm really beat. See you later, okay?"

I headed straight to the spare bedroom, closed the door behind me, threw my stuff in the corner and collapsed on the bed.

Twelve hours later I woke up, rested and starving. The apartment was empty. I went out and had dinner in a nearby restaurant. After a quiet, pleasant meal, I grabbed a bottle of wine before returning to the solitude of Bridget's spare bedroom where my thoughts relaxed. My body needed to rest, and for the first time in four days I let it recharge.

I spent the following day shopping in the old city for more souvenirs. It was Friday and I was scheduled to leave Yugoslavia on Monday afternoon. My visit was rapidly drawing to a close. I bought a pair of hand knit slippers, some t-shirts, and a few metal pins commemorating the 1984 Olympics. I also picked up an interesting looking handmade clay pipe I could put to good use back home.

In a bookstore, I purchased a translation of Milosz's Visions of San Francisco Bay to give to Grace. I stopped by the Privredna Banka Sarajevo where she was working to drop it off.

I waited in the reception area while the security guard traced Grace's whereabouts inside the office building to her desk located on the second floor.

She came down the stairs and tapped me on the shoulders from behind.

"Daniel, hello. What are you doing here?"

"I'd like to open an account and make a sizable deposit of funds in your bank. Can you help me?"

"I don't know. Let me check. I'm not sure what the rules are for foreign investors," she replied.

"Grace, never mind. I'm joking. I just came by to see if you wanted to grab some lunch or maybe a cup of coffee?"

"It's impossible. I've already taken a break. I'm very busy now. I missed work completely yesterday. I was too tired from not sleeping on the train. My boss, she's giving me terrible looks. She reminds me of that crazy man on the train. I'm sorry, but I can't leave now."

"No problem. I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by and say hello. Don't worry, I understand."

"Call me tonight between five and six o'clock tonight and we'll make a plan for this evening. I must go now."

She turned and disappeared back up the stairway. I neglected to hand her Milosz's book.

I returned to Bridget's around 3:00PM. The telephone rang and she left, announcing she was heading off to the bus station to meet a friend who was coming into town for a weekend visit.

"I'll be back in 30 minutes," she advised, closing the door behind her.

I sat at the kitchen table reading a magazine and listening to cassettes on her Sony Walkman. Bridget returned and introduced me to Michael, another Fulbright scholar on a teaching assignment in Pristina, several hundred kilometers south of Sarajevo.

We opened a bottle of wine and sat around the kitchen table discussing life in Yugoslavia. We agreed it was nothing like anything any of us were accustomed to in the US. When I was invited to join them for dinner I declined, saying I'd already made plans with someone I'd met on my trip to Greece.

At 5:00PM, I picked up the telephone and dialed Grace's number. Her line was busy. Five minutes later I dialed again and it was still busy. I dialed Grace's number every five minutes for an hour. By 6:00PM I had attempted telephoning Grace's number at least 10 times, only to hear the steady beep, beep, beep of a busy signal. I tried one last time at 6:30PM and was unsuccessful in getting through.

They still hadn't left the apartment, so I joined Bridget and Michael for dinner at a nearby café.

During the meal I tried to dismiss what had happened. Years of experience and circumstance taught me that nothing in life was accidental.

It all made perfect sense.

In its own peculiar way, I had the perfect ending to this entirely screwed up Yugoslavian adventure. Bridget and I were clearly not destined to be together. And then I met Grace and we had, as she'd put it to me days before, our five minutes together.

And this was how it had to end. It was Grace's way of telling me goodbye.

Though I could easily unravel the threads connecting everything together, I was nevertheless disappointed and felt a sickening emptiness inside. But I also understood it was perhaps best that this unlikely relationship dies in its infancy.

I reminded myself it was simply another life experience. Grace was a tragically beautiful woman I was fortunate to meet, but the improbable circumstances surrounding our connection dictated it was simply not intended to progress any further. I tried to focus on how lucky I was our serendipitous encounter had happened at all.

On Saturday Michael and I visited old town Sarajevo together. The snow that had started the previous night fell steadily. He wanted to shop for gifts for his folks back home. He wasn't sure how much longer he'd remain in Yugoslavia. His father was ill and the doctors hadn't diagnosed precisely what the problem was, but hinted that it might be serious.

Michael sounded homesick. He wasn't happy living in Pristina where the people were cold to strangers and had a close-minded, small town mentality. He found Sarajevo to be much more progressive and cosmopolitan.

Over lunch I shared with Michael the story about how Bridget blew me off and that I'd met a captivating Yugoslavian woman from Sarajevo on my trip to Greece. He'd witnessed my frustrating inability to connect with her on the phone the night before. Michael encouraged me to try calling her again.

I said I was hoping to do so before departing the country and that if nothing else, I wanted to thank her for our time together and say goodbye. If I weren't able to meet with her again, I was going to mail her a note along with Milosz's book, as she had already given me her home address.

Still perplexed and in some measure dejected, I hadn't yet decided whether or not to make an effort to contact Grace by telephone again. Either way I was aware that there were no mistakes in life, only circumstances. Everything happens to us and all of us are subjected to the laws of accident.

We got back to Bridget's apartment at 4:00PM. She said she'd invited some people over for dinner and was cooking pasta. We opened a bottle of wine and decided to play a game of Scrabble.

I was drawing lousy tiles, all vowels, nothing over a two pointer in eight straight racks. My luck had run out. I was starting to feel a buzz from the wine when the phone rang.

Bridget picked up the line. She said something in Serbo-Croatian to the person who'd called. It was nothing unusual. I'd heard her do it many times before. What was amazing to me was how she'd only been in Yugoslavia for three months and she was already speaking the language fluently.

Survival, I guess. She loved to talk. Before we stopped communicating, she'd yammer my ear off.

I looked back down at my rack of letters and tried to come up a word containing the letters VAAOII and U. Then I overheard Bridget saying something about Daniel into the phone. I glanced across the table at her.

"I think this call is for you," she said.

"For me? That's impossible. It must be a wrong number. No one knows I'm here. Hang up," I told her.

She did. And moments later the phone rang again. It was the same request on the other end. This time Bridget handed the phone over to me and I took it.

"Hello?" I said.

"Is this Daniel?"

"Yes."

I didn't recognize the caller's voice. After a short pause a voice I did recognize came on the line.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Grace?"

"I want to see you."

"Okay, but..."

"Meet me at the Hotel Europa in one hour."

"Of course, but..."

"You know where it is? Across the street from my bank."

"I know where it is. Grace, how did you get this number? How did you find me?" I asked.

"I'll explain when I see you," she replied before hanging up.

My body was shaking and broke into a cold sweat. I hadn't given Grace Bridget's telephone number.

I changed my shirt and called for a taxi to take me into town, certain I was losing my mind. Getting that phone call was inexplicable. Grace did not know where I was staying or where I might be reachable by telephone. Her contacting me made no logical sense whatsoever.

That all of this was now happening to me while I was a visiting tourist in an Eastern European country had dramatically increased, for me at least, the mystery of what was happening around me.

And suddenly I was paranoid. Who was she? Was this some intercontinental plot involving spies? Was she a government agent on assignment and monitoring my activities? Which government, the US or Yugoslavian? Interpol? The CIA? Was MI6 involved?

I was a buffoon, a dumb schmuck traveling abroad basically chasing after pussy. It was the only thing I was remotely guilty of. Maybe there was an international law against it? Was some treaty signed after WWII to prevent foreigners from banging chicks outside their borders?

It couldn't be that complicated, could it? I tried desperately to calm down and think matters through. And to systematically filter out the espionage nonsense bubbling up from my hyperactive imagination.

I figured Grace had decided to blow me off. She was in mourning for her fiancé. She took the receiver off the hook so I couldn't contact her. It was the easiest way out. She came to her senses when she thought matters through and concluded the whole idea of our meeting again was crazy. We'd had our five minutes.

My marriage proposal sealed my fate. Or so I thought, until I got that phone call, which on some weird cosmological level was reasonable had I not been absolutely certain I'd never given Grace the phone number of where I could be reached.

There was no doubt in my mind whatsoever that I hadn't disclosed that information to her. There was no reason I would have. Why would I? I certainly didn't think it was necessary for Bridget and Grace to be chatting things up after I'd gone. I deliberately negated the possibility of that ever happening.

I was going out of my mind sitting in the back of the cab on the way to the hotel. I seriously wondered if everything up to that point had been fabricated, that the whole episode in my deluded state of mind was an elaborate fantasy I'd concocted.

I'd get out of the taxi and the girl in the lavender scarf with the dark eyes, whoever she was, wouldn't be there. After all, it had happened before. In Greece, when she and Angela were too tired to meet me for dinner on New Years Day, after our twelve-hour trek through Athens.

Maybe it was all a dream? Had I fallen asleep in front of the TV while watching a broadcast of the 1984 Winter Olympic Games from Sarajevo? Did this whole nutty story spew up like magma from my subconscious mind? Let's see, when was it...February? Yes, I believe so. It was in fact, February of 1984...

XIV

Grace was waiting for me outside when I arrived at the Hotel Europa. It was snowing heavily. We sat down across from one another at a table in the bar next to the window. She ordered espresso from the waiter who approached us soon after we settled into our seats.

She was visibly nervous. She lit a cigarette, and sucked the smoke deep into her lungs. Her hands were shaking. She looked both defeated and defiant, but her eyes betrayed her confidence and were filled with fear.

"Is something wrong? Why are you trembling?" I asked her.

"I don't know. I can't explain it to you. It's difficult for me in English."

Through a thin veil of tears, she hesitated, then asked, "Daniel, why didn't you call me last night?"

"Grace, I did phone you, several times in fact. I dialed the number you wrote down for me between five and six o'clock, just as you asked. I wasn't able to ring through. I dialed you at least ten times during that hour, and also a bit later on. Your line was busy, again and again, the entire time. All my calls were blocked. It never connected," I explained.

She looked at me suspiciously.

"I believe you," she said unconvincingly. The tears were coming on stronger.

"I thought you'd had a change of heart. Decided it was too much, our seeing one another again. I thought that your taking the phone off the hook was your way of letting it go."

"No, Daniel. That is not at all what I was thinking. Not even close."

"Okay. If that's not it will you please explain what it was you were thinking?"

"Anger. Revenge. Hatred. Hurt, mostly. I was so mad at you. I'd dressed, was ready to go out, and waiting by the phone. My sister and brother-in-law gave me their tickets to the National Theatre last night. I told them about meeting you in Greece, and about your acting in plays. I wanted to take you to the performance."

"Wow, I was way off base, wasn't I?"

"And they thought you would enjoy it too. And you didn't call me. I was so disappointed and felt like a complete fool. Then I started to hate you. I tore those tickets in half and was going to mail them to you in California, along with a mean, nasty letter I stayed up writing half the night."

She was visibly shaken. It was clear to me her every word was the absolute truth.

"Grace, I'm so, so sorry. Please, listen to me. I have no idea what happened. All I can tell you is I did call you, exactly as you instructed, between the hours of five and six. Your phone was busy. Repeatedly. As much as I wanted it to, there was no possible way for me to make the call go through. You have to believe me."

"I believe you," she said, fighting back her tears.

But her demeanor suddenly changed. I sensed she really didn't believe me. That she thought I'd been lying to her and I never even made the slightest effort to call her. She was thinking I never wanted to see her again and that I'd blown her off.

Her rage was mounting. It wasn't going to be easy, but I had to somehow convince her I was being completely forthright with her, despite her growing anger in having concluded the very opposite.

"Grace, please try to calm down and let me explain. I know you're upset. Honestly, this wasn't my fault. I don't know what happened. You must believe me."

"I want to. But I'm not sure I can."

"Look, I swear I'm telling you the truth. There is no reason on earth, none whatsoever, why I'd ever lie or want to hurt you. I simply couldn't get through on the phone. It's no more complicated than that."

"Okay. I still have my doubts, but I'm willing to accept your explanation."

"Good. I'm glad we're coming to an understanding. This appears to be an unfortunate lack of communication due to horribly bad timing. It didn't occur to me something might be wrong with the telephone system itself. Those kinds of problems rarely happen in my country."

"I see. The phone system here...it isn't always reliable," she admitted.

"Well now, there is a simple explanation after all. With that being said, there is one matter in particular I'm still more than a bit curious about."

"What?"

"Well, Grace, in a way, it too must be a simple matter. But it is one I can't figure out. You see, I don't remember giving you Bridget's phone number. In fact, I'm certain I didn't."

She started to smile, but kept silent.

"There was really no reason why you needed Bridget's number. I'd already explained to you everything that happened between us. I thought you understood Bridget and I were finished. I wasn't hiding anything. I had your phone number and nothing else was necessary, right? I didn't give you her number, did I? I'm very confused."

"No, Daniel, you did not give me Bridget's number."

"Well, I must say, that's a relief. I didn't think I had, but maybe I did and it somehow slipped my mind? Which begs the question. Grace, how did you find me? How did you get Bridget's phone number?"

She offered me a cigarette, after lighting up her second. I fired it up, took a drag and waited for a response.

"You want another coffee?" she asked.

"Sure, why not? But Grace, please, the phone number at Bridget's apartment...how did you get it? Come to think of it, its probably not listed in her name. In fact, I don't recall even telling you Bridget's last name."

"Well Daniel, it really is, as you say, simple," she said plainly, but with a wry expression on her face. "If you want something bad enough you get it."

"Right, I suppose that may be true. But about your telephone call to Bridget's apartment? Grace, I'm really very curious about that."

"That? Oh, it's nothing. We're here together enjoying a coffee now, aren't we? That's all that truly matters. What's the difference how or why we're here? Let's forget about it."

She'd settle down and was now acting extremely coy. Or else she was hiding something. Maybe she really was a Yugoslavian spy, or a member of the CIA, or Interpol? She wasn't exactly in any hurry to spill the beans regarding my question. I sat there like an idiot waiting for a logical explanation and none was being offered.

"Grace, you are asking me to forget something I swear I won't for the rest of my life. Getting that phone call back at Bridget's apartment an hour ago from you was without question the most inexplicable experience of my life. And yes, we are here talking to one another now. Which is surprising. No. On second thought, it's completely shocking! It's unreal. I must be in the middle of some wild, crazy dream! Tell me, how did you find me and after your finished with that you might want to also shed light on why? That's every bit as mysterious, but at the moment I'll settle for your answer to the how."

"Why is very difficult to say. I don't know how to explain this to you in your language. How? It's much easier," she answered calmly.

"Yes, I understand. I believe you. Great, we're on the same page now. So, will you please tell me how did you locate Bridget's telephone number?"

"Daniel, do you remember our conversation on the train returning to Sarajevo? You asked me which was my most favored author and I told you it was Fyodor Dostoevsky. And you told me of how you studied Russian and Polish literature in college. You said Dostoevsky's novels were the greatest ever written and he inspired you to learn more about our part of the world, because your ancestors too were Slavic? You see we are not so different, you and I. I think the same blood flows through our veins."

"Grace, what you are telling me is absolutely true, every word you said is God's truth. But the phone number, will you please answer my question? I'm really starting to freak out now. I'm beginning to think you're a secret agent on assignment to monitor some harmless American tourist."

She laughed. "Daniel, I'm a very smart girl. I am no spy, I promise. But if I were a spy, I really couldn't tell you, so you may never know. Right?"

"Correct. So, which is it? Spy or no spy?" I asked.

"No spy."

"Good. I'm relieved that's out of the way. It seemed a bit far-fetched, even for my fertile imagination, which I admit sometimes runs away from me. Now then, let's get back to the issue at hand. The number?"

"I have a very strong will. I stop at nothing that gets in my way. Remember I told you my heroes in life were Alexander the Great and Napoleon? I respect and admire them because they were both very determined human beings. They got everything they wanted because of their will. Sometimes when I feel strongly about something, I act like those men. I can't explain it, but I can't stop myself either. It's something inside me. I told you I was a little crazy."

Now she was smiling at me outright. And it was really starting to get under my skin.

"Grace, Bridget's phone number! How did you get it?? EXPLAIN ALREADY!" I barked at her.

"Daniel, you can relax. I told you it's nothing. When we exchanged passports on the airplane, I saw your police registration card with your name and local address. Kod Vasilj, Humska 45. I remembered it. My sister and I went through the telephone book, dialing all the numbers for Vasilj. The fifth call was Bridget's house. I was too nervous to call, so my sister dialed the number. You spoke to her when you first answered the phone. You were very surprised, yes?"

She was putting it mildly.

"But you never wrote the name Vasilj down, did you? I'm pretty sure you didn't. How did you remember it?"

"Didn't I just explain? My will is very strong. Who knows, maybe I'm more than a little crazy? Maybe we both are? I told you we shared Slavic blood, that we were, how do you say, kindred spirits?"

"Grace, I don't think you're crazy at all. What you are is a very focused and clever woman. I've never met anyone in my life with such determination. Now that the mystery of the call is solved, I must tell you that what you did tonight has made me a very happy man. I want you to know that. Your actions mean a great deal to me, because I also feel strongly about you."

"Is that so? So why didn't you call me?"

Bingo. She deserved an honest answer. I certainly could have tried calling her again, but after chewing on it I never followed through.

"I really don't have a satisfactory answer. But then again, as you said, at this point is it really so important? It seems to me, for whatever reason, maybe we were being tested? Who knows? Had you waited another five minutes I might have tried calling again. Life is full of mysteries we can't explain, some big and some small. Everything happens to us. For us, it was this way, this time around. We may never understand why. Some things ought to remain an enigma, no?"

"Yes, I believe you."

I handed her the book of essays by Milosz. It contained a poem by Robinson Jeffers entitled "Carmel." She finished reading it and I asked her what she thought.

"It's beautiful, this poem. But it's hard for me to tell you. Some things are easier to explain than others. I have many ideas, but my language is problematical."

After draining our coffees, we left the Hotel Europa and stepped outside and into a beautiful winter evening. Six inches of snow had freshly blanketed the city streets. The air was crisp and bright. We strolled arm in arm together across lively avenues bustling with passersby. Children were throwing snowballs and sledding. The arrival of Sarajevo's winter season was in full gear.

I drew Grace closer. She pressed against me gently. I felt like the luckiest man in the world.

We stopped at a second coffee house. It was packed with people, most of them young adults. We sat down at a table already occupied by another couple. We spoke in greater detail about our families, and shared stories of our youth. Grace told me her sister was pregnant. The baby was due in a month and she was going to be an aunt.

The couple sharing our table was involved in their own conversation, which from my limited perspective appeared engaging. Grace translated a little of it for me, as their close proximity made our overhearing them impossible to avoid. The man was telling the woman how beautiful she was and asking her to go to bed with him. The woman was apparently not interested. Grace said the man sounded stupid, and the girl he was trying to lure into bed was equally dull.

"Well, you can't blame him for trying, right?"

"Look at her, Daniel. She's a beast. Why would any man want to sleep with her?" she wondered.

I was tempted to explain how most men were motivated by their libido, in ways that might make a modicum of sense to Grace, but refrained from offering up any color on the matter. The woman was indeed hideous looking. What good could be gained from my further elaborating?

We walked on to a third restaurant; the same one I'd dined at alone the night before. We ordered brandy and the waiter recognized me from my prior visit. I suppose his memory had been jogged when he recalled that instead of appearing foolish while butchering his language, I simply pointed my menu choice out with my finger. I had no idea what it was I'd selected, but was pleased when a well-seasoned plate of meat and vegetables arrived at my table.

"Grace, what do you think is going to happen with us?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

"I mean what do you think is going on now? I think we have a strong connection. I can't explain it. I know it probably doesn't make any sense. After all, we've only just met. It probably sounds nuts, but I think something deeper is going on here. Explaining this would be difficult even if we shared the same language."

"Yes, I know what you mean. I can't explain it either. In my own language it's possible, but in English? There is no way. I have many ideas, but I don't know how to share them with you."

We tried the dictionary. We found the difference between the meaning of the words friend and companion.

"I think we are companions, Grace. I feel I am more than your friend."

"We are friends. Yes. I don't know about the rest. It's possible. Maybe. Who knows?"

"What are we going to do?"

"I want to study English. It will help. I studied five years. I haven't spoken in six years. You are the first English speaking person I've ever really talked to. It is embarrassing. My grammar is very bad. My teacher said I was a good student, but lazy."

"I know our language is far from perfect, but for the most part we understand each other. That's what is most important. Grammar? Its really not anything you need to worry about."

"So, Daniel, what are you going to do?"

The implication of her question was far reaching. I sat searched for something, anything that sounded meaningful and sincere.

"Five minutes, right? I think sometimes that's all the time a man and a woman have." I repeated her mantra. "But we've already had more than five minutes and it isn't enough. I'd like to spend more time with you, if that's possible."

"Yes, Daniel. We'll see."

We arranged to meet the following day; the last one I'd be spending in Yugoslavia. Bridget and a group of her friends were planning an afternoon getaway to Ilidza, a picturesque suburb of Sarajevo. I asked Grace if she wanted to come along, or suggested we do something else altogether if she thought she might feel uncomfortable.

"Not at all. I'm interested in what Bridget might have to say about you."

"In that case, we'll do something on our own, just the two of us."

"Daniel, I'm joking. Don't worry. I'm not going to say a word to her about our meeting."

Of the eight people who were supposed to join us, only four made it. The threatening weather turned nastier looking and a blizzard was forecast for the afternoon. Grace arrived at Bridget's apartment at 10:30AM.

