 
### The War On Emily Dickinson

### By Anna Scott Graham

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Anna Scott Graham

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this complimentary ebook. Although there is no charge for this book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this novel, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters, incidents, and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

For Frank and Ruby, Robin, and especially my siblings, with much love.

**Table of Contents**

Chapter 1 – 1997

Chapter 2 – 1978

Chapter 3 – 1985

Chapter 4 – 1990

Chapter 5 – 2004

Chapter 6 – 1977

Chapter 7 – 1986

Chapter 8 – 1982

Chapter 9 – 1993

Chapter 10 – 1979

Chapter 11 – 1983

Chapter 12 – 1994

Chapter 13 – 1984

Chapter 14 – 2001

Chapter 15 – 1981

Chapter 16 – 2007

Chapter 17 – 1996

Chapter 18 – 1987

Chapter 19 – 1999

Chapter 20 – 2008

Chapter 1 - 1997

"Souza, you got a minute?"

Marthe Souza was summoned by her last name, the floor in chaos. This ward had been busy since its inception fourteen years ago, where Marthe had been walking the tiles, feet pounding this level of the city hospital in a groove that with eyes closed she could negotiate.

No one here called her Marthe. Nor did they ask for Martha, that formal name having been dropped when Marthe was a little girl. All her siblings had nicknames; in a family of eight children, it became easier for Aurora Souza to commandeer her brood with shortened monikers. Marthe's was actually the longest, only losing the A, one small syllable, but from the time she was no more than two years old, Martha Catherine Souza was simply known as Marthe.

But here in one of the busiest medical facilities on the West Coast, in a city by the bay, she was Souza. Souza to co-workers, to her superiors. Souza to the patients for whom she cared on a semi-permanent basis until they beat their current maladies, eventually returning as those bizarre complaints overtook immune systems ravaged and failing. In the early days of the epidemic, Marthe had been resolute, not allowing herself to go further than the best nursing care she could offer. After time, her resistance cracked. As patients slipped under her skin, Marthe lost that edge, one as the daughter of a doctor she had known all her life. All her life had led her to this point as she took slow, halting steps to Ash Denton's room.

Marthe poked her head around the corner, found the same people who'd been there for the last four days. Her entire shift, this day her last, probably Ash's too. Marthe had known that as early as Tuesday; now on Friday his battle with pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, better known as PCP, was ending. A once-rare form of pneumonia, PCP was synonymous with this illness, one of the more ordinary causes of death Marthe had witnessed over the last fifteen years. Before that time, only few individuals contracted this virulent strain, which after settling in the lungs, refused to leave. Holding firm, strangling its victim deep within the warm, spongy tissues rendered helpless; in the end pneumocystis pneumonia always won.

A face met Marthe's, that of Ash's sister Wendy. She resembled her older brother, the way Ash used to look; blonde hair, chiseled features, wide blue eyes. The few times Marthe had seen Wendy Denton's smile, it was Ash all over. Teasing, acidic, but warm underneath, deep and abiding. Deep and hidden from most, yet not from Marthe. With her, Ash had always been a love.

The summons had been to this room not because Marthe needed to check an IV or pulse. Those procedures weren't necessary and even if Marthe had wanted to perform those duties, she wasn't his nurse, Ash's care not her job. This day, the final one of Marthe's work week, was going to be Ash's last.

Wendy crossed her arms. "He's getting close."

Marthe passed Ash's mother, sitting with knitting on her lap. The yarn's lively colors hit Marthe as she stood next to Wendy whose tanned, toned body seemed incongruous with her brother's wasted form lying so still. His spotty breathing rattled in his chest, reverberating around the room. Next to Ash's mother sat his aunt, her husband, their son. This was Ash's blood family, but Marthe was too.

Blood through who they had lost and what they had seen. Ash had continued to work long after his diagnosis, standing alongside Marthe in a battle entered with great enthusiasm. Owning no fear, they'd been young, undaunted. Now as Marthe was thirty-nine, Ash only a year older, they were wily veterans having escaped so many previous skirmishes. Yet, Marthe would be alone at the end of this day.