Things were a bit awkward when I first introduced them. After exchanging common social courtesies, they really didn't have much of anything at all to say to each other. Despite in inclement weather we ventured outdoors with our planned excursion.

Ilidza is approximately fifteen miles from Sarajevo. A short walk through town from the tram leads to the start of a long straight path stretching several miles to the base of Igman Mountain. Mature oaks line the length of the trail, making for a serene and peaceful hike.

The stark silence was interrupted by our footsteps crunching on the gritty snow. Grace and I stayed well back to avoid overhearing Bridget and Michael blather about their job assignments.

Hand in hand, we walked together and were mostly silent, preferring instead the simple pleasure of a serene walk amid the beauty of nature in winter.

When we returned to Sarajevo, Bridget went ice-skating and Michael joined Grace and I for a late lunch in town. He was scheduled to return to Pristina that night and when our meal ended, I handed him my key to Bridget's building. He needed it should he arrive back at the apartment before she returned home.

"Just leave it under the front mat for me," I told him.

Grace and I trudged through dusk and an intensifying snowfall on our way to her sister and brother-in-law's apartment. Grace wanted me to meet them and they insisted on inviting us to join them for dinner.

We climbed three flights of stairs inside a cement block building resembling a 1950's Soviet prison. The narrow hallways were illuminated by naked light bulbs reflecting graffiti on walls that were the brownish grey.

We joined Alana and Stefan inside their modest flat, and their welcoming smiles quickly erased the gloominess of the apartment complex they occupied. We sat around the dining room table as heat from a coal-fired stove warmed the room.

For the next several hours we ate, drank, and discussed life. Once more I felt a sense of belonging. The people around me were not strangers, but folks from whom I'd merely been separated who were reuniting to catch up on old news and share recent stories.

Stefan poured vodka from a bottle labeled in Cyrillic that was stopped with a cork, the smoothest liquor I had ever tasted. Americans were often told Russians had severe drinking problems. That assessment might have been Western propaganda, but I finally understood why it might be true. The stuff was painless and delicious.

Alana was two years younger than Grace. She appeared more relaxed and happier than her older sister. With a loving husband and on the verge of motherhood, she had reason to be joyful.

When the sisters sat next to one another, it was difficult not to draw comparisons. Grace's recent unfortunate past and uncertain future were outlined in the lines of her face, while her sisters reflected the excitement and anticipation of her baby that was due in a matter of weeks.

My departure was scheduled at 1:00PM the following afternoon. It was doubtful any airplanes would be able to fly out of Sarajevo Airport. It had snowed continuously for 48 hours and over two and a half feet had fallen during the still ongoing storm.

Grace and I hiked a few blocks from her sister's flat to her parent's street. We stopped at the base of the hill leading up to the house where she lived.

"You see the snow, don't you? I don't believe my plane will be leaving tomorrow. The weather is too severe. I'll come by your bank tomorrow afternoon and take you to lunch. We'll see each other again."

I kissed her gently and hugged her close in the freezing night. There were tears in her eyes and she was trembling when we let go of one another. I turned and walked away.

When I reached Humska 45 the snow had stopped falling and stars were visible through the breaking clouds. I could see the lights burning inside Bridget's apartment. When I tried the handle on the access door into the building it was locked. I backed away from the portal slightly, stooped over and lifted the mat. The spare key that I would have carried with me, but instead let Michael borrow earlier in the day, wasn't there.

I rang the security bell outside the building and got no response. I waited a moment and buzzed a second, and then a third time. There was no answer. The bulk of my cash and passport were inside Bridget's apartment, along with the rest of my already packed belongings.

I only had a few dinars remaining in the pocket of my blue jeans. Assuming I could even locate a hotel at this late hour, I didn't have enough money on me to pay for a room. And since I wasn't carrying with me my passport or any identification for that matter, I'd never make it past the front desk anyway.

Needless to say, I was fucked. I found myself locked out of the building and stood freezing on the outside stoop. It was Bridget's final act of revenge, her way of saying "Hey asshole, this is what you get for putting me through all your bullshit." Although her feelings for me over the past months went from hot to lukewarm to medium to cool to frigid, I still couldn't believe she were capable of such heartlessness.

XV

There was a light bulb burning across the street in Nina's second story apartment window. I walked over, climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. There was no response. I waited a few moments and knocked again. I put my ear up against the door and heard the sound of rustling feet. Finally, the door cracked open.

"Nina, hello, I'm sorry it's so late but..."

"Daniel? Jesus, you frightened me. What's going on?"

"I'm locked out of Bridget's. I'm not sure what happened. She doesn't answer the buzzer," I explained.

"No problem. Please, come in. I just got out of the shower. Sit down and make yourself comfortable," she said drying her still damp hair with a towel.

"Thanks. I think you may have just saved my life."

"I'll make us some tea. But I need to finish up in there first," she said, glancing back at the steam filled cubicle behind her.

She went into her bathroom, closed the door and from the sound of things, was fussing with her hair. A few minutes later she emerged from her bedroom in fuzzy slippers, her body wrapped up in a terry cloth robe cinched at the waist. A towel sat twisted and tied atop her head.

"You know, I just got back home about an hour ago. I was in Tuzla visiting my family for a couple of days."

"Really? I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't answered the door. Frozen to death most likely."

I explained to Nina how I had no money or passport, all my stuff was locked inside Bridget's and there was supposed to be a key under the mat, and that I rang her bell to no avail.

"Forget about it. My roommate won't be back until tomorrow. You can sleep on her bed. It's not very comfortable."

"Please, say no more. Compared to my other options, it sounds ideal."

Nina poured two glasses of tea. I asked how the party she'd planned for New Year's had gone. I'd been invited to attend, but decided to go to Greece instead.

"It was okay, I guess. Most of the people had a good time. For me, things could have been better."

"Why? What happened?"

"Boris showed up with three women, that's what happened."

Nina and Boris were friends, but both separately admitted to me that something more was going on between them. They teased each other openly about becoming lovers, but their relationship remained platonic. It was obvious they shared similar feelings, but taking it to the next level hadn't happened.

"I got jealous. It was stupid," she confessed.

"One of these days you two will stop playing games and admit you love each other."

"Easier said than done. Love is a complicated business, right? But who knows? Maybe one day. So, how was your trip to Greece?"

I laughed at her innocent question and proceeded to share highlights of the story about meeting an amazing woman in a lavender scarf from Sarajevo and our subsequent mixed up telephone signals that convinced me she was a spy. When I finished, Nina had a strange expression on her face.

"Daniel, what did you say her name was?"

"Grace."

"What's her last name?"

"Ivanovic. Why?"

"I know her, that's why."

"What? You know her? Yeah, right. Stop joking around. That's not funny."

"I'm not kidding. I know her. Well, actually, I don't know her. But we've met."

"Nina, please, what are you talking about? On second thought, never mind. I know you're bullshitting me. Half a million people live in Sarajevo. Of course, you just happen to know the one person living here I happen to meet traveling in Greece. It's impossible. Sorry, nice try, but I don't believe you."

"I know it sounds crazy, but I can prove it. Wait a second and I'll show you. She wrote her phone number in my book," she said as she headed off into her bedroom.

And seconds later she returned and sat back down next to me on the couch holding a small leather notebook. She thumbed through it, found the entries under the "I" tab, opened it and handed me her address book.

I stared at the name and my jaw dropped. Grace Ivanovic, 515-427. I couldn't believe my eyes.

"I met her during the Olympics. We were both working on the slalom course as spotters. I remember her now, dark hair and pretty smile, right? She wrote her name and phone number in my book. I never called her. We said we'd get together and hang out. You know how that goes, but we neither of us followed through. It's too bad. She sounds really interesting."

I stared in speechless amazement at the name and number printed in Nina's book. The handwriting matched the inscription on the inside cover of my meaningless popular fiction paperback packed away across the street.

"After hearing your story, I suppose I'll ring her up," Nina laughed.

Bridget answered her buzzer at 5:30AM. That she failed to answer the bell the night before no longer mattered. While I might've frozen to death had Nina not rescued me, I wouldn't have learned about her unlikely connection to Grace.

There are unseen threads holding people's lives together. When they are revealed to us in miraculous and mysterious ways it demonstrates how an invisible hand guides the universe. There is no other way to describe events such as these.

I missed my date with Grace the following afternoon. The flight departing Yugoslavia was delayed for three hours, but ultimately taxied down the runway and carried me back to Western Civilization.

The customs officers when I landed in Great Britain never explained why they detained me in a holding cell, but after waiting in what felt like jail for four hours, they released me and waved me through the gate. Maybe someone thought I was a spy? Something unusual triggered someone's suspicion, but the agents offered me no explanation when I questioned what prompted my delay.

The second half of my trip was anticlimactic. The London Theatre tour was spottily entertaining and most of the highly touted "world class performances" proved flattish and dull.

When I returned to the States two weeks later, a letter from the I.R.S. was waiting for me in the P.O. box and it wasn't good news. I wasn't in U.S. Federal prison yet, but my 1983 taxes were being audited.

In the months that followed I seriously contemplated defecting to Yugoslavia. Grace was sending letters from Sarajevo and her English was steadily improving. Becoming an expat seemed like a reasonable option at the time, but another altogether unlikely scenario unfolded instead.

Part Two: Finding Hope

"Remember tonight for it is the beginning of always."

Dante Alighieri

I

I typically didn't put any faith in tips or tipsters. But the little birdie whispering in my ear before I left the office offered up some solid advice. The stock market was going nuts. The Dow Jones Industrial Average was breaking out over 1,000 for the first time in history. It had been a stressful morning with busted trades and customer complaints about bad executions. The bullshit had been heaping higher and higher into the afternoon. The exchanges finally closed down and I was more than anxious to put it all behind me and blow off some steam.

"Daniel, do yourself and everyone else around here a favor. You really need to get laid. Go on, get out of here already!"

I hated to admit it, but the boss was right. And like any actionable investment recommendation, Charlie Miller's suggestion was sensible and well-timed advice wholly based on the available publicly disclosed information. The upside potential was unlimited.

But transactions involving the opposite sex can be complicated. When broken down and carefully examined, trade triggers like those weren't easily analyzed. Guaranteed outcomes are always at risk. In fact, I immediately thought of ways to hedge my position, were I to enter one in the first place.

With that in mind I drove home, changed out of my simian suit, and on my way back out of the cottage I grabbed my blue jean jacket off the hook on the door. There was a slight chill in the early afternoon spring air. I shoved my favorite blue bandana into my back pocket.

I lowered the top and cruised to the foot of Ocean Avenue, pulling into the parking lot at the foot of Carmel beach. I killed the switch, jumped out of the Dart and climbed down the steep sandy hill to the edge of the Pacific. Turning right, I immediately strode north toward Pebble Beach. About three minutes in, out of the corner of my right eye, I spotted the figure of a lone woman sitting on some rocks gazing out at the view across the wide blue bay.

I first saw her from a distance of about thirty yards. Throwing caution to the wind I turned and started walking toward her. Hitting on women at the beach (...or anywhere else outside my hyperactive imagination several times a day for years on end) was definitely not my style.

"Have you ever seen water coming out of that pipe?" I asked, pointing to the sewer drainpipe and wondering if it were even possible for anyone to have come up with a flimsier icebreaker.

"Nope. I just got here," she replied.

"I can't tell you how many times I've walked by here but never noticed any liquid flowing out of there. Do you think its sewage?"

Oh, perfect, you twit, I thought to myself. Discussing the intricacies of municipal sludge is quite an engaging topic of conversation with a total stranger. How can the lady resist?

"It doesn't smell bad, but I don't know," she said. "I just got here."

"Of course, but did you ever see anything coming out of there before?" I wondered.

Now I was actually pointing to the concrete structure for emphasis and wishing that instead of having ever opened my mouth at all I'd merely slithered past her and directly into the drainpipe, rather than continue on with this pathetic line of absurd inquiry.

I was hopelessly out of practice and the limited skills (okay, nonexistent...) I'd acquired over a lifetime of bungling around the opposite sex were quickly skittering off like a squirrel up a tree with nuts in his mouth.

"I only just got here," she tried to explain once again, slightly hesitating. She looked at me with a hint of confusion. Or was it fear? Disbelief anyone could possibly be so stupid? That was probably it.

Suddenly I was dumbstruck. My brain didn't register that this woman's arrival at the beach, the one I'd walked along on countless occasions before, was new. I thought she looked familiar.

I don't know why there was a substantial lag in my awareness, but it finally dawned on me she was visiting from out of town. Perhaps my failing to sense immediately she was a tourist enjoying the landscape took us both by surprise. That, or I'd defied all odds against it and happened upon an environmental engineer in the midst of enjoying a short break from gathering water quality samples.

"How long have you been here?" I asked, looking around for a test tube kit.

"I sat down about five minutes ago."

"Okay, but what I meant was how long have you been in the general vicinity?"

Now I was sounding like a detective investigating a recently reported crime. What was coming next?

"Thank you, ma'am, everyone back at headquarters appreciates your willingness to step forward and help us out with this incident. Now, please try to think carefully. Did you notice anyone nearby acting suspiciously before the yellow plastic bucket and shovel were removed from the child's sandcastle over by the seashore? Can we count on you to identify the suspect in a lineup if we bring the perp in?"

I should've turned and run off, but by then I was too frightened to move.

"I got into town about an hour ago," she answered plainly.

"So, you're not from around here?"

"Nope, I'm a visitor."

"Really? I had no idea."

"Why would you?"

It was a simple and fascinating question with far reaching implications, but one I couldn't easily answer, though I would have liked to. Instead I chose an easier path.

"What I meant to say is welcome to our quaint little village by the sea. So, what do you think?"

"It's absolutely beautiful. It's really thoroughly breathtaking."

"Where you from?"

"Seattle, most recently. But my home is in Texas."

"Are you staying here for long?"

"At the beach?" I don't know. I've only recently arrived."

"Right. I guess you made that clear before. Look, I think it's only fair I warn you ahead of time. Once you're here, this is one of the hardest places on earth to leave," I said, turning away from her and looking out across the magnificent white sands toward the rugged promontory of Carmel Point jutting out a mile or two in the distance.

"Yeah, I'm starting to take this all in. This is without a doubt one of the most incredible places I've ever seen in my life." Her bright blue saucers gawking widely.

"Yep, that about sums it all up. I've been here for years and couldn't have said it better myself. So, tell me, do you have a name? Mine's Daniel Ford."

"Hello, Daniel. It's nice to meet you. I'm Hope Chase."

"The pleasure is mine, Hope. So, where are you staying, if you don't mind my asking? Have you found a suitable inn yet?"

"Not far away. Like I said, I got to Monterey about an hour ago. I left Redding at 6AM and drove straight through. I stopped and found a motel room over in Seaside, and crashed there for an hour or so. Then, suddenly, I woke up and drove here. Honestly it was a very strange, almost compulsive feeling that swept over me. I felt I needed to get here right away."

"No kidding."

"I'm still can't make sense of why I left Seattle two days ago. I walked off my job without giving them any notice. Shoved my things in the back of my truck, drove to the airport to put my dog on a plane for Texas, and started heading south. I even drove through a snowstorm in southern Oregon in the middle of the night. And believe me, it was no small feat for a little old' Texas gal. It scared the crap out of me."

"Wow, that's interesting. Well, congratulations on making it here in one piece. It's all that matters, right?"

"I guess you're right. Driving over that mountain pass was a nightmare. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my fingers are still aching. I need to settle down and let this amazing view sink in."

"So, you found a place in Seaside? You sure you want to stay there? It's not exactly a hardcore ghetto, but it's definitely the sleaziest part of the Monterey Peninsula."

"Really? I didn't have any idea. I just picked a random place out of the AAA guide."

"Look, I'm sure its okay, but you may want to reconsider your choice. I mean there are lots of nicer spots to stay around here."

"Thanks for the tip, but I'm a big girl. I've been around some pretty rough neighborhoods. I can take care of myself, Mr. Ford."

"I'm sure you can. But please call me Daniel. Mr. Ford sounds like the founder of a large American automobile manufacturing company who wasn't exactly fond of my people."

"What are you talking about?"

"Henry Ford, the magnate of Detroit. Ford Motor Company? Father of the modern assembly line used in mass production. Built crappy cars. The guy was a huge anti-Semite. Couldn't stand the Jews."

"I'm not sure I follow. I've never met a Jew in my life."

"Pardon me, but did you just say you knew my ex-wife?"

"What? No, of course not. Why would you ask me that?"

"Never mind, I got it. I must have misunderstood you. You said you never met a Jew in your life, right?"

"Correct. Do you have a hearing problem?"

"I do, but it's nothing serious. So, you never ran into a Jew before?"

"Nope. Never. Is that unusual?"

"Maybe. We talk loudly, especially in groups, and that makes us hard to avoid. Anyway, I'd say you've been lucky so far, or were up until now."

"I grew up in a small town in the middle of Texas. Except for Kinky Friedman, I don't recollect any cowboy Jews from my neck of the woods. Guess I'm just not very worldly. Yep, I'm pretty sure you're the very first real live Jew dude I've chewed the fat with."

"Did you just call me a Jew dude?"

"I did. Why, is there something wrong with that? You're a Jew and a dude, right? Sounds good to me. Heck, it almost rhymes."

"Yeah, I suppose they do sound good together, sort of like chew and food."

"Exactly. And if you put all it together, you get a short descriptive poem like "the Jew dude chewed food."

"Well, that's quite a disgusting proposition any way you look at it. Have you ever eaten in a New York deli?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Like I said a second ago, lucky for you. So, what do you do when you're not wandering around the country checking into cheap motels?"

"I'm a R.N."

"Wow, unbelievable. So am I."

"You're a registered nurse?"

"Nurse? Who said anything about being a nurse? No. I said I'm an R.N. A Real Nut."

"Ha, ha. Funny."

She didn't really laugh. It was more of a groan.

"Is nursing work you enjoy? It seems stressful to me."

"It's okay. Right now, I'm signed up with a traveling nurse organization. I take assignments whenever and wherever I feel like exploring new places. It's a great way to check out different parts of the country and get a taste of where I might eventually end up settling down. I've lived briefly in Galveston, New Orleans, South Carolina, Fresno and Seattle. Been on the road for nearly a year."

"All that moving around and no Jews? Amazing."

"Must be some kind of record, no?"

"Maybe. So, whereabouts in Texas do you live?"

"Terrell. I'm on my way to visit a friend in Los Angeles and then I'm heading back home."

"Terrell? Never heard of it. Where's Terrell?"

"It's about 70 miles east of Dallas. You know, typical small town, with simple folks living quiet boring lives. It's probably why you never heard of it. Nothing ever happens there."

"Sounds fascinating. Why head back?"

"I need to see my mom, granny, aunt and uncle, sister, brother, cousins, friends, not to mention my dog. Lots of reasons, I suppose. Are you from around here?"

"I've been here since '75, off and on. It's home to me now. I grew up in Southern California. But I can barely tolerate visiting there. L.A.'s an awful city unless you're into gridlock, smog, drive by shootings, not to mention the plastic fantastic people. I can't stand the place. You're not planning on staying there long, are you?"

"No. I want to check in on a friend I met working in Fresno who recently moved. Do you know where Fullerton is?"

"Fullerton? That's where your friend ended up? I wouldn't get too excited about your visit if I were you. That town might make Terrell look like heaven. It's basically an industrial wasteland filled with oil refineries and meat packing plants if I recall correctly."

"That bad, eh? Anyhow, I'm anxious to get back home. Guess I'm road weary."

"Not to change the subject, but you have really big beautiful blue eyes. I mean those are two enormous peepers you've got there. They're absolutely gorgeous. I've never seen anything like them."

The cerulean color reflecting off of the ocean was radiating back out through the two deep sapphires sparking fire at me. I couldn't help being captivated by the electric blue lights flashing directly in front of me.

"Thanks. It's nice of you to say that, Daniel," she said with a shy smile.
"Hope, may I ask how old you are?"

"Of course, you can ask, but I'd rather not say."

"Why are women always so secretive about their age?"

"I don't know. It's just a number. How old are you?"

"I'm 34. Okay, since you won't divulge, I'll guess...let's see...you're 28?"

"28? Wow, you just blew it, kiddo."

"That figures. Well, this has been fun while it's lasted. See you later," I said, turning to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"You just told me I blew it. I can take a hint, lady. I might act it, but I'm not completely deaf and dumb."

"Daniel, don't be silly. All I meant is you blew your guess. Are you always so sensitive?"

"Honestly, I think I might be the most sensitive man in the world. But most of the time I hide my vulnerability behind a wall of sarcasm. Sorry if I offended you, you know, about the old bag reference. See, I can't help it."

She started chuckling. "It's okay. Everyone always guesses my age high. I've always looked older than I am. I turned 22 in February."

"Really? I mean, it's okay, you being 22 and all. It's just that you really do look older. Not old. Older. What I mean is more mature."

"Nice recovery, I think," she said with a smile bringing out her two dimples that were almost as big as her eyes.

Hope agreed to join me for a drink in town. We walked back along the beach toward the parking lot. She was probably still a bit wary of me and rather than take my car, Hope said she wanted to drive. We jumped in her Chevy and cruised along Scenic Road before stopping in at Clint Eastwood's tourist trap Hog's Breath Inn, where we continued our conversation and eyeballed the scene in the bar.

We finished our cocktails and I asked Hope if she wouldn't mind taking me back down to the beach to pick up my car. She drove slowly down Ocean Avenue and before I could tell her to pull over, she saw it.

"Wow! Daniel, check out that cool old convertible. What a beautiful car! Do you have any idea what it is?"

I'd recently had my car restored. With its fresh coat of gleaming red enamel people had a hard time not noticing my ride.

"I'm pretty sure that old thing's a 1965 Dodge Dart GT."

"It's really beautiful. I bet it's pretty rare."

"You're probably right. I'm sure there aren't many of those old Darts still running around, especially ragtops like that one. Pull into the parking space next to it. Let's get us a closer look."

We got out of her Blazer and I started walking around my vehicle, giving it the once over. I kicked the left front tire, noticing it was slightly low.

"Do you think the guy who owns this is anywhere close by?" I asked, slowly scanning the area and looking around, pretending to be searching for whomever the car might belong to.

"Probably. Why?"

"Because I'd love to drive this thing, that's why."

"Like he's going to let you? Yeah sure, dream on, Daniel."

"Maybe we could just sort of borrow it for a little while?"

"What? Are you out of you mind?"

"Look, it's not like I'm going to steal it. I'll bring it back in a few minutes. I bet I can start it. Do you have a screwdriver? Those old cars are really simple to hotwire."

"Alright. That's it. I'm leaving, dude. You're crazy!"

"C'mon, Hope. Where's your sense of excitement? I'm not going to wreck it. The guy won't even know we took it. I swear we'll be back in five minutes. Or ten, tops."

I opened the door and started playing with the steering wheel and fiddling with the wires under the dash. Hope stood there staring at me like I was a total lunatic.

"I can't believe you're actually thinking about stealing this car. This really has gone far enough. Daniel, get out of there before the police come by and arrest you or the owner shows up and beats the crap out of you."

"Relax. It's not going to happen, trust me."

"Oh really, and why not? The last time I checked, grand theft auto was illegal. I think they still hang people in Texas for it. Or is it horses? Just get out of there! Do you really want to end up in jail?"

"Don't be ridiculous, of course not. Why would I?"

She was looking around the parking lot nervously, expecting all hell to break loose at any moment. I figured she'd had enough and it was time to spill the beans. I dug around inside my pocket, pulled out my keys, jiggled them at her and stuck one in the ignition switch.

"Gotcha! Hop in. It's mine, silly," I laughed, turning the key and firing up the engine.

"Oh my God! You're kidding? Is this really yours?"

I opened the glove box and pointed to my name on the registration slip, to prove I was only messing with her head.

"There, officer. See? Daniel Ford. Satisfied? Don't just stand there. What are you waiting for? Jump in. Let's go!"

II

Hope climbed in the Dart, shaking her head and laughing. We drove out of the parking lot and headed down Scenic Road once again. The sun was sinking low on the horizon and I swung into a pullout along the pavement overlooking the Point. I shoved the gearshift into "P" and killed the engine.

We watched the sunset and talked. It was starting to feel comfortable. I realized she was completely normal and very, very pretty.

"Wow, I could really get used to this. The ocean here is amazing. I never realized it could be so loud," Hope said, mostly to herself.

The surf was high and the powerful resonance of the crashing waves on the sand was booming. The steady, rhythmic vibration of the sea could be felt from where we sat some fifty yards away.

"Yeah, I hear you. This truly is a beautiful spot."

"Daniel, do you realize how lucky you are to live here?"

"I'm not sure luck is the right word, but yes, I do feel very fortunate."

She closed her eyes and listened. I watched as she drank in the surroundings, letting the impact of the scenery completely wash over her.

I was somewhat taken aback by the sentiments she uttered when she finally came out of her reverie.

"Not that it's anything close, but this car kind of reminds me of my 1981 Camaro."

"Really?"

"Yes. I bought it a few years ago brand new, but traded it in on my truck when I decided to start traveling."

I wasn't expecting that. I figured she'd had a long trip and was probably pretty tired from all that driving.

"So, let me get this straight. You had a Camaro and now you're driving a Blazer. Sounds to me like you're a Chevy girl and dig those General Motors models," I observed, glancing in my Mopar's rear view mirror for no apparent reason.

"Yep. On my seventeenth birthday, I went straight to the dealer and bought it. Lots of crazy memories in my old Camaro, that's for sure. I was a wild child back then."

"Were you now? Well, from what I can tell so far, you seem to have matured."

"I guess so. But I partied pretty hard back in high school."

"Didn't we all."

"Terrell's a real small town. There's nothing to do except cruise to the local Dairy Queen and hang out. I smoked some weed, drank a little booze, nothing serious. But I always felt like an outsider. Sounds weird, but do you know what I mean?"

"I think I do."

"I was always totally bored. It was so easy. I never cracked a book and always finished at the top of my class. But through it all I led a dual life. My teachers all thought I was a perfect little angel. I was named on the Honor's Society, captain of the cheerleading squad, those sorts of things. But every night I was sneaking out my bedroom window to go hang out with my delinquent friends."

"Did you go to college after high school?"

"Yes. I got two scholarships from civic organizations in town, which helped out a lot financially. I also worked for a dentist after school making orthodontic appliances, those teeth straightening plastic devices they use instead of metal braces. No one wants to look at a mouth full of railroad tracks, right?"

"I know I certainly avoid those unsightly orifices at all costs."

"Anyway, it was kind of fun and paid pretty well too. I thought I wanted to open my own dental lab. But I went to nursing school instead. That reminds me. Dr. Nary, the dentist I worked for, had a yellow 1965 Corvette convertible he'd let me drive all the time. Maybe that's why I'm a Chevy girl, huh?"

"Definitely. It sounds like either choice would have worked out well. The dental lab or your decision to go into a nursing career."

"Going to nursing school was the more practical decision. I always thought I wanted to be a physician. My mother was always sick and struggling with her health issues, for as long as I can remember. I think I went into nursing because of her."

"Seems reasonable. That you'd want to help her out and all."

"Sure, I guess. But I also knew I'd never have a problem finding a good paying job. It wasn't necessarily so much me wanting to help mankind, although I suppose that was part of it. But now, being around people who are ill or suffering with pain, it's really difficult for me. Nursing is hard, highly stressful work."

"Is she okay now? Your mom?"

"Not really. She doesn't take care of herself. Smokes three packs a day. Drinks Dr. Peppers all day long. Her intestines are a mess. But she won't listen to me or anyone else. She's very stubborn. I worry about her all the time. It's a miracle she's still alive."

"That's too bad. So, you're an angel of mercy. Nursing is a noble occupation."

"I guess that's one way to look at it. My goal is to eventually get into medical research. I do take my job very seriously. You can't mess around when other people's lives are at stake. But it's amazing how people take it for granted how we so-called medical professionals actually know what the hell we're doing. Some of the stuff I've witnessed in hospitals is unbelievable. Maybe I know too much, but if I ever had to go into a hospital as a patient I'd be scared to death. You have no idea how easy it is to screw things up. And if you do, the consequences can be devastating."

"Maybe that's true, but if it weren't for competent medical care you and I wouldn't be sitting here talking today. I had a medical condition in my late twenties I survived by the grace of God, a very skilled doctor, and an excellent team of nurses."

"No kidding? What happened? Do you mind talking about it?"

"It's not easy for me to talk about, but since you're a nurse and the subject came up, I'll fill you in on some details. But first you have to promise to be nice and listen with an open mind. I think my lips are loosening up some because I'm attracted to you. I must say Hope you're very easy on the eyes. I hope I'm not embarrassing you."

I was thinking it from the moment we started talking, but the words just sort of slipped out of my mouth. It was the truth. Her long brunette locks, huge blue orbs, clear skin and cheeks that dimpled deeply when she smiled formed a very nice package equally impressive from the neck down.

"Thanks, Daniel. It's nice to hear you say those things, but it is a little embarrassing. Anyway, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I understand."

"That I think your pretty? Why not, you are?"

"No, I mean about your health issue."

"Oh, that. Well, I guess I'm fairly sensitive about it and maybe it is a little uncomfortable rehashing what happened."

"Forget I asked. Never mind. Let's talk about something else, okay?"

"I'd love to. But Hope, listen, before we do, there's something I want to say first. I know we just met and barely know each other, but I can't help thinking something feels different about today. Everything seems, to me at least, brighter or more alive than usual. Do you know what I mean?"

"I'm not sure if I do. Can you be more specific?"

"Well, it's not easy, but since I let it loose, I'll try to explain. Sitting here talking to you I really think I've experienced a complete transformation of thought."

"What are you talking about? That sounds pretty weird."

"I know. To be perfectly honest, it feels pretty strange. In any event, up until now, I've always believed everything happens to us, that we live by the law of accident. Now, maybe for the first time in my life, I think everything happens for a reason."

"There's a difference. I understand what you mean."

"Most of the time, we have no idea what's going on. It's like we're asleep. I've always thought we live in a chaotic universe, but there is a guiding force behind it all. We're all part of some grand scheme and that certainly holds true for you and I as well. I guess what I'm trying to say is I can't help wondering about why you and I met today."

"It sounds like you're talking about destiny. Are you?"

"You said earlier you felt something compel you to come here today, right? That it was something you really had no control over, but were more or less following along with to see where it led you. Didn't you say you suddenly left Seattle and then boom, the next thing you know you're here? I'm saying some force may have been moving or drawing you here. I don't know if it was pushing, guiding, or compelling you. It's not something I can easily explain. It sounds nuts, I know."

"Yeah, whatever I was feeling was definitely strange, but at the same time equally strong. It was pretty crazy. So, what are you saying? Are you saying it was you? You're my destiny?"

"Not necessarily. At least I don't think so. How could I? I only have a very limited perspective and am merely a participant, like you and everyone else in this mystery we call life."

"Daniel, do you always talk like this to women?"

"Are you kidding? I seldom talk to women period. Look, the only thing I know for certain is I didn't just conjure you up and lure you into my web. But who knows? Something seems to have drawn us together. I had no clue when I left my house and got into my car and drove to the beach, I'd suddenly notice you sitting on a rock by a sewer pipe I've walked past hundreds of times before."

"Daniel, if it wasn't prearranged by a higher force, which most people attribute to an Ultimate Being or God, then our meeting was purely random. It's one or the other, right?"

"Not entirely. Look, you may not believe me, but I swear it's true. I seldom, if ever, approach strangers on the beach, especially attractive women. They scare me to death and I'm way too shy. It's not normal or natural feeling for me at all and it never has been. I have no problem having a conversation if someone interesting approaches me first, but I never make the first move. But today was different. It felt as though I was drawn to you and I didn't have any choice in the matter. Something pushed or pulled me, but either way I was definitely moved. Maybe we we're supposed to meet, for some reason? Maybe we'll eventually figure it out or maybe we won't. But now it's up to us to decide what happens next. Pretty weird, huh?"

"A little, yes. But I need to think this through. Other than your somewhat curious theory of relativity, you seem normal. And you do have a very nice car. And the conversation we're having is certainly not boring. I do find it thought provoking."

"Thanks, and don't forget, no one's holding anyone hostage here either. If I do or say anything that makes you at all uncomfortable, please don't hesitate to let me know. You're free to go whenever you choose, okay?"

"That's reassuring, thanks."

"Are you hungry? I could sure use some food."

"Now that you mention it, I'm starving. I haven't eaten anything since breakfast."

"C'mon. Let's go grab something to eat."

We motored back into town. At the Weiner's Circle, a small hot dog bistro on Lincoln Avenue, we continued our conversation. The quiet atmosphere was the perfect backdrop for further discourse. The bottle of '82 Chateau Lillian de Saint Bernardo wine, a robust Pinot Bordeaux with barking tones and a rich furry base coat provided the perfect compliment to our grilled gourmet frankfurters and seasoned fries.

"So, Daniel, do you feel like talking about the medical problem you mentioned earlier? It sounded pretty scary. What happened? Was it serious?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure, okay. Do you remember asking me if I was hard of hearing? When I thought you said you knew my ex-wife when what you'd actually said was something like me being the first Jew you'd met in your life?"

"Yes. I do remember asking you if you had a hearing problem."

"And I said I did, but my deafness wasn't anything serious."

"Right, I remember. Go on."

"Well, I don't have any hearing at all in my right ear. If there's any background noise, like the crashing waves today at the beach, or a room full of people talking, I have a great deal of difficulty hearing the person I'm trying to have a conversation with."

"So that's it? It's no big deal."

"I know. But it can be a real pain in the ass. And when I listen to the stereo, there's no separation. It sucks, and it's really pretty annoying."

"Really? So that's your big problem?"

"Look, it's a problem, okay. It may not sound like one to you, but it's affected my ability to interact with people in social situations."

"You're joking, aren't you? You and I are interacting socially and although I'm no expert I'd say off the top of my head you're doing pretty well so far. Are you out of your mind? You made it sound like your problem was a life or death situation, like a doctor and a team of nurses worked to save your life."

"Listen, I said it was hard for me to talk about this. And no, I'm not out of my mind and I'd appreciate it if maybe you showed a little more compassion. I realize my handicap isn't the end of the world, but is it necessary for you to belittle my disability?"

"Sorry. Daniel, can I ask you a simple question?"

"Sure."

"Can you hear out of your left ear? I mean I don't see you wearing a hearing aid or anything."

"Perfectly well. In fact, I have topnotch left ear reception. But let's not forget my right ear is dead as a doornail."

"Please listen to me carefully, Daniel, with your good ear. The left one, right? I want you to get this loud and clear, okay? You're not disabled. There's nothing wrong with you. You can hear fine. You might have to listen a bit more carefully than others in a crowded room, and you may miss some stereophonic sounds, but you're certainly not deaf. I think your use of the word handicapped is a bit of a stretch."

"Okay, I see your point."

"Daniel, if that's all there is, take it from me as a medical professional, your condition is extremely minor. It's not even a problem. If anything, it's a mild nuisance, maybe."

"Okay, then I have a modest nuisance. I'll accept your diagnosis."

"Good."

"You know, I should probably tell you that not very long ago, I could hear perfectly well with my right ear too. I always had excellent hearing. Actually, I think it was overly developed to compensate for my blindness. I used to have total, all around hearing like Superman."

"What are you talking about? Now you're blind too?

"Yes, since birth."

"So, what are you, some kind of a bat and dolphin? This is ridiculous. You're not even wearing eyeglasses. Do you locate things through echolation? Or did you lose and suddenly regain your sight? Is that it? I guess I'm really confused."

"Very funny. Dolphin. Just swam out of the ocean and started walking over to you. Good one. There you go again, making fun of my hardships."

"There you go again? Who are you? Ronald Reagan in the 1980 Presidential Debate. Listen, I'm simply trying to understand you. What's going on with your eyes, may I ask?"

"Reagan? You weren't even old enough to vote back then. How old were you? Sixteen? I'm impressed you even remembered."

"I listened. I'm not an idiot you know. He and Carter were talking about health care. I was interested. Do you mind if we focus back on your eye now?"

"I get it. Focus on my eye. Cute."

"Daniel, please, what's going on with your eyes?"

"Eye. Not eyes. I'm legally blind in one orb, my left eye. I have no peripheral vision. No depth perception."

"Really? Why? What happened?"

"I'm not exactly sure. The doctors think my optic nerve was damaged during birth. I guess I sort of got stuck and the obstetrician supposedly used forceps and it may have clamped down on my skull improperly. It's one theory, no one really knows for sure what happened, but it's been lights out ever since."

"Okay, it sounds reasonable. At least it makes sense. Didn't I say mistakes happen in hospitals all the time?"

"Yeah, you did. Guess I'm living proof of how the system can botch things up huh? I'm a victim of shoddy medical care."

"Sort of. Daniel, can I ask you another dumb question? The vision in your good eye, it's the right one, right? How is it?"

"My right eye is excellent. Eagle eye. Better than 20/20. Left eye, unusable."

"I get it, left eye, dead eye. They call you Dead Eye Dan. But the bottom line is you can see fine and you don't have to wear glasses, right?"

"It all depends how you look at it, but yes, I suppose so."

"Honestly, I don't think you should go around telling people your blind. It could be an overstatement, like your deafness claim."

"Okay, maybe you're right. How about half blind? Is that better? It's true."

"If the subject comes up and you're in the mood to talk about it, sure. Why not?"

"Sorry if my blind and deaf story put you off. I don't want you thinking I'm some sort of a freak. That's the last impression I'm trying to make here. I guess its sort of weird though, my being a two-dimensional man in a three-dimensional world. Wouldn't you agree my condition is not entirely normal? I don't think there are many people like me. It does give me a somewhat unique perspective on the world, no?"

"I'll have to think it over."

"Look, I'm trying to be honest with you. You know, putting all the cards on the table, so to speak. It's who I am. Maybe the peculiarities give me a slightly different outlook on life?"

"Which reminds me. You said before your hearing in your right ear was perfect not long ago. So, what happened? Did you shatter your eardrum during a rock concert? Blow it out standing next to the speaker at a Led Zeppelin show?"

"I wish."

"Okay, so what was it? A bad infection?"

"Neither. I lost my inner ear."

"What do you mean lost your inner ear? As in misplaced it? The cochlea isn't like a set of keys. As I recall, it's rather difficult to get to, let alone lose."

"No, it's definitely not like a set of keys. That would've been much simpler. I lost it...what I mean to say is they removed it during surgery."

"Oh, okay. Finally, you're making sense. Frankly, you were starting to slightly annoy me. Now, what kind of surgery did you have? Ear surgery? Was it a botched ear job?"

"Oh, now that's real funny."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'm just trying to inject some lighthearted humor into this somewhat morbid conversation. Please, go on."

"Fine, but watch it, okay? I already told you I'm very sensitive. And no, it wasn't a bungled ear job and for the record, my nose and olfactory senses are fine, thank you very much. Regarding the surgery, my ear was definitely involved. Well, specifically my inner ear, as I indicated before, until it was yanked. My outer ear is okay, as you can see."

I turned my head and pointed to my intact and normally attached ear, to show her that it was not, as she joked, an outer ear cosmetic reconstruction gone awry. Then I realized she didn't need that sort of proof, unless she was blind.

"So, we've determined your inner ear was removed? Why?"

"Well, I was told it had to be, that it got in the way."

"Got in the way? Of what?"

"Some bone, I think. Or maybe it was a facial nerve? It was a while ago and I was pretty out of it at the time."

"Out of it? You don't remember? Were you in some kind of accident?"

"There are no accidents, remember? If you're asking if I was in a car crash, or suffered a fall in a hiking incident or some other kind of head trauma, the answer is no."

"Then why can't you remember what happened?"

"Well, for the most part, I was under the velvet hammer. Slept through it like a baby. They administer really good drugs during anesthesia, by the way."

"That's true. All right, so what kind of surgery did you have?"

"Brain."

"Brain? You had neurosurgery? That is a very serious medical procedure. In fact, it may be the most difficult medical procedure of them all. Why? What was the problem?"

"I had a tumor."

"You're joking. Why do I get the distinct impression you're bullshitting me?"

"Because I was, just a minute ago. Look, joking around is the only way for me to talk about this stuff."

"What happened?"

"I told you. I had a brain tumor and I lost my inner ear. Now I'm completely deaf in my right ear because they had to remove my cochlea in order to remove the mass. Why am I repeating myself? Are you sure you're not deaf?"

"Daniel, is this really a big joke? You know something? I don't believe you, none of it. The ear, the eye, the whole handicapped thing is just a ploy, isn't it? You think because I'm a nurse I'm going to fall for this fake sympathy line? This is such bullshit. I can't believe you'd feed me such a line of crap. It's really not funny and in very poor taste. This conversation is finished. I really need to go now."

She pushed her chair back from the table and started to stand up.

"Sure, I understand. If you're finished with your tofu weenie there, I'd be happy to escort you back to your car," I said, pointing to the half-eaten dog.

"Yes, please."

"No problem. Listen, I'm sorry if I upset you. Sometimes I don't know what gets into me. I'm just nervous. You're sweet, beautiful, and have a really nice smile. Up until a few minutes ago, I thought we were kind of hitting it off. Is there any way I can make it up to you? I'd hate for this to end on a sour note."

"Yeah, me to. But I'm afraid it's too late. I honestly don't like it when people joke around those kinds of things. It's not funny at all and it really upsets me. Obviously, I don't know you. Maybe I was wrong thinking you were different from most of the men I meet. But honestly, it's not the first time and it probably won't be the last."

"Are you sure?"

"Definitely."

"So, this is it? End of story?"

"I'm afraid it is. Sorry."

"Then it's goodbye?"

"Yes."

"And there's nothing I can do to change your mind?"

"I doubt it."

"But are you sure? Absolutely positive?"

"Yes. What you just put me through was extremely off putting. I don't like it when my emotions are being played with like that."

"What if I gave you proof? Do you think you might be willing to change your mind then?"

"Proof? Proof of what?"

"That I'm not a complete asshole."

"And how, may I ask, do you think you're going to accomplish that?"

"With evidence."

"Evidence? Of what?"

"That I'm not a liar."

"About what?"

"About what was upsetting to you a moment ago."

"Okay, listen. You have pushed me over the edge. I'm leaving. You got it, mister?"

"Sure, but before you go, can I at least show you my scar?"

"What scar? From the brain surgery you never had? No thank you. I'm really not interested in playing your sick games anymore."

"Then what about the scar from the brain surgery I did have? Hope, I wasn't lying to you before and never will. And I'm truly sorry about what just happened, but I did say I didn't want to talk about this, didn't I? That it was hard for me. I guess I had to joke around before I could spit it out. I'm sorry I acted like an idiot."