She kissed Ash's sunken left cheek, then reached for his hand, so small, holding it within hers. "Honey, I'm here."

"I think he's ready," Wendy whispered.

Marthe only nodded, then glanced at Ash's mother Helen. Ash's father wasn't present. Marthe had only met him once, back in the 1980s at some Denton family gathering in which Marthe had accompanied Ash, but not as his date. Nor as his beard, only a friend. They'd been friends since 1982, over fifteen years, and Marthe wondered if Conrad Denton would attend the funeral.

The only sounds were of knitting needles, a strange, metallic _click click_ that struggled to mask a man drowning. Ash was drowning in his own lungs, drowning from PCP and so many moments he and Marthe had shared. Moments exactly like this with other fading figures, families and lovers, but this time the knocking on Marthe's heart was for one well known, one for whom she took a deep breath, then exhaled. As though she could breathe for him, Marthe sucked in again, held it. Holding more than oxygen; Marthe Souza absorbed the last of Bryce Ashley Denton.

He didn't look up, didn't move. No one else did either, the aunt and uncle stilled, their son staring at the floor. Only Ash's mother stirred, her needles tapping, then hands pulled teal yarn from a bag on her lap. Taking the chair Wendy had vacated, Marthe gazed at the door. She was waiting for one more, hoping another figure would step into the room.

"Ash, it's okay. I've got you." All Marthe had of him was a bony, limp hand, that and what she had stolen in the air, what bit of him remained in the atmosphere, all there was left to a person other than what she held within her head. Memories and recollections were now solely hers, no longer theirs. How it went when people died and as that passed through her mind, one more body entered the room.

Marthe cried watching that one approach the bed. Wendy didn't see him, neither did Ash's mother, who only continued knitting. Helen Denton didn't consider her son's last breath, didn't witness his entry into death. Only Marthe and Wendy saw it, but Wendy missed the quiet, careful figure reaching for her brother's hand, helping Ash to stand. Marthe smiled as he moved away, looking again like his sister, healthy and gorgeous with a smile that had broken so many hearts. Ash gave one to Marthe, a cynical grin also conceding defeat.

Only conquest there in that room to one woman who knew better. As Jesus Christ led him away, Ash only shrugged his shoulders, offering Marthe a smile as though she knew his destination all along. Ash chuckled as he exited the room, a silent _You told me so_ uttered from his now hushed body no longer clamoring for air.

Three hours later Ash's room was stripped, Marthe on a break. She had embraced Wendy and Helen, the aunt, uncle, and cousin too. Walking them to the elevator, she'd wiped a few tears, then checked on another man suffering from pneumocystis pneumonia. Dying, but on a far different schedule, one that might see him discharged in another few days. Marthe would return after her break and Bill Simmons would be departed, but not dead.

Not yet, maybe next year. Maybe in eighteen months. Marthe's work life revolved around that notion; they left, but always returned. Once that had been realized, Marthe, Ash, and their compatriots accepted this deployment. Where on other wards the idea was to nurse patients to a permanent dismissal, here on Ward 5B, they always came back.

Unless they chose hospice or had enough support to die at home, this was it, a floor of the city hospital that exuded an air of belonging. Marthe was one with her patients, unafraid and understanding. Ash had been too and it was odd to think of him in the past tense. Odd but necessary, for no one survived, not for long. Antiretrovirals had made inroads, but were eventually overwhelmed by a virus that was sneaky, mean and enduring, stunning the medical profession with its boundless, energetic, and inventive methods of destruction. PCP was one manner, Kaposi's sarcoma another, a cancer usually found in old men. Abrasions of a purplish hue had covered Ash's body, inside too, Marthe assumed. In the early days she'd seen one patient unable to lie down, a lesion dangling from the back of his throat, obstructing his airway.