Hope had crossed her arms and her face was reddening in anger.

"Listen. What happened to me was a horrible experience and I nearly died. I know I've been an insensitive jerk and it probably doesn't matter anymore, but let me at least prove I was telling you the truth."

I took her hand and traced her fingers above my right ear and along the back of my skull. Seven years earlier, a three-centimeter thick neuroma pressing up against my brain and growing along my auditory nerve had been surgically removed.

Hope saw the thin white scar and realized it was no joke.

"Jesus, Daniel. I'm so sorry. For doubting you, and for trying to make fun of what was obviously a horrible experience. I can't begin to imagine what you must have gone through. Wow, what an amazing story! I'm happy you shared it with me, but did you really have to put me through all that to make your point?"

"Okay, I screwed up and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into it. That golf ball pressing up against my brain put me through pure hell. It was a yearlong process of not knowing what was wrong and then, in the last few months before I went under the knife, the excruciating pain in my skull and the constant headache nearly killed me. I was in intensive care for three days and the hospital stay lasted two weeks. It took four more months before I felt like I was starting to feel normal again. And that's not all."

"There's more? Were there complications? Did you relapse?"

"No. Fortunately I've been in good health ever since the tumor was removed. But I might as well mention now that I was married at the time. And to top things off while I was in the hospital, on New Year's Eve no less, my wife attempted suicide. Even my questioning you about knowing my ex-wife wasn't really a joke. I actually thought I heard you say that. Hope, I really am sorry. Can forgive me?"

Hope pushed her stool away from the table, stood up and stepped toward me, put her arms around my shoulders, looked me straight in the eyes and kissed me.

"Forgive you? Daniel, I think I may have just fallen in love with you."

I had to come up with something quick to say in response. Then, the moment our lips parted came, it spewed out of my mouth.

"Oh, come on, Hope. You're falling in love with me? You probably meant to say you stopped hating me, but got swept away with emotion in the heat of the moment. So, does this mean I don't need to haul you over to your car now?"

"It can wait," she replied.

We walked to Devendorf Park, a short distance from the sausage stand. Along the way Hope stopped to peer into the art and gift shop windows as the evening sky grew dark.

We sat together on a bench in the empty little square and pitched pennies in a pond. I could feel the ice melting when I pawed her mitt and she gently caressed mine back.

"This is such a peaceful little town. Daniel, I've never met anyone like you. You're a bit quirky, but there's nothing wrong with that. You're sensitive and open. When you talk to me, it feels as if your words are coming out of my mouth. Does that sound strange? Maybe it's the wine? I'm feeling a little tipsy."

I leaned over and gently kissed her. Our lips connected, but not before our noses smashed together awkwardly. We laughed, readjusted position and gave it another shot. It worked better the second time around and the heat started rising. We let it lock a few minutes then broke for air.

"Hope, I realize its only ten o'clock, but I've got to be at work at 6AM to open the office. As much as I'd like to, I can't blow it off. I have an idea. Why don't we go pick up your truck and you can follow me back to my house? It's better than staying in that Seaside motel. Hope, I promise I won't bite. I'm a gentleman, honest."

My invitation was definitely a long shot. I had no choice but to take it.

"Gee, Daniel. I don't know. That's really not my style, if you get my drift. I really wasn't expecting anything remotely like this to happen. Not in a million years."

"Sure, I understand. Look, I'm still in shock that I screwed up the courage to talk to you at the beach. Please just think it over. I promise I'll respect your decision, whatever it is."

After a moment or two she took a deep breath, smiled brightly.

"Okay. Why not? But you have to promise me you're not a crazy lunatic madman serial killer, okay?"

"Well, we've already established the likelihood of the first two being a distinct possibility. But as far as the last two requirements are concerned, I assure you you'll live to see another day."

Neither of us slept and it wasn't because we couldn't. It would have been incredibly easy to gently drift away to the land of nod several times over but we managed to keep busy.

"I'll leave my number at work on the dining room table. Make yourself at home and call me if you need anything, okay?" I whispered as I was leaving for work the following morning.

"Yes, thanks," she answered groggily.

"And I'd love to take you out to dinner tonight. Let's drive down the coast. I show you Big Sur. You really shouldn't miss it. I'll be home around 2 o'clock. We'll have plenty of time for the grand tour."

"Daniel, I can't believe you're going to work. Aren't you tired? I'm wiped out after last night. I mean I feel really, really good, but I'll probably sleep like a baby until you get back here."

"Don't worry, I'm fine. Come to think of it I haven't felt this good in years. Listen, whatever you do, just don't disappear and leave some touching little note about what a great time you had but needed to split. I know I can't stop you from sailing out of my life, but I'd really love for you to stay."

We kissed goodbye. Hope whispered, "I'll be here" in my good ear.

III

The red Chevy Blazer S-10 was parked in my driveway when I arrived home after work.

"Hi honey, how was your day?" Hope chirped as I came through the door, mocking wife speak.

"Fine dear. I'm a little tired, but I muddled through it as usual," I replied following her cue. "How did your day go? Was it dreamy?"

"Well I slept like a log until noon. Then I drove to Seaside, picked up my suitcase, grabbed a quick bite and came right back here."

"Cool. I'll change this monkey costume for something more comfortable. Are you still interested in heading down the coast? Ready to see some more eye-popping California scenery?"

"Can't wait. But Daniel, let me drive, okay? I know you haven't slept at all in the last twenty-four hours."

"If you insist."

We hopped in the Blazer. Hope took it slow down the thin stretch of Highway One out of Carmel. We wound our way down to Big Sur.

"This is coastline is unbelievable. It's the most majestic scenery I've ever seen. You are so lucky to live here Daniel."

"I know, and to think I used to get paid to drive down here."

"What do you mean?"

"I was a taxi driver in Carmel. Every now and again, a tourist would hire a cab ride down the coast. I remember the fare to Big Sur was $52 for the three-hour tour. I always felt just a tiny bit guilty. I should have paid them."

"An ex-cab driver, eh? Sounds interesting. Did you ever meet anyone famous?"

"Not really. There were a few wealthy business people who lived in Pebble Beach, and big shot CEO's staying at the Lodge, but no movie stars or anything like that."

"Isn't driving a taxi dangerous? Weren't you afraid someone would try to rob you?"

"Well, this isn't exactly a high crime area. I'm sure it's different driving a cab in a big city, but I never felt threatened at all around here."

"I guess, but it would freak me out. You never know what kind of nut job you might run into."

"It was pretty exciting at first, people constantly coming in and out of my life, but it was mostly little old ladies, drunks, tourists of course, and the occasional hooker. Come to think of it I did find myself on the wrong end of a gun one time."

"Really? What happened?"

"Actually, we just passed the house where it happened a few minutes ago, back at Garrapata Creek. I picked up a fare in town. He didn't call the dispatcher for a ride, but flagged me down on Ocean Avenue. I'm pretty sure I was eating a cinnamon roll at the time, but that's another story."

"I love cinnamon rolls."

"Who doesn't? Anyway, this dude was about my age and I sensed he was slightly drunk. He said he had some business to take care of and tells me where he wants to go. I radioed the details to the office. So, we're talking on the way and I come to find out his business involves trying to reconcile matters with an old girlfriend. Everything seems normal when I park and he exits the cab. I was waiting in the car some distance away reading meaningless popular fiction when I heard voices and people arguing back and forth."

"What did you do next?"

"Well, I was in the middle of a chapter but it wasn't very good. I closed the book, got out and went to check on what all the commotion was about. In front of the porch my fare's standing there bent over and holding his face. Blood is gushing out of his nose. Then a woman I presume is his ex is standing in the doorway next to another dude. She's holding a revolver pointed at busted nose boy's head."

"You're kidding. That's wild."

"It was insane. She starts screaming at him to get the fuck off her property or she'll blow his goddamn brains out. Two seconds later, the two men start fighting and they're soon beating the crap out of each other. I'm standing there watching these two idiots go at it like dogs chasing after the same bone. It's completely out of control, obviously a love triangle gone haywire. It was like a really bad scene in a B movie."

"Crazy."

"I finally couldn't take it anymore and stepped in, right in between them, you know, to break it up, and the woman is pointing the gun at us the whole time with her finger on the trigger, just itching to fire off a round. I grabbed my rider and told him we'd better leave. He struggles with me and I finally drag him into the cab and haul my ass back down the highway. I radioed the dispatcher to let her know what was going on. The cops met us as I pulled into the entrance of the emergency room. Turned out the guy wasn't badly hurt, but he was bleeding like a stuck pig all over the back of the cab. It was disgusting."

"Daniel, that probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, putting yourself in the middle of three enraged people, especially with one of them holding a loaded gun."

"You're right. It was stupid of me. I probably should have called the police and let them handle it, but they were too far away. But guess I felt responsible because I was the one who brought that maniac down there. The woman had no idea he'd just show up at her place like that. She just wanted him to leave."

"You're lucky you didn't get shot. It happens all the time. People are insane."

"You can say that again. I'm definitely not the hero type either. I typically avoid all forms of confrontation. I'm really a wimp, a huge chicken. Coward, I believe is the operative word. Anyway, I have no idea what got into me. I remember it was a real adrenalin rush, but completely nuts."

"Daniel, I need to tell you something, about last night. Promise you won't get mad."

"Last night? What about it? It was wonderful. Why would I get angry?"

"Well, for one thing, I was armed."

"Armed? As in packing heat?"

"Yes. I would've never agreed to spend the night at your place otherwise. I'm just glad you kept your word and I didn't have to use this." She reached into her purse and pulled out a small revolver.

"Yeah, me too. Careful where you point that thing."

"That's what she said."

"Very funny. You should do stand up."

"I've thought about it. Anyway, my mother insisted I carry a gun with me when I left Texas. Told me it was a little insurance policy. She said it was better to be safe than sorry, you know, with all the crazy people running around."

"And if someone started messing with you, you'd use that thing?"

"Without a doubt, but only as a last resort if I was truly physically threatened and had to protect myself."

"I guess it's true what they say, about not messing with Texas?"

"You bet it is."

We sat in the Nepenthe restaurant overlooking the ocean as the sun was sinking into the blue waters of the Pacific. Framed by the window of that magnificent landscape Hope Chase revealed a deeper part of herself to me.

I learned she was a down to earth woman with a quiet wisdom and spirituality well beyond her 22 years. She was enlightened, honest, intelligent and unpretentiousness. She accepted and understood the world around her, though not all of it pleased her. She was sensitive and compassionate, but witnessing the pain of others worried her greatly, especially those innocent souls who suffered at the hands of bullies.

The fact that I ate meat upset her. She couldn't justify the physical destruction of other living creatures so humans could consume them. Not only was the practice morally wrong, it was extremely unhealthy as well, she told me in no uncertain terms.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Another glass of wine or maybe some dessert? I like pie," she replied.

"I mean what do you want out of life? Hope, you're a very capable young woman. Your heart seems centered, and you strike me as someone with a strong ethical balance. You're smart, attractive and, from what I can tell so far, have that quirky factor I find irresistible. What are you looking for?"

"Peace, I suppose. Or the eradication of indifference? What I guess I'm really talking about is my inner serenity. It's probably something rooted in my childhood, but I can't remember ever feeling totally at peace with myself."

"Maybe that's the human condition? I don't know about you, but for me being with you now feels extremely calming. It seems so natural, like all of this was supposed to happen. Last night was incredible. I'm starting to think that maybe we really are soul mates. Weird, huh?"

"Soul mates? Wow, Daniel, I don't know about that. But I do realize this has been an incredible two days and I want to thank you for sharing this unbelievable experience with me."

Hope smiled, stood up, leaned across the table and kissed me.

She'd be on the road to L.A. by noon the next day and back in Texas by the end of that week.

IV

Hope was living in Dallas, sharing an apartment near the Baylor Medical Center with her friend Margie. She'd recently accepted a position as a telemetry nurse and was going through orientation. After blowing through her funds traveling, Hope wanted to replenish her depleted savings. She'd run up a few credit card bills and hated being in debt.

I never knew where to reach her by telephone. She'd given me Margie's number and every time I called a man answered. He spoke broken English with a thick Swedish accent. I had no idea who he was.

My mind played all kinds of tricks on me. I imagined she'd met some Fabio like Nordic god with whom she'd fallen madly in love. I never knew if she got any of the messages I'd left. He mumbled quite a bit and was impossible to understand. Did he understand who I was or what I'd said? Our mangled communications reminded me of the language difficulties I encountered while visiting Yugoslavia.

When we finally did reconnect, Hope clarified the details of her living situation. Fabio turned out to be Margie's husband Lars, a software designer working for L.M. Ericsson & Company, a huge Swedish telecommunications conglomerate with a U.S. subsidiary based in Dallas. Hope nicknamed the couple Mars and Largie, which apparently stuck since "she was out there and he was a really big dude."

We tried to speak on the phone but couldn't time the connections properly. After my caper with Grace I was well versed in the unpredictable vagaries of telephones. Besides, I always thought talking on the phone was an inferior means of communication anyway. You can't see, touch, or smell the other person. It's an ideal tool for conducting business or exchanging rudimentary facts, but that's about all.

I was annoyed about not reaching Hope seemingly every time I dialed her. She was working odd hours and I never knew when she'd be home. There was no way for her to let me know what was the best time to call. It was always hit or miss. After one fluke hit, Hope told me to call her mother's house in the future, leave a message there with her, and she'd call me back.

A week passed and I followed her instructions.

"Hello, may I please speak with Hope?"

"Hope isn't here at the moment. May I ask who's calling?" replied the deep and throaty female voice.

"This is Daniel Ford calling from California."

"Hello Daniel. I'm Katherine Chase, Hope's mother," she replied amicably.

"Hi."

I froze. Fortunately, she sensed my tongue-tied shock and quickly filled the silent, gaping conversational hole left behind in the wake of my meager and pitifully whispered response to her cheery greeting.

"I could get a message to Hope that you telephoned, if you'd like," Katherine offered.

"Oh yes, certainly. That would be most helpful. I don't mean to impose, but you see I've been having a rather difficult go of it getting in touch with your daughter, so I'd very much appreciate your assistance in this matter, that is, if it's not too much of a bother," I said, lurching into an inexplicable and mildly snooty British affectation.

"It's no trouble at all Daniel. Hope has already told me a little bit about you. And she couldn't stop talking about how beautiful Carmel was. I think my daughter was quite impressed."

"Mrs. Chase, since I've got you on the line I was wondering if I might ask you a question. You see, I was batting around the idea of traveling to Texas to visit Hope, but before I finalize my plans, I wanted to ask if you might have any objections to my doing so?"

"Please call me Katherine. Mrs. Chase sounds so formal. And Daniel, as far as your coming out here to see my daughter, it's very kind of you to ask for my permission, but Hope is an adult. I really think that is something she has to decide herself. I certainly have no objections to you visiting, but it might be a good idea for you to run that idea by her yourself first."

"Of course, I was planning to do just that. But I did want to make certain before I went ahead and made any plans that my arrival there wouldn't create an uncomfortable situation for you. I wouldn't want to cause any problems, is what I guess I'm trying to say."

"Why that is so very sweet of you Daniel. I appreciate you being so thoughtful. Really, you don't come across that sort of gentlemanly consideration very often these days."

"Why thank you ma'am. Just as soon as I get in touch, I'll run the idea by Hope, now that you and I have had our little discussion, okay?"

"I'll make certain she gets the message you called."

"I appreciate that and I hope to meet you and the rest of your family in person soon, if we can arrange it."

"The pleasure will be mine. Goodbye, Daniel."

When Hope returned my call the following evening, some three months had elapsed since her departure from California.

"Hey Daniel, it's Hope. My mom said you called. What's up?"

"Well I was just sitting around the old cottage here wondering if you felt like some company? I'd love to come see you and check out Texas. I don't recollect I've ever been in the Lone Star State."

I threw in the Texas tourist bullshit as a safety valve. I had no desire to visit other than seeing Hope. It was a minor ploy to deflect my eagerness should she not be on the same page about picking things up where we left them off.

"It's about time. I was wondering what was taking you so long. I was afraid you might have met someone else."

Her words instantly erased my doubts about how she was feeling about me. I sensed excitement in the tone of her voice as well. She sounded like she missed me as much as I was missing her.

"Hope, there is no one else. All I've been thinking about for the past three months is when I'd get to see you again. There's a flight I can book for next Friday night. Is there any chance you can fetch me at DFW?"

"Sounds like a great plan! Let me know what time you're getting in and I'll swing by, sweetie pie," she replied.

When the plane landed in Dallas at 7PM a thunderstorm was building in the western sky. It was hot and humid, about 88 degrees. I was still wearing the sweater I'd put on earlier to cut the chill I'd left behind in the brisk and cool California afternoon. It could have been nerves or the thick, heavy moisture in the air, but I was sweating bullets when Hope met me at the gate.

"You're wearing too many clothes," she said, putting her arms around me and planting a big, wet kiss on my mouth.

"I like where you're going with that, but shouldn't we at least wait until we get back to your place? I've really missed you too, but there's no big rush, right?"

"If you say so, I guess. But in the meantime, at least peel off that cardigan before you faint. You're lucky to last five minutes outside with that thing on."

We drove to her apartment and dropped off my suitcase packed with threads designed for a much cooler climate. I hadn't even bothered throwing in a pair of shorts. Hope chuckled at my lack of preparedness for her hometown weather.

She watched me unpack my bag.

"Daniel, you can't run around Dallas in any of this stuff. Let's take you shopping for some duds, then go grab a bite, okay?"

"Sure, but back at the airport you couldn't wait to get me out of my clothes? What happened to that plan? Did you have a change of heart?"

"Not at all. We just need to take care of some practical matters first. Like eating, for instance. It'll build up our energy for later tonight, okay?"

"Fine with me. Come to think of it, I haven't eaten since this afternoon. Suppose I'm up for some vittles. Isn't that what folk call food down here? Vittles? Or is it grub? I ferget."

"Y'er darn tootin' Buckaroo, and if we're really lucky, they'll be some fresh road kill we can pick up layin' in the gutter on the way back to the ranch. We'll need sumthin' to gnaw on after our romp in the hay out in the barn, right?"

"You betcha, Cowgirl! Yee Haw! Let's skedaddle!"

I was feeling mighty pleased about my decision to get me a taste of some good ol' Southern hospitality.

We stopped at the Galleria Mall. Hope picked out threads she thought would be more suitable for the climate that would also erase the geek factor of the clothes I'd brought with me. She went for the hip, retro look with a distinct 1950's flavor. Being somewhat old fashioned when it came to covering my skin, I'd always thought plaid flannel shirts were the epitome of high fashion.

"You know, this stuff you just handed me was in vogue when I was a kid. My father's closet is still full of crap that looks just like this," I told her as she dropped a pile of shirts in my lap to try on.

"Well, your dad's got great taste."

"Or he's a cheapskate and never buys new stuff."

"There," she said to the cashier, handing over my new gear, "now I can be seen out in public with this Yankee."

"So, where's a decent place to eat around these here parts?" I drawled on our way out of the store.

"There's a funky little neighborhood right near the University of Texas. We'll cruise around there until we find somewhere interesting looking. The district has plenty of live music, bars, and restaurants serving all kinds of ethnic food. You'll love it."

We explored the sights, sounds and smells around the university until the skies threatened rain and the clock ticked toward midnight. We made it back to her place just as the clouds let loose a torrential downpour. Hope introduced me to her roommates and we had a quick beer with them to cut the heat and humidity before excusing ourselves.

"You two must be tired," Margie said, winking slyly as we headed down the hallway.

"Yes, indeed. Tired of waiting," I said, closing the bedroom door behind me.

We agreed that another period of long separation was out of the question for us. All throughout the night and the following day we talked about our plans for the future. We both felt strongly we belonged together and decided then and there to take the relationship to the next level.

Hope was concerned about how her family would react to her moving to California. Her announcement she'd be leaving Texas once again was not going to be easy for any of them to swallow, especially her mother.

"I don't know what my mom is going to think."

"Hope, obviously I don't know Katherine, but I'm willing to bet if she's ever been in love, she'll be supportive of your decision."

"She's had a very rough life. Her ex-husband was physically and mentally abusive. There isn't a time I remember when Katherine wasn't struggling with one thing or another, but her children have always remained her number one priority. This news isn't going to thrill her, believe me. Once she gets over her initial shock and disappointment, I think she may come around. I know more than anything else in the world she wants me to be happy."

Hope was also worried about quitting another job without giving two weeks notice and what the resulting gaps in her resume would look like to future prospective employers.

"Who's going to hire me without decent references? My last two job assignments are useless. I'll have walked away from both of them right after completing orientation."

It was a legitimate concern, but I quickly tried to dispel her fear.

"The demand for nurses is always high. I'm sure you'll find another job within in a week or two of searching. Look, I bet everyone in your family will be shocked when we spring this on them, but once they see how happy we are together they'll give us their blessings."

"Daniel, I hope we're not acting on impulse and behaving foolishly. It's easy to get caught up in this moment. How do we know we're doing the right thing?"

"Obviously there are no guarantees in life. And yes, this is a huge gamble, but it's what makes this so exciting. Like they say, no risk, no reward, right? And what other choices do we really have? Feeling miserable when we're apart? Hope, I love living in California, but I'll move to Texas if that's what it takes for us to be together."

"And I love my family. But I also know if it weren't for them, I wouldn't have come back here at all. They're my only real ties to Texas. And Danny, let's face it, we'd both be miserable if we were living here."

"Then it's settled. Let's start packing. You're moving to Carmel."

We finally dragged ourselves out of bed, loaded up the Blazer and headed east. Sitting in the middle of nowhere, Terrell was flat, dull and motionless. The state mental institution and a Wal-Mart were the town's main attractions. It looked lifeless and felt poor. I understood why Hope was on the road searching for somewhere, anywhere, else to live.

"This is really depressing. I can't believe this is where you grew up."

"Yeah? Stick around for a while. It gets even worse after a day or two. There is absolutely nothing to do here."

"I guess it's no surprise you needed to get away."

"As long as I can remember I felt like an outsider here. The people are basically good. You know, salt of the earth. But it's stifling. This is your typical small American town. There are thousands like it all across the country."

She pulled the Blazer into the driveway of a thoroughly average looking house on a dusty street lined with cookie cutter replicas. We both took deep, cleansing breaths, looked at each other with sheepish grins, and headed up the walkway to her mother's front door.

Katherine, her husband Jimmy Carl, and his three kids were watching a football game on television. Stale cigarette smoke infused the carpeting and walls.

"How ya'll doin'? C'mon in and make yourself comfortable. Welcome to our humble abode, Daniel. Sure is nice to meet ya," Jimmy Carl said with a wide toothless grin.

The man of the house was about 45, skinny as a rail and completely bald. J.C. was a good ol' boy that worked and played hard, and apparently had a history of drinking hard. Katherine married him five years earlier, after his former wife went out for a pack of smokes and never came back. In her absence J.C. took solace in the bottle until he nearly killed a pedestrian while driving drunk. It was a wake-up call that likely saved his life. Despite his problems he'd done a good job raising three kids on his own.

Everyone in Texas seemed to use their initials instead of their names. J.C., J.R, B.J., these were comfortable sounding monikers. I always wanted to use initials, but D.F. leant itself too easily to poking fun at. I assumed everyone would assume it stood for Dumb Fuck, and let it go.

I saw how a poor diet and lifestyle choices had taken their toll on Katherine's health. She didn't look well. Unfortunately, Katherine refused to accept anyone's medical advice, stubbornly rejected advice from Hope and others about changing her routine. As a result, she endured nearly constant pain.

"So, the mysterious gentleman caller from California has arrived. Hello Daniel, I'm Hope's mother Katherine and I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance," she said by way of introduction, carrying in a tray of cheese and crackers from the nearby kitchen. "Can I bring you something to drink? Would you care for some soda or iced tea?"

"Tea sounds good, thanks. It's so nice to meet you in person Katherine. You have such a lovely home. I'm so glad I was able to come and visit Hope and get to meet you as well. I see now where your lovely daughter gets her stunning good looks."

"Why thank you Daniel. Please sit down and make yourself at home. I'll just be a second."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, just make yourself comfortable and I'll be right back with some refreshments."

I commented on the weather being much hotter than I was used to in California.

"Daniel, you think this is hot? This is nothing," J.C. chimed in from the recliner. "Why you ought to c'mon back this way and visit us in August. Makes today's weather seem like winter. Say, did ya'll get the thunderstorm over in Dallas on Friday night? It was a real doozy here!"

"As a matter of fact, we did. Hope and I were on our way back to her place and the sky just opened up on us. Soaked us to the skin when we were running for cover at her apartment building. Boy, it sure was something else. It was so hot I thought the clouds were sweating. You sure that was rain? We don't get rain like that out in California."

"Hey Danny, good one! Sweating clouds. I never heard that before. I'm going to have to remember it!" J.C. laughed with a slap of his knee.

I was on a desperate and deliberate campaign to soften up the crowd. Between the bullshit I was slinging at Hope's mom and the crap I was heaving nonstop at J.C., I hoped to lessen the blow of the news we were about to lay on the kinfolk.

But the temperature inside the house was messing with my plans. For some reason, even though it was hotter than hell outside, the furnace was turned up full blast inside the house. If I could manage to avoid having my brain melt through my ear canals and drip out down the side of my neck, I figured we'd eventually make it out of there alive.

Needing access to fresher air particles than the overcooked Marlboro remnants I'd been inhaling since my arrival, under the guise of feigned interest, I asked for a tour of the property.

The backyard was scattered with random pieces of junk, old appliances, rusted car fenders and doors, tractor axles and wheels, and various piles of discarded and worn out tools. Corn grew in neat little rows against the back fence. In one corner, a small cow was being hassled by a lively little black and white dog.

It was Lucy, Hope's Sheltie, who ended up staying with Katherine after flying to Texas from Seattle. Hope found her at a breeder in Galveston and was smitten with the three-week old pup. She'd walk with her on the beach overlooking the Gulf, holding her in the palm of one hand. They'd traveled together for most of the year, but Hope put her on a plane home to avoid inhaling the smell of ripe cur barf on the final leg of her journey back to Texas.

"Hey there," I greeted the energetic pup who raced toward me, then around me, then at me, then around me again repeatedly. Clearly, I'd been falsely identified an escapee from the sheepfold. Lucy eventually snapped out of her herding instinct mode and came over to say a proper howdy do by shoving her nose up my ass.

Meanwhile, the rest of Hope's family was gathering at Katherine's house after church. From their pickup trucks they carried in baskets of foodstuffs. A potluck supper was set up on a folding aluminum table that included a batch of cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven. Soon the clan was loading huge helpings of home cooked food onto their plates and eagerly feasting.

I pulled Katherine aside.

"Tell me about your daughter. Is there anything I need to know?"

"Listen carefully, Daniel. Hope is a treasure. She is highly gifted, intelligent, extremely caring, deeply loyal and wise beyond her years. If I ever hear about you mistreating her in any way, shape or form I will personally make sure you pay dearly for that mistake. I own a gun and know how to use it," she said matter-of-factly.

"Don't worry. You have nothing to be concerned about. Say, have you by any chance shared your cinnamon roll recipe with Hope? They're absolutely delicious," I said, shifting gears while further kissing up to mama.

When everyone was seated in Katherine's den with bellies filled, Hope got everyone's attention and announced to the crowd she was moving to California and would be leaving the following day.

I gazed around at the dropped jaws. In the silence that followed I thought to myself, "Whoa, this isn't looking good at all."

I wondered if I was about to be escorted to the edge of town and kicked into to the next county with a swift boot in the same ass infatuating Lucy. Or maybe strung up with a rope around my neck on the ominous looking oak tree I eyed out back while playing a round of anus tag with the pooch?

Thankfully my fears were unwarranted. The family members collectively shook their heads in mild disbelief. They knew Hope had always been a maverick and this latest bombshell was yet another example of her smashing the mold. It was a shocker, they told me, but at the end of the day not completely unexpected, given Hope's history.

The clan quickly rallied behind us and pitched in to help load up the Blazer with most of the stuff Hope was storing at her mom's place.

V

Since the drive back to California would likely involve vast quantities of canine barf and my landlady didn't allow pets Katherine agreed to keep Lucy. We'd send for the pup after finding a pet friendly rental.

At 8AM, Hope telephoned Baylor and informed the hospital she was resigning her position effective immediately. We took the Blazer in for servicing and were on the road by noon. The plan was to take turns behind the wheel and drive straight through to Carmel. I called my boss to inform him what was going on and to request a few extra days off.

We scratched our way through the desolate countryside of West Texas. By early evening we approached the starkly beautiful high deserts of New Mexico. I drove throughout the night, beneath millions of stars and past hundreds of silent mountains, into and then across the Great Divide. Hope held me with her gentle voice and soothing hands as the asphalt ribbon stretched beneath our spinning wheels.

The road trip was the beginning of what would eventually become us. What I remember was feeling comforted. She shared with me her wisdom and simple understanding of the world, and gave me a sense of balance I was previously missing.

Dawn broke over Tucson as we crossed the Mojave in the cool dry early morning light. Breakfast in Palm Springs a few hours later was as good a time as any to prepare Hope for our brief stop in L.A. at my sister Veronica's house.

"Listen Hope, about my family, I feel the need to warn you that they're a peculiar lot."

"Yeah? Well you just met my folks. Guess what? We're even."

"No, I don't think you get it. You have a normal family. They were polite and gracious. A bit too conservative for my taste, but I won't hold their political views against them. And I'm glad I got to meet your family. I found them likable and hope they feel similarly about me."

"Thanks Daniel. Like I told you, salt of the earth."

"Right. Anyway, about my family...they're crazy. I think most of them are certifiably insane."

"Oh, come on. That can't be right. What are you talking about?"

"Look at it this way. Just for the sake of comparison, your family's been through some tough times, but despite facing hardships they're good people who've cultivated decency and kindness in their hearts. My family's different. I'm going to let you meet them and draw your own conclusions. I'm simply trying to give you a little head's up, that's all. Trust me, they're a little, how should I put this...off kilter?"

"Okay. But I still don't get it. How so?"

"You really want me to get into this?"

"You started it, so yeah, I guess I do."

"Okay, I suppose since I opened up Pandora's box I might as well give you some basics."

"Do you know what was inside?"

"Inside of what?"

"The box Pandora opened."

"I forget, though I'm pretty sure it was some pretty nasty stuff."

"Yeah, there were horrible things in there. Pandora cracked open the lid, and let sickness, suffering, jealousy, greed and hate escape into the world. The myth supposedly represents evil and all the other cruel things that freeze the heart and bring on old age."

"Really? Go on, please."

"One truly good thing remained inside her box. When she shoved the lid back on the box, it was technically a jar but we needn't get into that now...as soon as she realized all the evil she'd introduced into the world of man, she clamped it back down as quickly as she could."

"Sure, it's coming back now...I do remember that part of the story."

"So, smart guy, what remained inside the jar?"

"Hmmm. I need to think about it for a minute...Let's see...Sex?"

"Nice try, but wrong."

"Makeup...hair care products...no, that doesn't sound right. Cash?"

"Not even close."

"Okay, I give up. What?"

"Only one good thing came to man in the jar and remains to comfort him in his distress. It was the Spirit of Optimism."

"Wow, interesting. How do you know all that?"

"I studied Greek Mythology in high school. I thought it was an interesting parable."

"Well played, my dear. I trust you were awarded an "A" in the course. You deserved one."

"So, how does your family relate to what I just described? Remember, you're the one who brought this up in the first place."

"Fine. I'll give it a shot. I think it goes back to our childhood. After all, doesn't everything...anyway...I have two older sisters, right? So along comes yours truly...I'm the cute little bundle of joy mom brought home from the hospital, you follow? I'm sure it was exciting for my sisters at the time, but fast-forward to the present and nothing's changed since the day I invaded their turf. I think in many ways they're still seeing me as a dependent child being fawned over by my parents."

"That sounds pretty normal."

"Yeah? Well they've never gotten over it. They still insist I was the favorite kid. They've convinced themselves my mother doted on me exclusively, spoiled me rotten, that I had her wrapped around my little finger. I have a really different recollection of things. I figured out early on that by the time I arrived on the scene my parents had basically folded the whole tent on acting like modern day model parents. My sisters were the ones who got the piano lessons, the braces, sent to summer camp, new dolls and frilly dresses. And I was sort of left out of all that. Well, not the doll and dresses thing, thank goodness, but you get the picture. Seems no matter what I do now I'm still considered the baby of the family. I'm a grown man. It's ridiculous they treat me like I'm still a little kid."

"So, what's the big deal? Ignore it."

"Easier said than done. They're always trying to protect me. I suppose they mean well, but I'm fully capable of handling my own affairs. I'm living my life the way I determine it ought to be lived. My sisters are very quick to jump into the mix if I decide to act unconventionally in their eyes, or do something that's contrary to their opinion of how things ought to be handled. I certainly don't solicit or need their advice, but I get their input nonetheless. There have been numerous instances when their opinions have been expressed with outcomes the very opposite of constructive. Of course, I might also be overreacting at times, but we have an ugly history of nasty arguments that ended up in long periods of not speaking to one another."

"I can see how those issues could become a problem. But I have the opposite view. I'm the oldest child in my family and feel responsible for my younger siblings. I took care of them when my mom was working and having relationship problems with men, so it's natural for me to have a mothering instinct."

"I agree, but neither of my sisters were ever actively involved in raising me. That was my mother's job, and she was quite successful at it until she passed away. But I was 17, and my sisters were already out of the house by then. Besides, despite all that, I think I turned out okay. I'm not perfect...who is...but I'm a relatively normal and productive human being, right?"

"I hope so. From what I've seen so far, I'd say you're doing well and have a pretty good handle on sanity."

"Right. I mean there's always room for improvement, but I've done okay so far."

"So, look the other way when your sisters try to interfere."

"You'll see what I'm talking about when you meet them. Look, they can be very charming, but just try to avoid getting sucked in."

We headed up the hill and into Palos Verdes. I didn't call ahead to let them know I was coming. Veronica, her husband James, and their kids, Jonathon and Olivia were home. The last time I'd seen them was four months earlier, at Jonathon's Bar Mitzvah.

In the two hours we visited there were at least a half dozen assorted characters dropping in and out, with at least twice that number of telephone calls constantly interrupting our conversation. It was a fairly typical early afternoon for them, but to me their house resembled a gigantic circus.

Veronica was the queen bee in her hive. It was virtually impossible to have even a remotely consistent exchange of ideas in her domain, but that had always been the case whenever I visited and therefore not at all unusual. Spending time in that environment typically left me with a throbbing headache. There were always far too many distractions and nothing ever seemed to flow naturally.

Veronica and James were obsessed with real estate. Home improvement projects were never ending. The houses they occupied were continually being remodeled, repaired, redecorated and resold. Their lifestyle to me appeared extremely chaotic. But for them it paid off handsomely as they'd reaped considerable financial rewards over the years.

"Hey guys," I said cheerfully walking into the living room. "We were just driving around in the neighborhood and thought we'd drop by and see what you were up to this fine afternoon. This is my friend Hope. We met a few months ago. I was in Dallas this past weekend visiting her and we decided we're going to live together in Carmel."

There was some prior commotion concerning Olivia's dollhouse construction design and I wasn't certain anyone had really heard me.

Then the dam broke loose, but the flood that followed wasn't the one I was bracing myself for. Before anyone had a chance to react to what I'd said, the telephone rang. It was Juan, the gardener, needing clarification on the delivery schedule of the foliage Veronica ordered from the nursery for installation at the front entry way that was apparently suffering from insufficient landscaping, though I noticed nothing out of the ordinary, save for the presence of the racially charged little black Sambo statuette holding an iron ring I presumed was designed to constrain a small pony or large dog? Veronica rattled off detailed instructions for her groundskeeper in Spanish I assumed included specific types of leafage, plants, flowers, greenery, ground cover, sprinkling systems, fertilizers, soil mix, mulch, bark, edging, decorative paving stones and cutesy ceramic frog ornaments.

"So, Daniel, what were you saying? Why are you here?" Veronica wondered. The grip the surrounding terrain and its deplorable state of disarray holding the focus of her attention had momentarily lifted.

"Veronica, I'd like you to meet my friend Hope," I said once more, by way of introduction.

"Hello Hope. And what exactly are you doing with my brother?" she asked in a mildly threatening tone.

"We just stopped by for a quick visit on our way back to Carmel. I hope we're not interrupting anything important," Hope replied.

"Daniel, what are you doing here? Why aren't you in Carmel? Who is this woman?" She was pointing at Hope with a well-shaped and expertly painted but nevertheless fake acrylic nail glued to the end of her forefinger.

"We're on our way back to Carmel from Dallas. Hope is moving there. We're going to live together."

"What? Are you out of your mind! You've got to be kidding. This is a joke, Daniel, right? I mean, come on, what's really going on?"

I tried to explain once again, but in the middle of my doing so, someone walked through the door. Her friend Nancy hadn't fully maneuvered her way into the kitchen/dining area where we stood talking.

In her screeching, piercing whine that typified Nancy's normal speech pattern, she yelled out, "Veronica, there's a red truck with Texas license plates packed full with all sorts of crap in your driveway. What's going on around here now?"

Nancy turned the corner and saw me just as my sister started screaming back at her, trying to outdo her pronouncement with a slightly elevated shrieking of her own.

"You are not going to believe this! Daniel and this girl, I guess she's from Texas of all places, are on their way to Carmel to live together!" Veronica screamed, pointing her talon once more directly at Hope.

"Who is she?" Nancy asked.

"I have no fucking idea. They got here two minutes before you walked in. Can you believe this? He's always doing crazy shit like this." The finger pointing shifted over to where I was standing in order to properly identify the guilty party.

The atmosphere of insanity was maintained through lunch. We finally excused ourselves and continued our journey northward, having executed our escape from the mental institution relatively unharmed.

"So, what did I tell you? Whackos, no?"

"They seemed nice. It was a little loud, but they're charming in their own way. I do see what you mean, though. Whatever's going on in there is a little hard for me to figure out, having just met them."

"Nice? They treated you like you were a gold digger on the brink of weaseling me out of my nonexistent fortune. I'm sure they pegged you as a Texas hussy from the minute you walked in the door. God, they're so embarrassing."

"Look, it's not all their fault Daniel. We did pop in without any warning. Veronica's initial reaction was somewhat justifiable. She did settle down somewhat after the initial shock of our unannounced arrival wore off."

"Maybe you're right. I don't know. I'm not sure how differently it would have gone back there if I had called ahead. I never know how any of them will react to anything, ever, especially Veronica. She's extremely erratic."

"I will say one thing I hope doesn't offend you. It does seem like they're very...how should I put this...self-indulgent? They talked about themselves, their houses, cars, furniture and their stuff, but little else ever came up."

"Hope, you just hit the nail on the head. That's what the Southern Cal lifestyle is all about. People down here are focused on superficial externalities and everything else is put on the back burner. It's the primary reason I moved away. I couldn't stand it anymore. Everyday people don't seem to count here. But if you're a celebrity you're worshipped. The whole town is one big phony façade. People's priorities are all screwed up."

"There does seem to be a lot of attention placed on trivial things that really don't matter in the long run. It's kind of disheartening to see such an overemphasis on materialism."

"I've often felt that Veronica's carpenter meant more to her than I ever did. But he'll probably get thrown under the bus when someone else rolls by one day. It'll probably be some dude who's handy with a paintbrush and is willing to work for peanuts. I swear the place really is a circus."

"Daniel, you need to let it go. Just forget about it. We have each other now," she reassured me.

The drive home up Highway One was perfectly timed. The sun was setting when we arrived back in Carmel. We headed to the beach and walked hand in hand along the waterfront. Standing next to the rock by the sewer pipe where the wheels where set in motion three months earlier, we held each other as the blazing pastel sky faded into a deep violet night alive with stars.

"I can't believe I'm actually here. This is the happiest moment of my life," Hope gently whispered.

I held Hope in my arms wanting to never let go.

Part Three: Faith Abandoned.

"There will always be something to ruin our lives, it all depends on what or which finds us first. We are always ripe and ready to be taken."

Charles Bukowski

I

I struggled long and hard to conquer demons, to start climbing out from beneath my suffocating pool of darkness. When I screwed up the courage to open the box of family photographs and saw our old correspondence sitting beneath them, I stared in frozen panic. I knew that rereading those letters and reliving the moments they captured would be extremely difficult.

But revisiting Hope's letters was not as painful as I first imagined. On the first night I spent alone in the house six weeks after Hope was gone, I mustered the fortitude to examine in earnest the weighty contents. As I wandered through those letters and pictures and revisited their history, the crushing weight of emotions begrudgingly began to lighten and lift.

The eight years Hope Chase and I shared together went by all too quickly. We married, became the parents of two children and were well on our way to building a happy and wonderful life together. But that dream ended, suddenly and shockingly, when I awoke to the nightmare of reality without her.

The letters I held in my hands were those we'd sent to one another during our courtship. Mixed in with talk of jobs and other mundane things, we shared the frustrations of physical separation and missing one another while living apart.

I remembered Hope telling me how difficult it would be for her to write letters. She had little faith in her ability to communicate through written words. But the missives she'd sent were sweet and funny. I smiled, something I thought was never going to happen again in the immediate aftermath of Hope's passing, but the burden of my grief was easing as the strength of her spirit was rising in me.

Those letters and photographs were all that remained as tangible evidence that our lives together were not something I'd only imagined or dreamed about. And now I clung to them instead of her. I thanked Hope for leaving me with more than mere memories of the life we shared together. My tears were mixed with sadness and joy.

She gave me two of the greatest gifts I could ever have wished for, our two beautiful children, a son we christened Joshua and a daughter by the name of Claire.

After three attempts to connect to the Internet I gave up trying. A persistent and frustrating technical glitch blocked my access. The small local dial up Internet service provider I used had a friendly technical support person I could contact for assistance. I phoned and he offered sympathy and solace, but no real help in resolving my problem.

"Mr. Ford, I'm afraid Qwest has a major trunk line down somewhere along the 70 miles separating Summit County from Denver. Until the phone company can locate and splice the break, the Internet won't be accessible from where you sit. I'm sorry, but there's nothing further we can do from our end to get you back online. We've been told they're working on the problem, but they haven't given us any estimate of how long it will take to finish the repair."

"So basically, what you're telling me is I'm fucked. Right?"

"Well I wouldn't say it quite that way, sir, but yes, the service is down and I really don't have any concrete information as to when we'll have you back up again."

The television set idled in neutral, it's blank screen dark and lifeless. The severed cable TV service, an entirely different one knocking the Internet out of commission, was badly misbehaving and seemed to be equally circumcised. But I was borrowing/stealing the public utility anyway, and had no reason or recourse to complain.

What was I supposed to do? Call them up and demand immediate restitution for my inconvenience?

"Hey, send one of your linemen over here and fix this lousy cable access I'm not paying for. And make it snappy, bub. I haven't got all day."

Even I couldn't bring myself to make such demands.

Instead, I hid in my roost while the corporate puppeteers controlling the universe were tugging randomly at the billions of interconnected strings sprouting up all over the planet. For the moment, the fiber optic and copper kudzu wasn't snaking its way over to my neck of the woods. It couldn't suck me into its web and capture my mind the way it did millions of others. Whatever was blocking my access to instantaneous worldwide news, information and what have you enabled me to escape inward. I could finally try to exercise my constitutional right to dwell upon a free and original thought.

And honestly, since I hadn't looked there for quite a while, I hoped some modicum of awareness might exist somewhere inside of me. But if not, then at least I knew why I'd all but lost my ability to think and possess a rational idea or two.

It'd been a pretty tough row to hoe those past few years and frankly I was tired. I thought of chucking the entire notion of ever trying to figure out why things had flown so off course. I knew I'd banked a wrong turn, but looking back and finding how it all happened and where, well that was the real story.

II

The sudden loss of a life partner is an extremely chaotic event. Words do not adequately describe the intensity and level of that psychic pain. Vulnerable people with broken hearts and shattered lives make mistakes. In the aftermath of personal tragedy, my future plans from that point forward became highly problematic.

I'd woken up one day a young widower raising two young children on my own and the rudder of my life shifted toward dangerous and unfamiliar waters. There was nothing ahead of me to adequately guide me forward through the fog of uncertainty. Nothing around me bore any likeness to anything I had ever known or felt before.

Nearly six years had passed and very little had significantly changed in the interim. I attempted to repair the damage but still had a completely broken life and equally destroyed spirit. It might've been simpler to fold the tent and call it quits, but it wasn't an option for two very important reasons. My children. I had an overriding responsibility to raise and guide them. My success (or failure...) in doing so would be the measure of how I would honor the spirit of Hope.

It was by far the biggest challenge of my life.

Around nine o'clock on a Sunday evening in early December of the year 2000, the phone rang and Claire yelled upstairs for me to pick up the line. With two actively social teenagers, it was no surprise the telephone was constantly ringing in the house. But the sound never, ever failed to startle me.

I was by then a withdrawn loner. Aside from the American Express reps checking in with regularity over the past few years, trying to collect on a $58 mistake they'd made on an old account I'd long since closed, no one ever called and asked to speak with me. At least no one I wanted to talk to.

There was one other person who did call me. Shortly after Hope slipped away, I encountered Faith. And she herself had since departed, but nowhere nearly as dearly.

I was in the process of trying to forget ever having known Faith. She was there and almost just as quickly she was gone. She was my third wife and like my first trial of wedlock with Carrie, our marriage did not survive long enough to reach a second anniversary.

We'd separated some three and a half months earlier, in late August. Our divorce papers had been finalized and were awaiting the judge's signature. On the surface at least, our breakup was friendly as neither of us outwardly displayed any hard feelings toward the other. Before the problems came to a head, we tried to make our lives work together. Then suddenly, after three years of living together and sixteen months of legal matrimony, Faith announced she needed something more than I could offer her. She moved out of our home in the mountains of Colorado in the middle of summer and by early autumn the rest of her meager belongings followed her out the door.

Faith's call was ostensibly made to ask me about the status of her check. She wanted to know when her divorce settlement funds were going to arrive in her mailbox. She was buying a condo in the nearby town of Frisco and the down payment was being funded with her half of the appreciated value of the real property she and I shared. Her mortgage broker required a paper trail of her current assets.

"I'm working on transferring the money. It's going to take a few more days," I told her.

"Okay. Should I park the cash temporarily in a taxable or tax-exempt money market fund?" she wondered.

"The taxable fund is fine," I replied.

Why was she was barking up that tree? Faith already knew a thing or two about money. She'd shown more than a passing interest in mine over the years. It was one compounding factor bolstering the bottom line of our growing list of problems.

Her voice droning on about her financial and real estate concerns pushed me further into apathy. I'd gradually grown less enthusiastic about most aspects of my existence (especially Faith...) over the last two years. Though there were numerous legitimate reasons why, I couldn't put my finger on the precise root cause. I was aware my life had devolved into a gigantic sack of shit. I just wasn't up to the task of determining how and why I'd gotten there.

I liked to believe it had more to do with her than me. Faith never seemed very exciting to me. Her presence seldom engendered thrill. On a good day, she was a rather unattractive woman. Her dull brown hair and blank brown eyes, pale white skin, crooked teeth and sharp nose were uninspiring. She wore little or no makeup, and for the most part surrendered in battle to the unrelenting army of hairy troops marching like ants across her feet, legs and underarms. She wanted her thick coarse body fur removed with a laser, but I opposed the expense as absurd. I was in the beginning mildly attracted to Faith's natural earthiness, but that animal spirit in me had long since migrated elsewhere.

I resisted marrying her for as long as I could, but in the end, she dragged me to the altar. I knew I was making a terrible mistake but she'd beaten me into submission. The power to exercise good judgment vanished after I lost Hope. All I wanted was to return to feeling normal, or at least something close to it, again. I speculated there was a chance that might be possible after marrying Faith, but knew in heart I was lying to myself.

Our phone conversation suddenly blasted into deep space when Faith asked if I'd gotten in touch with Jane yet. She'd been introduced to Jane through work and thought I'd be interested in going out on a date with her. Faith gave her my number.

My soon to be ex-wife wanting to fix me up with someone was questionable. But she kept asking and I had nothing to lose by possibly following up on the lead. Jane had already left two messages on my machine I hadn't bothered returning.

"Daniel, I think Jane is just looking to get laid. She recently broke up with her boyfriend. You should give her a call," Faith revealed.

"Well in that case, maybe I will get give her a jingle," I announced before signing off.

I stared through the skylight of my bedroom and into the infinite blackness beyond. I tallied up in my mental ledger the future in general and specifically as it pertained to women and saw it filled with zeroes. I picked up the phone and punched in Jane's number.

"Hello, is Jane there?" I asked the woman who hoisted up her end of the line and held it to her lips.

"Yes, this is Jane. Who's this?" she asked.

"Hello, Jane. This is Daniel Ford. I believe you left a couple of messages on my machine. I'm just now getting back to you. Sorry it's taken me so long. Is this a good time to talk?"

"Oh. Hi Daniel. Sure, it's fine. I just walked in the door. How are you?"

"I'm doing well, thanks. I apologize for not calling you back sooner. I've been a little busy the past few weeks. Christmas shopping, putting up decorations, getting ready for the holidays, you know, stuff like that," I explained.

I knew talking about my own miserable condition wasn't going to fly, so I started pretending I was living someone else's pathetic life instead of my own.

"Well, I know this might feel a little strange, but Faith said you were a nice guy so I figured why not? You are a nice guy, aren't you? I hope you don't think it was presumptuous of me to call you," Jane laughed nervously.

Only after Faith mentioned the better than even odds of me fucking Jane did I seriously consider (in all of 23 seconds...including dialing time) contacting the woman. She could presume anything she damn well pleased.

"No, its okay. I guess it's a little weird, but, yeah, she's right. I am a nice guy. Maybe I'm a little too nice, come to think of it. Anyway, what exactly did Faith tell you about me?"

"Not too much, really. You have two children, you work in Denver as a stockbroker, and the two of you ended your marriage on friendly terms. She suggested I call you and see if you wanted to meet me. I'm a little embarrassed, now that I'm actually talking to you," she admitted.

I angled there might have been more to Jane's conversation with Faith about me, but she artfully dodged the fat worm I dangled in front of her by saying she wanted to hear more from me directly in a face to face meeting. Jane sounded fairly normal, but they all did, in the beginning.

Jane told me she had three grown children not living with her, and that she also recently closed the books on a long-term relationship. After checking my calendar (I rustled some newspapers in the background for effect...) we agreed to meet at Starbucks three days later.

III

On Monday evening, around six o'clock, the phone rang and this time Joshua yelled up to me to take the call. Again, I was spending most of my time alone in my room behind the shut door and only emerging to referee the occasional bout of sibling rivalry or to forage about for a morsel of food.

More resilient than I throughout this period, the kids were doing a much better job of adapting to their father's solo head of household status. I'd put them on autopilot and they were both cruising along with little turbulence. All things considered and for the most part, Claire and Joshua were healthy, happy teenagers living the good life in the mountains of Colorado, skiing, snowboarding, enjoying school and hanging out with friends.

There were some lingering issues with Faith's abrupt departure, questions mostly as to why she'd split, but the children were fine with her leaving. They missed their mom, but having been so young when Hope died, their true awareness of losing her probably wouldn't start to fully impact them for a few more years.

Both Claire and Joshua seemed to have their acts together and exhibited no apparent psychological damage. But they were somewhat curious when the old man was going to climb out from the nether world he was occupying. Not surprisingly, he too was wondering the same thing about himself.

I picked up the phone.

It was Faith. Again. Who else? No one besides her ever called me.

Since we'd separated, I hadn't made a single call to Faith, except to return one of hers if she'd left me a message, primarily to keep the friendliness of our still not quite finalized divorce, well, friendly. Faith, on the other hand, was a consistent caller to me, with a pattern of disturbing two or three times a week my relatively empty but peaceful life.

"Hello. Daniel, I'm pregnant," Faith blurted into my ear.

And I realized then how the phrase "pregnant pause" came into being.

"Don't worry. It's not yours," she added, filling in my silent response.

For a fraction of a second, I panicked. Of course, I knew her bun in the oven wasn't mine. I'd been clipped, trimmed and knotted. After my vasectomy some twelve years back, my boys couldn't swim.

I was confident I was shooting blanks, but who knew? Besides, in the last several months Faith and I were together we hadn't had sex.

I figured some poor schmuck had knocked her up. I let out a huge sigh of relief when I glanced down at my crotch and realized my meat wasn't ground into a mini hamburger patty.

"I wanted to tell you myself, before you heard about it from someone else. I didn't want you to be mad at me if you found out from someone on the street," Faith confessed.

I thought her explanation was oddly phrased. I wasn't a street person and certainly didn't hang out with any I could remember off the top of my head.

The bombshell about Faith's pregnancy was like a baby grand piano being pushed out of a ten-story building. At first it hung in the air suspended above my head, but soon rapidly descended until the sheer weight of it all crashed to the sidewalk below and shattered into a million little pieces. Or maybe it was a baby playing a grand piano with no ear or musical talent whatsoever? Just banging on it, really.

At any rate I felt momentarily stunned by Faith's pronouncement. I had no inkling of how I should respond. Faith made it abundantly clear how more than anything in the world she'd desired to have a child of her own. That, and the crappy way she said I was raising my kids were the centerpieces on the smorgasbord of problems eating away at our failed marriage.

After Claire was born, I was convinced she was the last Ford to roll off of my assembly line. Bringing any more children into the world was a task I thought was best left to others. I thought I was too old to be a new daddy again and the two kids I had already fathered were sufficient progeny.

While I was crystal clear with Faith on the matter from the very beginning, she refused to let go of her plans to have a child with me. She most likely believed she could eventually convince me to restart the Ford factory, but I was steadfast in my resolve about it never happening.

To me, the most curious thing about Faith's announcement was my complete lack of knowledge of her even having started to date. Once the concept had registered in my brain, the further notion of her having sex with someone seemed even more outlandish.

Though my view was likely colored by her recent disregard for the sanctity of our marriage, I was astounded anyone would find Faith attractive enough to sleep with. But then again, many men were weak minded. After all, I too had been guilty of making rather poor decisions in my dealings with her.

Faith was not a sight for sore eyes. She hurt them. That she had actually seduced someone astonished me as much as the speed with which she pulled the whole thing off. Who was this guy anyway? How did the two of them hook up?

After our split up I wasn't really interested in what (or who...) Faith was doing. She was moving on with her life and it was none of my business. I never asked and she never brought it up.

However, once I became aware something was indeed up and whatever it was had blossomed into pregnancy, I was adrift in unfamiliar waters. I struggled with new and completely foreign attitudes toward her, the father to be, the happy couple, myself, fatherhood, sexual relations, sport fucking, couples, and coupling, and the general concepts of parenting, parenthood, and partnering.

I finally realized why Faith had repeatedly hounded me to start dating Jane. Guilt. Clearly, she had moved on and apparently wanted me to also once again start skipping merrily down the same imaginary primrose path we humans call love, when all too frequently the elusive emotion is something else entirely, like elevated hormone levels.

"So, who's the father?" I asked.

"His name is David."

"When did you meet him?"

"About two weeks after we separated."

"Are you planning on going through with the pregnancy?"

"Yes."

"How does he feel about it?"

"Excited."

"Is he someone you want to spend the rest of your life with?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Are you going to get married?"

"I don't know. I just got unmarried."

I made a lightning quick evaluation and told Faith it all sounded wonderful, she'd always wanted a baby and now she was having one and I offered my congratulations. Finally, I wished her the best of luck and hung up the phone.

Then the news sank in. I jumped into the banks of an emotional river and drifted along until I came to rest in the deep end of a psychological cesspool.

I realized Faith had known this dude longer than she'd let on. Maybe they started fooling around while she and I were still together? True, our romance had by then already been put out to pasture, but the timing of their meeting niggled my brain.

But my sentiments soon melted away and were replaced by feelings of relief, liberation and consolation. I was no longer tied to Faith, not even close to attaching to anyone else, and didn't have any of the complications typically associated with being intimately tied to a member of the opposite sex.

Faith, on the other hand, was pregnant, very recently divorced, and now intimately involved with a man she admitted to knowing for three months. I realized my unencumbered situation was far less confusing than what Faith might be up against.

The women who occupied my life, those with whom I had formed significant relationships and those I tried to love unconditionally, had in one way or another, always ultimately ended up disappointing me. I found the whole business of love, sex and relationships no longer worth fussing about. I concluded those things were highly overrated, that people spent far too much mental energy consumed with such things and in the final analysis these were disagreeable pastimes invariably ending badly for one, the other or both parties.

I woke up the next day feeling fuzzy, like the moldy leftover enchilada stuck behind the outdated container of what used to be milk in the fridge. I was fixated on Faith. I couldn't stop thinking about how, why, when and where she'd gotten knocked up.

My feelings about my ex-wife before she told me about her gestating little bundle of joy had been crystal clear. Then, out of nowhere, an army of angry killer bees with their poisonous, stinging pricks swarmed me. I couldn't make any pieces of the puzzle fit. Nothing Faith told me in the past three months even remotely gibed with the woman I thought I'd known for the past five years.

Maybe I wasn't listening? After Hope's death, I plunged headfirst into an inferno; the bottom was a drowning pool in the pitch-black darkness of hell. Though I could have easily given up, I knew I had no choice but to keep my wits about me. Falling apart wasn't a viable option. Would I have kept my head above water were it not for my children?

Faith's arrival a year later temporarily contained the carnage. Though she dressed and administered my psychic wounds, she couldn't heal my broken and battered heart. The only one remotely capable of doing that was myself.

I didn't blame Faith for our problems. In my weakened emotional state, I'd lost the ability to think and act clearly. I couldn't rationally control the situation.

Tending the exit wound that ripped me apart when Hope disappeared out of my life in the blink of eye was an impossible task for anyone. I didn't need the Band-Aid that Faith represented. I simply hadn't allowed myself enough time (would there ever be enough?) to fully process the enormity of having lost Hope.

IV

Maybe I wasn't paying attention, but Faith's announcement she was leaving blindsided me. Our marriage was rocky but didn't seem so far gone that dissolving it was the only solution. I thought it might actually still be salvageable.

We had our share of problems. All marriages do. It's part of the process. Yes, the sparks of joy had dimmed noticeably. I suppose Faith believed they could never be revived.

Despite my recent despair I was deep down an optimist who would look for the light at the end of any tunnel. And I'd always been adaptable and willing to listen to reason. But then again, I did hold steadfast onto certain unshakeable principles that were my core values. Honesty. Integrity. Character. Those were integral parts of me that I would never compromise, for Faith or anyone else.

But something had suddenly changed. Whatever shifted was written on Faith's face and carried in the tone of her voice. She'd crossed over a line from which I realized there would be no turning back.

Why did she decide to end the marriage? Did she stop loving me? Or was she unwilling or unable to learn the tricky dance steps are necessary to make a marriage last?

Days after her announcement, I was relieved Faith was gone. The tensions building in our house over many months, especially between Faith and the children, had become stretched beyond a reasonable point. There was too much fighting and nitpicking. The disrespect and ugliness were palpable and we all wanted to declare a cease-fire and put an end to the escalating hostilities.

Then Faith handed me a Get out of Jail Free card. Well, not completely free, but the exit plan was craftily negotiated by my attorney to have minimal impact on my overall net worth.

So, the waves of emotions that washed over me in the weeks after she moved out of the house were now settled in a warm tidepool of calm. I was finally clear to consider the possibilities of a brighter future. And there I waded comfortably and undisturbed, until word of Faith's pregnancy flooded across my safe little harbor of sentiment.

When Faith announced her exit from the Ford household, she told me how three days after jumping onboard, she ignored her instinct to hop off the train. She said I talked her out of leaving when she knew she should have. I had no memory of the conversation. And her only mentioning it to me five years later, after her decision to leave was already made, seemed pointless and somewhat mean-spirited.

The phone rang. Faith. Again, wanting to speak to me. Although I'd already assured her before it would be coming soon, her excuse for this phone call was once more related to the whereabouts of her divorce settlement, as the money hadn't yet transferred over into her bank account.

"How are you doing?" I asked.

"Not good. Sick, actually," she answered.

The conversation lasted for well over an hour and in it I was finally able to tell her the truth about my feelings.

I explained how our relationship failed primarily due to my being unable to fully surrender to her. I'd held something back in reserve, and would always keep an enduring private, protective and sacred space in my heart for Hope. I told her not to blame herself. And that she hadn't hurt me when she left, because I was already numb to begin with.

"So, what's the story with the father, this David dude you mentioned last night? Is there anything else you can share besides his name?"

"Well, we started dating about two weeks after you and I separated. He's a musician and a really good person. He's a little afraid of you," she said.

"Afraid of me? Why? He doesn't even know me."

"He thinks you're going to kick the shit out of him."

"Really? That's weird. What did you tell him about me? Did you tell him I was a violent person or something?"

"He thinks you think he stole your woman."

"Stole my woman? You're joking. Did he really say that?"

"Yes."

"Then tell him he has nothing to worry about. He did me a favor."

"He can't understand why you don't want me."

"I'd be happy to explain it to him. But I'm sure he'll figure it out for himself soon enough."

Faith said David worked as counterman in the deli section of Albertson's in Breckenridge. Faith was a vegetarian and hadn't eaten meat in years. I must've seen him before. I'd stopped by there to pick up cold cuts and sliced cheeses on numerous occasions. I figured he was the skinny dude with glasses wearing a hairnet.

"He's thirty years old, and a roommate of Sammy Green. They're in the same band. We saw them play at the Dillon Dam Brewery last summer. Remember? The Soap Eating Monkeys?"

"Oh! That guy? Yes, I do remember him. A real scrawny kid, looks about eighteen? Plays a left-handed rhythm guitar? That's him? He's the father? He's your new boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"Wow, incredible. He looks so young. Is he old enough to drive? Faith, are you sure he's legal? Really, the guy looks like a fourteen-year old kid."

"Well you look about eighty."

"Very funny. I want to make sure I have this straight. He's twelve and works as a meat slicer? Faith, you're a vegan wannabe and he might press charges against you for child molestation. You don't see any potential problems in this new relationship?"

Her rose colored glasses weren't fogging up.

"No, not really. Harley loves him."

Harley was the Border Collie/Saint Bernard mix Faith and I rescued from the animal shelter. We still shared joint custody of him after our separation. In fact, were it not for Harley, would we have gone our separate ways long ago? Harley was the only real glue keeping the two of us together.

"Well, I guess there's no way I can compete with a guy who smells like salted and cured meats when he comes home from work every night, can I? Faith, you should keep Harley from now on."

The dog had been with me for the last several days acting depressed. Now I understood why. He missed David.

"Are you two living together?"

I wondered how she might be enjoying inhaling the corned beef and smoked tongue funk he brought home from work. I knew Faith was not into giving or getting tongue of any kind. Pickled, smoked, boiled or otherwise, she could care less. Maybe his big salami was a factor?

"No, we're not living together, but he's over at my place all the time."

"That sounds a lot like living together. Listen up, Toots. You're about to close escrow on a one-bedroom condo in January. Sounds pretty cozy for you, Harley, your new man, and this baby on the way. Faith, do you have any idea what you're doing? What you're about to get into? This whole thing sounds a little crazy. Does he have a big salami?"

I muttered the last part under my breath.

"We want to make it work. You and Hope did it. Other people do it. Lots of pregnancies aren't planned."

"And lots of people are miserable. Don't you think this is rather soon? You don't even know this guy. You can't possibly know him. You haven't had any time to get to know him."

She was familiar with the story of how Hope and I met. How we had a similar experience of getting pregnant with Joshua shortly after we started living together.

"So, you're using me as a guide? You think that since Hope and I succeeded you will to?"

"We can make it. Lots of people struggle. It's called sacrifice."

"It's called suicide Faith. I understand how you two are now in so-called love and the world is a very beautiful place. Hell, I remember the Sixties. I was there. But soon all of it's going to change. You're going to get fat. Whatever sex you're having now, and I do hope it's a lot better than what you and I had going on in the bedroom, will soon come to a screeching halt."

I paused for her to interject a comment but none was offered so I kept talking.

"Your little boyfriend is going to wake up shortly and the cold hard cold cuts of life are going smother him like an overly Miracle Whipped sub sandwich. He's going to resent you as soon as he realizes his dream of becoming the next Jimi Hendrix or Kurt Cobain is over and he's smack dab in the middle of a stack of smelly diapers. I don't care how much he thinks he's in love with you now. It's going to change. I've been there, I know. I speak from firsthand experience. You two haven't had enough time to develop your relationship before introducing Junior into the mix. You don't have to go through with this. There are alternatives. Abortion is legal now. Has been for 25 years or so. Come to think of it, I remember when they passed the law! Why not end this pregnancy, hang out for a year or so with David, and re-evaluate your situation then?"

"I can't. It's not right, for me."

"What do you mean it isn't right for you? You're not religious. I'm not even sure you ever really converted. Are you still Jewish? Were you ever Jewish? Come to think of it, maybe you and I weren't even married. Maybe the ceremony was a sham? It seemed a bit staged. But never mind. Why can't you get an abortion?"

"I just can't."

"Of course, you can. But you won't. Have you talked to anyone else about this? Have you been to any counseling? Planned Parenthood?"

"No."

"It might not be such a bad idea. Bounce some ideas off of impartial people. What about your friends and family? How are they reacting to this news?"

"I'm getting lots of cards that are very supportive, congratulating me. My sisters are excited for me and so is my mom."

"How is your mom? Maybe I should give her a call. We haven't spoken in ages. Faith didn't you and I receive similar cards wishing us luck and a happy life together? When was that, a year and a half ago? Look at us now. Those people aren't telling you the truth. They're just afraid to upset you now. You're not freaked out by any of this? You must be completely freaked out. I can't imagine what you must be going through. You must be in shock."

"I think I can do this. You know how much I've wanted a baby Daniel. I really want this to happen."

"For what its worth, I think you are making a terrible mistake. I'm not suggesting that you can't succeed. What I'm trying to point out is how you're stacking the odds against yourself of pulling the whole thing off without a major hitch. You need more time to develop your relationship with David. Our marriage officially ended two weeks ago. Have you even given yourself a chance to think about that? Was I that insignificant? Most people date awhile, figure out what they want, weigh various qualities in a prospective future mate and then plan accordingly. You have no plan. You have a situation being forced upon you because you elected to fool around and not to use birth control. Why choose to do this to yourself, or to him for that matter? It doesn't make any sense."

I wasn't one to lecture. I made similar choices that miraculously actually worked out extremely well, at least until the cruel hand of fate intervened and upset the apple cart.

"Well, I still think we can make this work."

"Okay. I'm done trying to reason with you. I wish you the very best. Good luck, you have my blessings. I hope things work out for you, honestly, Faith, I do."

I ran out of energy trying to debate an unwinnable point. People refuse to open their eyes to things they have no intention of seeing. Everyone navigates through life at his or her own pace and though it frequently ends up being a rather messy affair, experiencing circumstance themselves is the only way people learn anything.

Or maybe Faith just wanted to have a baby, and was willing to throw all caution to the wind in order to become a parent. Maybe she didn't use any birth control on purpose?

V

Faith phoned me from work around noon and started hounding me about Harley's visitation schedule. I was having trouble focusing on the absurdity of her words until she started voicing concern about some unusual cramping she was experiencing. Her doctor told her it was nothing to be alarmed about.

She gave me the phone number where she was house sitting, in case I needed to contact her. I didn't bother writing it down since I was never going to dial that sequence of digits in a million years.

I was joking when I asked Faith for David's number, but she wouldn't give it to me anyway. She thought I wanted to harass him. But the only reason I asked was to harass her. The number itself, had she coughed it up, would have gone in one ear and out the other.

Then something strange happened. The thought of Faith with another man sank in fully and for some reason it more than bothered me. Perhaps it was a normal response, to be jealous of an ex-lover's new lover? But then I figured it was more about me being alone, rather than her having hooked up with someone else.

I reminded myself how I had much more work ahead of me to get spiritually and emotionally clear before I could begin even thinking about getting involved in another relationship. That Faith had quickly jumped out of and right back into another involvement helped deflect the sucker punch she'd thrown at me.

Faith asked me if I'd called Jane. I wanted to keep my private life private. But Faith was instrumental in concocting the meeting, so I blabbed to her about our having coffee, a decent repartee, and arranging for a second date for the following night. I reported that Jane was nice, more attractive than I imagined she'd be, but I wasn't sure what she'd thought about me. It shouldn't have mattered anyway. I had no business pursuing anything along those lines, but it was hard teaching an old dog new tricks. And I was geriatric, something along the lines of 336 in canine years.

Faith mentioned Jane might show up later in the day at her work. I asked her to do a little investigation about how Jane reacted to our coffee slurping session. It felt like junior high, my asking Faith to find out if Jane liked me.

Just after those words gushed over my lips, I realized how dumb I must have sounded. But it was the first time in a long time Faith and I were talking to one another in a friendly manner. I kept her on the phone longer than was necessary. I started to enjoy the conversation. It was a familiar voice with a more pleasant tone I hadn't heard in quite awhile.

A few days later Faith left another message on my answering machine, asking me to call her at the friend's house where she was staying. I could tell something was wrong from the sound of her voice and the fact that she wasn't at work.

"Hey Faith. What's up?"

"I lost the baby. I went to the doctor yesterday."

"Oh...geez...Faith, I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, Daniel, not really. But thanks."

While I believed this was really the best outcome for everyone involved, that the man upstairs had probably made the right call, I tried to lend Faith a sympathetic ear.

"I know you must be heartbroken. Just try to remember everything happens for a reason. It probably doesn't make a lot of sense right now, but it will."

"I know. I'm upset, disappointed, hurt...but what you said is true. I understand, but it's still hard to accept. I'll be okay."

Her voice was steady, but I knew she was shaken to the core. Faith was a strong person who controlled her emotions most of the time. But when things got very tough, as they were now, she would rally and work through her disappointment.

"David is being a real jerk," she added.

"Why? What did he do?"

"The doctor yesterday told me to stay off my feet for 24 hours. David came home around 11 o'clock last night with a bunch of friends and they stayed up partying all night. Playing music. Smoking dope. Being loud. What kind of a person would do that?"

"Faith, it is kind of strange. What did you do? Did you say anything to him?"

"It's not appropriate for me to talk about this with you."

"Maybe I'm not the right person you should be discussing this with, but if you need to talk, I can listen. You're upset, Faith. What happened?"

"I went downstairs around four in the morning after I couldn't stand it anymore and told them to turn the music down. I don't understand why he acted that way."

"Did he know what was going on? Maybe he wasn't aware of anything? Did you tell him about what happened?"

"He knew. He went to the doctor with me. They had to put me under a mild anesthesia to clean me out."

"I don't know what to say. I don't understand it either. It doesn't really fit in with the sensitive person you described to me earlier."

"He's being a jerk. He left early this morning and I haven't heard from him all day."

"Where do you think he went?"

"Over to a friend's house, I guess."

"Faith, are you more upset about David's behavior or you losing the baby?"

"Both. But right now, him."

"Do you think your relationship with David is in jeopardy? Maybe he's just as confused by all of this as you are. After all, he's been through a lot too. Look, finding out his new girlfriend was pregnant must have been overwhelming. It's a real shocker when men hear the news. Now you losing the baby..."

"I just don't get why he's acting the way he is."

If there was ever a time for me to tell Faith how I felt, it was presenting itself to me at precisely that moment. It was time to let down my guard. Faith deserved to know what I was thinking. Everything was connected to the process I was working through dealing with the loss of Hope.

"Faith, maybe David is not the person you thought he was. I don't know him, so I can't really say. But I can tell you this. Ever since you told me about your pregnancy, I've been all over the map emotionally. Maybe I shouldn't be bringing this up now either."

"What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

"Us. Our marriage. Our relationship. It all ended so quickly. Maybe we didn't give it enough time. Maybe we should have tried harder to save it? It's too late now. But I've been thinking about that and other things too. I reread all of our letters we'd to written each other in the beginning, Faith. We shared incredible things. We had an amazing beginning. And then everything disappeared. It all fell apart for us."

"Daniel, we're all much happier now. The kids. You. Me. It wasn't working. And it didn't happen overnight. It was obvious I needed to leave."

"Yes, but maybe you needed to leave in order to wake me up. And when I finally did it was too late. I know it's over now, how there's no going back. But it's sad we let it all go, without fighting to save it. We had a pretty decent foundation, Faith. Why did we give up on it?"

I listened for a reaction but none was offered.

"Maybe it wasn't supposed to be anything more than what it was? I tried to tell you I didn't want to get married. And that was my fault, because I knew it was a mistake. I was and still am dealing with Hope's dying. You probably would have left sooner had I not agreed to marry you, and if you had I might have woken up sooner."

"Maybe. It's hard to say. We had problems, Daniel. We shouldn't pretend otherwise."

"But were they so big we couldn't get past them? I really think we both just gave up too easily. I'm sorry for that, Faith. I really am."

"Well, you said it yourself. It's too late now."

"I know and I feel badly things ended the way they did. I guess I needed to tell you that. And I did love you. I tried my best to deny it when you left. Maybe it wasn't the way you wanted me to love you or even the way you deserved to be loved, but it was all I was capable of. It's who I am. Faith, I was there for you as completely as I could have been. But I know a big part of me was missing. I know how hard it must have been for you to stand in Hope's shadow."

"Daniel, please don't blame yourself for what happened. Some people aren't supposed to be together forever. I wanted to partner with you. I later found out I couldn't. I tried to change, to adapt to the situation, but realized I couldn't. More importantly, I let go of my desire to try to make things work. It was never comfortable for me, stepping in like I did after Hope died, picking up where she left off with Joshua and Claire."

"I never expected you to. What I wanted was for us to somehow create a life of our own together. That the kids would magically dovetail into our relationship as it developed. I realize now how wrong my assumptions were. The kids had recently lost their mother, and suddenly another woman steps into her place as if nothing had happened. They felt betrayed. Their world was turned upside down. And I know now it also applied to me as well."

"Daniel, I know it was hard, but I thought you'd eventually come around. When you didn't, I lost courage. It was easier for you to just let things move along as if nothing were the matter. But we both know now it simply wasn't true. You didn't seem interested in listening to me, when I told you I was having problems dealing with the kids. And when you shut down, I guess I thought my only recourse was to take it out on them. I'm not saying it was right or fair, but I didn't know what else to do. I was trying to wake you up so you could see, but you just blamed me for creating the problems, the awful tension in the house. Once the walls went up, I couldn't knock them down."

"Maybe we should feel fortunate we made it work for as long as we did? And you are right, so many of our problems weren't necessarily about to the two of us. We were dealing with two other people as well, and their role in my life is and will always be first and foremost, as it should be. I lost sight of that in my effort to make everyone happy. It was painfully obvious I didn't have the right skills to merge you and the kids. I know you did the right thing, Faith, the honorable and correct thing. You withdrew, gracefully. And you should be proud you had the courage to act. I certainly didn't. But I thank you for having the presence of mind to follow your convictions."

"We tried, Daniel. I think we both wanted it to work. We shouldn't be sorry for anything. It was a situation neither of us wanted or knew how to handle. We did the best we could, given the circumstances."

"Faith, I'm concerned about you now. Please don't allow yourself to be hurt by anyone. I hope things work out for you, but give this romance with David, or anyone else for that matter, some time. Get some distance and gain some perspective. There's no hurry. You shouldn't be getting ahead of yourself. You jumped with me and are doing the same thing with David. Just relax. Take your time. Let yourself breathe."

"I know. You're right. We'll see what happens. So, have you called Jane yet? What's going on?"

Her question struck me as odd. Why was she bringing up Jane in the midst of everything we'd talked about? Didn't I just warn her about acting rashly? And didn't she agree with me?

"No, I haven't. Nothing is going on with Jane. I'm not even sure if I want to go out with anyone at this point. I need to heal, Faith. Right now, I'm really trying to deal with my pain. I lost Hope, and then you left. It's time for me to take an honest inventory and figure out what this is all about. It's going to be difficult, but I know I need to get through it if I ever want to feel like a whole person again. I've avoided it too long, and it isn't going to go away by itself."

"You know I'm there, if you need to talk Daniel. I hope you know I will always be there to listen, if you need me."

VI

That Christmas was the first since Hope's death that Claire, Joshua and I were spending alone together, just the three of us. On Christmas Eve, I cooked chicken and mushrooms with rice. After the dishes were cleaned and put away, we plopped down on the living room couch and watched videos until bedtime.

The following morning Claire burst into my room insisting her father had slept long enough.

"Daddy, it's Christmas! C'mon, get up! Get a move on! I want to open presents!"

"Sweetie, give me a minute. I'll be right down."

Raising the shades to the scene outside my bedroom window was postcard magnificent. Overnight, a light frosting of fresh powder had fallen and covered the ground. The world outside looked newly created. It was scrubbed clean and glistened. The sky was a bright brilliant shade of blue, with wisps of cirrus lingering high above the mountain peaks. A lone robin was hopping from one low branch to another on the tall pine standing across the driveway.

I looked down and noticed, sitting on the hood of the Volvo, a large black plastic garbage bag covered with a dusting of snow. When I finished putting on my flannel pants and long-sleeved t-shirt, I went downstairs and grabbed a sweater hanging on the hook in the entryway. I stepped out into the brisk morning air and walked over to my car. Inside the sack were three carefully wrapped presents.

Joshua loaded the CD player with some Christmas tunes and switched on the music. Claire plugged in the bulbs on the tree and sorted the gifts into three separate piles while I started preparing their hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage links, buttermilk pancakes and hot chocolate.

"Hey Dad, what was in the bag you brought in a few minutes ago? Did you leave some of our presents in Goldie?" Joshua wondered.

"No, son. It's kind of weird, but I found it out there. I have no idea where it came from," I replied.

We opened the presents sitting under the tree, as well as the ones mysteriously left on the front of my car, and spent the remainder of Christmas Day relaxed in quiet harmony with the rest of the world. Faith was supposed to drop by later in the afternoon to pick up Harley after she finished her shift at Arapahoe Basin. She never came by.

My call to Faith later that evening went to voicemail. I left a message asking when she'd be picking up the dog. I ended the recording thanking her for the gifts she'd left on my car the previous night from "Santa" and wished her a Merry Christmas.

That phone call was only the second time I'd initiated any contact with Faith since she'd left. Every other interaction we had, and there were many over those months, were the result of her needing to speak to me for one reason or another.

She returned my call the following day while I was at work in Denver. Faith explained how by the time she'd left the friend's house where she was having Christmas dinner, it was too late to come by and pick up Harley.

"I'm sorry, but I didn't leave Tim and Bonnie's house until 10:30 and I figured you'd already gone to bed. Did you guys have a nice Christmas?"

"We did. I was dreading it, but we actually had a great day."

"I'm glad, Daniel. I know how much the kids love Christmas. I'm happy it went well for you guys. By the way, what did you mean when you thanked me for the presents in your message last night? Was that one of your sarcastic jokes?"

I told Faith how someone made a delivery on Christmas Eve and left a sack of goodies on my car.

"Really? It wasn't me. I thought you were being snarky because I didn't get you guys anything," she said with a strange laugh.

Her comment switched on the light bulb over my head. Her denying having anything to do with the packages left on my car unraveled everything. I realized then and there how it was all a yarn. And by yarn I don't mean a piece of loose thread, but a completely wild yarn, a major cock and bull story. All of it. Everything.

The neatly wrapped, not exactly inexpensive gifts were tagged with our names. And since the handwriting on the labels was Faith's I knew immediately she was the one who'd left the gifts for me to find on Christmas morning. Why would she pretend otherwise? I had no idea, because it didn't make any sense.

Then she started theorizing about the mystery for me. Faith suggested the gifts must have come from one of the women I was "involved with." When I said I wasn't "involved with" anyone, she insisted that I was. I must have been, she said, because she herself had absolutely nothing to do with any presents dropped off at the Ford house. Faith dug her heels in deeper by categorically refusing to take any credit for the allegedly anonymous gesture of kindness.

But there was a problem with her denial. She was blatantly lying about her actions. Faith's first of several premises as to the identity of the gift giver was only slightly less preposterous than the next.

"I don't know who you've been sleeping with. Maybe it was one of your girlfriends?" she insisted.

"Hmmm. Let me think. No, Faith. I'm sure that can't be it. I'm not sleeping with anyone and I don't have any girlfriends."

"I bet it was Jane."

"Jane? I had a cup of coffee with her. She doesn't know where I live, unless you told her. Did you tell her? She's never even met my kids. Faith, I can't imagine the gifts were dropped off by Jane."

"Well, think of anyone else you've been hanging out with. Aren't you and that yoga teacher Stephanie going out? Maybe she did it?" Faith speculated.

It was true Stephanie and I had gone to a movie together, once, and that she and her daughter Jacqueline, Claire's best friend, had also been over to our house for Thanksgiving Dinner. But there was absolutely nothing going on between Stephanie and me other than a very casual friendship.

"Stephanie and Jackie are spending the holidays with relatives in Nantucket. Besides, she has no money and just wouldn't do something like that. It's ridiculous. Impossible. It wasn't her."

Faith even went so far as to suggest, in a serious tone of voice, that Santa Claus himself was the actual culprit.

"Well think about it. I'm sure you'll figure it out. I need to go. Talk to you later."

After Faith hung up, I wracked my brains for about thirteen seconds. There weren't any other women and no one I knew besides Faith would pretend to be Santa and leave a bunch of presents on my car.

Her secret admirer theory was total bullshit. She concocted the grand scheme in order to gather information about the status of my personal life. Even her misspelling of Claire's name, dropping the "e", had been deliberately designed to throw me off the scent.

The only logical explanation was Faith fucking with my head, but I couldn't figure out why she'd want to. We were already divorced and she, at least as far as I could tell, was well on her way to establishing a new life for herself.

When I came home from Denver later that night Harley was gone. She'd stopped by earlier and picked him up. Faith left an envelope containing the two voided checks I'd given her earlier for her mortgage pre-approval processing. They were stuck in the keys of the antique Smith-Corona typewriter sitting on my desk in the upstairs master bedroom.

What was the envelope doing in my bedroom? Why wasn't it on the kitchen island countertop, where every other piece of business or notes she needed to deliver had been left in the past several months when I wasn't at home when Faith dropped by?

What was Faith doing in the bedroom? Snooping? Rummaging through my things? Examining my personal files? Did she sit on the bed? Did she lie down on it? Was she skipping down memory lane and reminiscing about the good old days?

It was kind of creepy. Was this some kind of strange signal she wanted back in? I refused to believe it and certainly hoped it wasn't the case.

Another phone call, a day or two later, yielded more of her Unsolved Mysteries scripts.

"Hey, Daniel. What are you doing?"

"Reading. Why?" I set aside Kinky Friedman's latest howl, The Mile High Club, to take a swipe at Faith's latest curveball.

"What are you reading?"

"Faith. I'm reading some meaningless popular fiction. What do you want?"

"Are you mad? You sound mad."

"No. Why are you calling?"

"I'm just calling to find out if you figured out who left you guys those gifts yet."

"Yeah, Faith. I figured it out. You did."

"Daniel, I swear to God it wasn't me. First of all, I have no scotch tape or wrapping paper at home. You can even ask David. Plus, I have no money. I'll show you my credit card statements if you want. I can prove it wasn't me. Why don't you believe me?"

"You have no money? I gave you $50,000 three weeks ago and you're broke already? That's quite a household budget you've got going on over there. And now you want me to call your boyfriend to verify the current stock of gift-wrap you have on hand at the house? You're out of your mind, you know that, don't you?"

"I don't know what to tell you. You obviously have someone out there who's more interested in you than you think. I'd love to tell you I'm the responsible party, but you really shouldn't be giving me credit for this, I swear."

"Claire's present was a shirt from the Goods store in Breck. You suggested I get her a gift certificate from there, didn't you?"

"So that's why you think I did it?"

"Your handwriting on packages was more proof. And how no one else is even remotely likely to have done it. Why don't you admit it? It was a very nice gesture. Let's give credit where credit's due."

"I would love to, Daniel. But it wasn't me. I know...maybe your family was visiting Summit County skiing this week and they did it?"

That one was a real stretch. And it pushed me over the edge, got me really thinking how Faith was lying through her teeth and completely deranged.

I hadn't spoken to my sisters in over six years. They lived in Southern California, weren't skiers, hated cold weather, and had no idea where I was living. We'd had a huge falling out after Hope died. Veronica spewed an off the wall venomous remark about my recently deceased wife. I couldn't take her bullshit anymore and cut off ties completely afterward.

"You've got to be joking! My family?? You're out of your mind! Now I know you did it. That last one takes the cake! It's the most preposterous thing you've ever said to me."

"Well, it wasn't me. That's all I know. Bye!"

What would she cook up next, the ghost of Hope theory? That strange cat had the decency to sneak back into Faith's little bag of tricks before she had the temerity to let it loose.

The dark clouds following me around for the past three weeks, ever since Faith's pregnancy was revealed with all its implications and complications, finally parted and I saw the light.

I figured it out. I got ALL of it.

The mystery gifts, "he thinks you're going to beat him up," the cancelled checks waiting for me in the bedroom, Faith's naturally aborted love child, the discussion we'd had about David's subsequent insensitive behavior, everything jelled once and for all as the truth of what had really happened hit me like a ton of bricks.

Faith had blatantly, outrageously, deliberately and repeatedly lied to me. She'd been carrying on her purposeful campaign to deceive me for quite some time. I realized then what I only mildly suspected before, but wanted not to believe. It was obvious. I had been blind to the truth. But my eyes had been pried wide open.

Faith had cheated on me.

From the very beginning she'd fabricated stories to make it look like nothing sordid had ripped apart our marriage. The violation of everything sacred that might have ever existed between us was about to lead to yet another final act of dissolution. It would be far more permanent than the previous legal declaration of independence we'd both just recently signed.

Her affair with David began before Faith and I separated. As difficult as that was for me to believe and accept, it was factual and true.

And throughout our so-called friendly divorce I'd been played. It all made perfect sense. The timing of her need to divorce announced two days before our trip to Belize for her friend's wedding. How she and David found "their deeply meaningful connection" with such sudden intensity and speed. That she couldn't bring herself to tell me anything about her new man until any further delay might result in my finding out about her pregnancy from someone else "on the street."

David's fear of me was real because he had in fact stolen my woman. For the moment I had to set aside him doing me a huge favor, but that wasn't really the point. It was an unintended consequence, but still did not absolve either one of them from the perfidy of their deed.

I was convinced Faith had suckered an unsuspecting meat slicer musician into her web of deceit. And now that I had finally figured out which end was up, my vengeance upon her would be unleashed like a pit bull on the loose inside a poodle factory.

I figured they'd met sometime during the early summer, recalling Faith's visits to Sammy Green's house to allegedly burn CD's. How Faith didn't come home three nights in a row, supposedly staying at her friend Liza's house where they were making posters for the upcoming Widespread Panic show at Keystone. Her sudden disappearing act started just after she and I returned to Colorado from our five-week road trip to California, when the kids were in Texas visiting relatives over the summer.

It was apparent to me something in addition to tracks of shitty music had been traded with David on those visits. And her mini vacation to Liza's House of Crafts was an outright fabrication as well. I was certain she was with David, swapping a little spit along with their crappy bootlegs.

I didn't know. I'd never know definitively since I didn't actually catch them in the act. But how often does that happen? Clearly, Faith's sudden decision to leave me was directly linked to David. It may have been a simple smile, a knowing glance, a sly wink, a lively conversation, a blowjob, anal sex, or a quickie doggy style fuck. Who knew? I suppose they did.

Whatever it was, it took, they clicked, and Faith split. And even though her betrayal stung me, it really had worked out for the best, for everyone involved. Even so, after my sentimental blinders were removed and with them her infidelity revealed, I could no longer pretend Faith was anything other than a worthless bag of shit.

Some people are well trained in self-sabotage. Faith's deception bought her one-way ticket to hell. It was now up to me to map out an itinerary and act as her booking agent.

The silver lining of all of this intrigue was that I was finally free. There is only one thing I would never tolerate in my relationships with women, especially the ones I ended up marrying, and that was infidelity. It was my line in the sand that couldn't be crossed. To me, adultery is and would always remain an unforgivable act of betrayal.

Everything else was pretty much negotiable. And Faith knew exactly how I felt about the subject, that fooling around on someone you supposedly loved was the most debase thing anyone could possibly do to another human being. Since she chose to go down that road, it was only fitting she pay the ultimate price.

Unfortunately, affairs aren't unusual or rare. People engage in such weak-minded behavior all the time and each and every one of them are psychologically or spiritually damaged souls. Should the act of one partner engaging in sex outside of a marriage ever be forgiven? When a violation of the sacrosanct union between men and women is discovered, what is to be done? Should it be dismissed as a mere mistake or minor transgression in a moment of uncontrollable passion?

Not the way I was wired. I may indeed be a naïve fool, and though I might imagine myself capable of somehow justifying such crass behavior, I would never act to stab someone else in the back like that, no matter how miserable or trapped I might feel. I never cheated on a girlfriend, let alone a spouse, and I never would. Nor would I knowingly become romantically involved with anyone who was in a serious relationship with someone else. To me, fucking around on the sly just wasn't cool.

VII

Change really is the only truly reliable constant variable in life. You take the good with the bad and keep your fingers crossed that somehow the scales ultimately tip in your favor.

My knowing my marriage had been compromised, no matter how bland it had become, deposited on my palate a sharp pungency bitterly seasoning Faith's tasteless act. In the beginning, I tried to understand and accept Faith's leaving was the best thing for everyone concerned. But in discovering the real underlying motive, how she'd fled purposefully and immediately into the arms of another man before intentionally looting my bank account, I found closure.

Out from that thin plastic garbage sack, that mysterious appearance of those seemingly innocent Christmas gifts, neatly wrapped with pretty ribbons and tidy bows, left to freeze overnight on the hood of my '82 Volvo 240 sedan, the dragon of payback started to breathe fire.

Faith never confessed the truth. Maybe she thought it was easier to perpetuate the lies? Had she convinced herself she was somehow protecting me from the awful reality of her actions? The damage she was inflicting on herself and the already tenuous link that existed between us was irreversible.

Faith rejected the notion that the truth, no matter how harsh or devastating, stands far above anything else as the most important aspect of a successful relationship. Honesty exchanged between human beings is the most sacred gift of all. Faithfulness can never be sacrificed at any cost under any circumstance. It is a core foundation of the human construct that must survive. If it is eliminated, whatever is built upon it will eventually collapse.

We hear a great deal about "baggage" in people and their relationships with others. There is no question I'd left something important behind when I began my life journey with Faith. My preparation was imperfect, but under such adverse conditions I'd done a reasonable job of packing for that trip. Or so I believed. Despite the outcome, I tried my best to be a loving partner and decent husband. I gave it my utmost effort.

Faith phoned me four times in the two days before the last day of the year 2000. Her calls were ostensibly about logistics, the dropping off or picking up our co-custodial dog child Harley. But Harley was Faith's only remaining reason for continuing to attach herself to me, the one loose end of the weakening ties binding and holding us together.

I knew our lingering connection had to be finally broken. If it weren't, I would never find the closure I needed to recapture my mental health.

As strange as it may sound, our sharing responsibility for Harley was the final piece of the puzzle. I loved the mutt and it hurt me deeply to let go of him, but I knew Faith would never agree to surrender the dog to the children and me. And anything less would have kept Faith in the picture and her coming back around. I couldn't allow that to happen any longer. I had to let both of them off the leash, once and for all.

"Sorry to break this to you Harley old boy, but your mother is a bitch, literally," I told the pup, who tilted his head slightly thinking he'd heard the word walk, ball or go. Divorce, as they say, is always hardest on the kids. Or dogs.

By the time I hung up on Faith's third call in two days, something else was about to come to an end besides the Millennium. If you truly love someone you have an obligation to set them free. I had loved Faith and was about to do just that. With the exception of Harley, it was best for everyone involved.

I decided Faith could never be allowed to return back into my life. The once open door to my heart was locked, sealed and dead bolted, safely protected from her deceit and betrayal.

The end had come. I couldn't consent anymore to being manipulated by her disloyalty and repeated refusal to speak the truth. She clung tightly onto believing we could sustain a friendship. But what might have once been a two-way street had dead-ended at a permanently erected barrier with flashing red lights. I would rather be alone than risk allowing anyone into my realm with a flawed character built on treasonous and misguided principles.

When Faith first shared her idea of splitting up, I told her how I thought it would be nearly impossible for us to remain friends. That my personal history was littered with examples of how I had withdrawn, primarily for reasons of self-protection, whenever I felt betrayed or dishonored. How divorce brought with it shame and disgrace and that I likely could not sustain the pretense of civility once our decree was finalized.

By her violating the principle of fidelity in our marriage, Faith had chosen a path that sealed her ultimate fate. What she did not understand was how my core values could not be shaken.

She apparently did not fully comprehend why her decision to leave me would cause a permanent and irreversible split. When the judge signed the final court papers designating the end of our marriage, I no longer had any need to or benefit from associating with my former spouse. But really, it was her lack of truthfulness that finally severed our ever-loosening connection. On New Year's Eve I revealed to her my resolutions for the upcoming year.

I was upstairs when Faith walked in the door without the courtesy of knocking. She'd filled Harley's bowl with nuggets and was in the process of saying goodbye to him when I walked downstairs.

"Faith, I'm sorry but I've made an important and difficult decision. From now on you will be keeping Harley on a permanent basis."

"Why? What's wrong now Daniel? You're still mad at me? Does this have anything to do with those stupid presents?"

"Faith, look, this whole arrangement just isn't working for me. I think you've been lying to me, about those presents and other more important things. I think we both really need to move on with our lives now. And for me that means I won't be seeing or talking to you again. I'm sure Harley will be fine with you."

She looked stunned. Harley picked up his head from the bowl and was listening to me. He didn't look too happy either.

"How can you feel that way after knowing me for five and a half years? Just say goodbye? Never talk to me or see me again? Let me get this straight Daniel. You want nothing to do with me ever again?"

"Faith, if I thought you'd been honest with me I might feel differently. But I'm tired of your games. Trust me, it's not an easy decision. But it's one I've made. I think we'll both be much better off. And so will Claire and Joshua. I wish things had turned out differently, but you've left me no choice."

"You're going to be really sorry about this when you find out who really gave you those gifts. I can't believe you're doing this. You are insane."

"I'm insane? Maybe, but you are a pathological liar. I've run out of energy and patience with you. I don't want to waste anymore time wondering what your next move might be. I'm sorry. More than you'll probably ever know. But I want you to get out of my house, now."

Faith continued arguing in an attempt to save what she thought still remained of our relationship, but her pleas fell on my two completely deaf ears. Finally, in a hysterical rage she stormed out the house with tears streaming down her face, slamming the door as she left.

VIII

Leaving Faith something to remember me by seemed the next logical step in completing our final separation. She'd be driving over one more time to get Harley, and I readied my last parting token of appreciation for her arrival.

Unlike the presents offered up on the hood of my Volvo sedan on Christmas Eve, there would be no question as to the meaning or intention of the gift I was about to hand over to Faith in return.

It was four days into the New Year when Harley and I went for an afternoon walk on what would be our last outing together. We hiked to Carter Park and I let him off the leash to run.

I was sick to my stomach. I wanted Harley to bolt off and find a better life than the one he would soon endure cooped up inside Faith's condominium for hours on end. It spoke volumes to the poisoned heart beating inside her chest. Letting the kids and I keep Harley, where he would enjoy full access to a fenced backyard as well as nearly constant companionship, was never a consideration for her. She "loved" Harley too much. It was always about Faith's needs, first and foremost, and nothing else ever really mattered. Her last selfish act of victimizing an innocent animal was more proof to me she was evil. I could understand her hating me, but what had the dog done to deserve such treatment?

I returned home and the phone started ringing as I walked in the door.

"I came by to pick up Harley but you guys weren't there. I'm on my way back over now," she told me.

I hung up the receiver without comment, twisted the dead bolt on the front door and returned to the living room and waited.

Twenty minutes later I heard Faith's car pull into the driveway. She got out, walked to my threshold, tested the handle and then knocked on the door. Holding Harley's collar and leash in my hand, I opened it to let her inside, and handed his gear over to her.

"Come upstairs. I need to talk to you," I said bluntly. Claire and her friend Holly were doing homework on the dining room table. They did not need to witness what was about to take place.

Faith was reluctant, but agreed to follow me up the stairs. I shut the bedroom door and asked her to please sit down, but she refused. I sat on the bed we once shared while she stood, her stringy brown hair falling across the gray skin of her pallid face.

"Do you understand why you're here?" I asked her.

"Yes. I'm here to pick up Harley for the last time. You don't want him anymore," she said nervously.

"No, Faith, not exactly. It's not that I don't want Harley. He's a great dog. He's been our family pet for five years. In fact, I'd love to keep him. Look, I've given this a great deal of thought. And my decision to let him go hasn't been at all easy for me. Faith, what I realize is that no matter what, you will never consent to giving him up. And so, what this really boils down to is that I don't want you."

"I don't understand you, Daniel. What is the big deal about the two of us sharing Harley? We're adults. Can't we act decently? I thought we could remain friends."

"You know I was hoping we could too. I thought if I could overcome my history of burning bridges, I'd somehow feel a little better about myself. That maybe I'd learned something and matured. And honestly, I thought it was how this was all going to play out. But that was wishful thinking that had no basis in reality."

"Daniel, what changed? What happened? I know you're very upset about something, but I have no idea why."

It was another fictitious statement, or maybe her mind was so completely deluded she really was clueless about why this was going to be our final meeting.

It was time to let the cat out of the bag. The feline I was keeping at bay was a big black panther with penetrating neon eyes, razor sharp claws and teeth, who was fully crouched, coiled and ready to spring.

"Faith, listen, I know exactly what happened. You can stop pretending. The fact is you cheated on me and it was because you needed an excuse to raid my bank account. I have never hated anyone as much as I despise you now. You sicken me."

"Oh my god, Daniel. You are out of your mind. I don't know where you're getting your facts from, but that is not true!"

"And you still insist on lying about it to my face. You are heartless."

"Jesus, I know you have problems, but I never expected you were this far gone. What's proof do you have?"

"Well, while I didn't witness you having sex with anyone else while we were married with my own eyes, I suppose there is a slim chance I might be wrong. But I have other evidence to suggest strongly that you did. Adultery is a despicable act. It is the one irreversible, unforgivable and ultimate betrayal of trust. While your unfaithfulness hurt, what is adding insult to injury now is your continuing to lie about it. After five years, I think the very least you owe me is the truth."

"What the fuck are you talking about? I swear I did not cheat on you! You're out of your mind!"

"Am I? If that makes you feel better about yourself, then good for you. Maybe your deciding I'm crazy is why you walked out. It's as good a reason as any to cheat, I guess."

"Daniel. Listen to me. I was never unfaithful. You have no idea what you're talking about."

"I don't give rat's ass anymore why you did it. Nothing will ever justify the choice you made. You're on your own now and all I can say is good luck living with yourself."

"Don't judge me. You're not exactly innocent in this either."

"That may be true, but I never deliberately set out to hurt you. You apparently had something else in mind, maybe from the very beginning."

"Jesus Christ, Daniel, I never cheated on you. You really are insane!"

"Faith, listen to me. The game's over and you need to face facts. If you hadn't repeatedly lied to me about those goddamn gifts, I would've never figured out what happened last summer. Why can't you own up to the truth? This is your last chance to set the record straight. When did you start seeing David?"

"I know exactly. On August 29th. We went to the Further Festival in Denver together. You and I were already separated."

"And you never saw him before that?"

"Yes, once, at the Dam Brewery in Dillon. He and Sammy were playing there earlier in the summer. You and I went to see them together. Do you remember?" she said haltingly. Her face turned a bright shade of crimson and she was starting to tremble.

"Remember? His fucking broken guitar string is still twanging in my ear," I replied.

I gave her a chance to at least clear her own conscience. Unfortunately, she didn't have one. The lies continued.

I waited in detached bewilderment. Using the kinds of tricks Faith did to justify her behavior was absurd. She perpetuated more deception in an effort to further cover up the truth, like a dog scraping its legs to hide the traces of its excrement.

"Faith you are sick. You're a pathological liar and need professional help. You cheated on me and you're still lying about it. Why? I'm okay with what happened, I swear. We are all better off now, but I just can't take being lied to anymore. And that's the reason I never want to see or talk to you again. Do you understand?"

She turned, opened the door and began preparing to leave. The full force of my seething anger bubbled up from deep inside my gut as unfiltered wrath rose in my throat. By the time she made it to her car, a volcano of poisoned words erupted from my mouth.

I wanted to banish Faith from my life and send her packing with a terror unlike any she'd known before. To show her that the darkness of her depraved and insidious ugliness hadn't gone unnoticed.

Faith's mask was peeled away and the woman who rushed off was no longer recognizable. Several hours went by before the shackles cinched around my heart began to loosen, jumpstarting the healing process of my damaged soul.

Faith didn't realize that I had accessed our cell phone records and it showed a call had been placed to an area code in Indiana on August 22. I knew David was from Fort Wayne and that his mother was still living there. But that phone call was made a week before Faith told me she'd gone out on her first date with David. It was enough to convince me, along with all the other telltale signs that their relationship had already gone well past the "casual" stage. Why else would she lie about it? It wasn't because she wanted to protect my feelings. She did it to cover her ass.

Faith thought our alliance was warranted because I was Harley's "father." I understood her thinking the dog was the glue holding them together. After all, many people are intimately and even spiritually connected to their animals. We especially personify dogs and turn them into our children with good reason. Canines are utterly devoted companions who shower humans with boundless energy and unconditional love and for that they are more than deserving of our affection and admiration in return.

By the time I discovered what Faith's true motivation for perpetuating an ongoing association with me was, it was too late to reverse course. All she'd wanted was a convenient place to board Harley when she went on tour with her new boy toy and his boy band.

A kennel was all Faith was doggedly pursuing. Her ex-husband? Not so much.

Epilog

After the breakup of his third and final marriage, Daniel Ford settled on a small piece of fertile land in southeast Idaho. The children would eventually join him there after attending college and ultimately find their own successful ways in the world.

There were, however, some loose ends remaining in Colorado. He'd sold a piece of property he'd owned there and the escrow papers needed signing in person. After finishing up that bit of business, he parked outside a condo complex in Frisco, where he sat and waited patiently behind the wheel of his truck, drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup and smoking hand rolled cigarettes.

Just as he expected it eventually would, a beater station wagon pulled in shortly after midnight.

Daniel walked over to the car when the driver emerged.

"Hey Faith. How's it going? Long time, no see."

Her mouth opened to speak, but before she found the right sequence of words Daniel withdrew the pistol. He'd first laid eyes on it in Hope's purse in what seemed like another lifetime ago. He aimed the gun at his ex-wife's heart.

"Daniel? Oh my God...what are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by," he said calmly.

"Why are you pointing a gun at me?"

"Say it," he said, getting straight to the point.

"Say what? What do you want me to say?" she asked, staring down the barrel of the gun.

"Don't you have anything you want to tell me?"

"Are you going to kill me?"

It was a fair question. After all, he'd brought the weapon, whipped it out and pointed it directly at her.

Daniel Ford thought long and hard about what might happen if he ever ran into his ex again. Plugging the bitch was always an option. But could he actually pull it off?

"It's up to you Faith. Do you want to live?"

"Yes."

"Then say it."

"I want to live."

"I'm sure you do. But that's the wrong answer. Try again."

"It? You want me to say 'it'?"

"Yes. Say it."

"It."

"Not 'it,' you idiot. Are you really that stupid?"

Daniel wondered how on earth he'd ever hooked up with such a numbskull in the first place.

"Daniel, you're scaring me. Please put that gun down."

"Never mind the gun, Faith. Look, I probably shouldn't, but I'll give you one more chance. Think carefully before you speak, otherwise it's curtains, baby."

She stood there for thirty seconds, shaking in fear. He could hear the gears in her head turning. It was an annoying metallic whine.

"Do you want to take Harley? Is that what this is about?"

"Well, I hadn't really thought about it that much, but yeah, now that you mention it, sure. I got a nice little spread now...plenty of room for him to run around free in the great outdoors."

"Are you sure?" Fear was overtaking her and she was starting to visibly quiver.

"Yeah, I've missed him. Why not let him spend his golden years chasing chickens and herding sheep? Today might be your lucky day after all. But on second thought, while I appreciate your offering to let me take the dog, nevertheless I'm starting to run out of patience. And Faith, I'm afraid you're running out of time."

He spun the chamber of the gun and it clicked to a stop.

"I'm sorry, Daniel, but I don't know what you want me to say." Her voice trembled as her eyes watered.

"Well, Faith, right there would be a good place to start."

"What do you mean?"

"You just said it."

"I'm sorry, did I miss something? Were not back on the 'it' thing again, are we?"

"No, but now you're on the right track. Just pick up from where you just started. Think some more, if you need to. You'll catch my drift, eventually. And if you don't, I suppose my little friend here will inspire you, right?"

Though it wasn't at all necessary, Daniel waved the gun at her to remind her of its presence.

It took Faith a minute or two to figure 'it' out. She broke down and started crying.

"I'm sorry...about everything. Daniel...I was young and inexperienced. It just seemed like easiest thing was for me to leave. I realize now that acted foolishly. You didn't deserve the pain I know I caused. Believe it or not, I carry that around with me every day of my life."

"Thank you. Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind."

Though Faith's admission sounded sincere, it was more likely than not a desperate attempt to save her own scrawny neck.

Daniel had been fooled by Faith before, but realized in that moment that nothing could be gained from holding onto a grudge or seeking revenge.

In that moment and space, he felt her overwhelming presence. Guided by the spirit of Hope, Daniel Ford put the gun back inside his coat pocket, turned and walked back to his truck. He opened the driver's door, slid inside the front seat, stuck the key in the ignition and fired it up.

The engine idled smoothly. He stepped on the brake, shifted the transmission into "D" and drove off.