Pouring a cup of coffee, Marthe clutched a book from her locker and sat near a table, placing her mug on the edge. Taking occasional sips, she was engrossed with the novel, one she hadn't wanted to read, as if Dave Kedayis was still alive, pushing it into her hands, his weak grin teasing. "I know you know this guy," he would have smiled. "Souza, you HAVE TO read it!"

_The Monkey Retrieval System_ was _the_ book earlier that summer and if it had been written by any other author, Marthe would have devoured it immediately. Yet, she'd hesitated, just as she had avoided 1988's _The War On Emily Dickinson_ until Dave shoved it down her throat. He'd dropped that writer's name, no secret in this small circle to Kell Vander Kellen's proclivities. Also not hard to ascertain the _Martha_ to whom most of Vander Kellen's novels were dedicated was indeed Marthe Souza, sitting in the dingy nurses' lounge. Her dark, curly hair sported random grays, brown eyes pouring through the words, her small feet propped on a chair. She was short with wide hips shared by most of her sisters, received from their mother. At five foot three, Marthe looked just like Aurora Souza with big eyes and a small bust, but unlike her mother and sisters, Marthe had no children.

There had never been the desire or time, not with the work so consuming. Not as bodies dropped like flies, Marthe with a plethora of nieces and nephews. Most of her siblings, save Frank and Annie, had reproduced, but Marthe wasn't a traditional Catholic daughter. Kell hadn't been the standard Catholic son, yet reading his latest book she found their upbringings as well as her work within the pages; notions of guilt, absolution, horror, and custom. His were Dutch, hers a mixture of Spanish and Portuguese, Kell's Midwestern background also in evidence. Some characters spoke in a Wisconsin dialect and Marthe stifled giggles, imagining voices so distinctive, much like that of the author before he'd lost his accent.

Ash had only been dead a few hours, but would have appreciated Marthe's sense of continuation. Until he could no longer reason, Ash hadn't wanted that one guest to appear. That Christ had also stood in Ash's room made Marthe smile. For years she'd been telling Ash that Jesus would come for him and damnit if she hadn't been correct!

Finishing a chapter, she glanced at her watch. Then her pager buzzed and Marthe headed for a phone on the wall.

"Souza here." Her thoughts were still on Ash, hand in hand with a deity of whom he'd never believed. Never given the time of day, yet Marthe had been right. If some way existed to collect their ten dollar bet, Marthe would have instead demanded a pound of flesh. Ash would have groused, unbelieving except that the proof had been leading him away. Marthe had no idea what heaven was like, but couldn't help her giggles, aware Ash was finding out at that very minute.

With two hours remaining on shift, Marthe wished to leave. Those cheery thoughts of Ash meeting Jesus had been dimmed, another patient reaching the end, then a recent admission falling into convulsions. Nothing she hadn't seen before, but cyclical; as Ash died that day, sooner or later so would these men. No one left this ward healed, only reprieves, temporary and fleeting. Not as in days of old when hope reigned, a cure just around the corner. What they had assumed in 1983, 1984. The government must be developing a vaccine, some treatment, the alternative too awful to contemplate. Yet, there hadn't been one free moment to think as 1984 turned into 1985, '86, '87. Marthe stopped at that year, again hearing her name.

"Souza, phone. It's Jan."

Marthe took the receiver from Aggie Walsh, a nurse who spoke with a crisp tone. What they all used, for while they were caretakers, this was a job, the only way Marthe had lasted this long. Some nurses simply couldn't cope with agonizing demises in such immense doses, illnesses ravaging and therapies so trivial. How did you make anything better when it was so bleak? Marthe cared, caressed, then went home and ate dinner, made love with her boyfriend Robert Fuller, took vacations, saw movies. Spent hours with her siblings and it was her sister Janine Theresa, or Jan, to whom she spoke. A family large and prolific, one that Marthe bumped into at work, what with Jan downstairs in administration, Marthe's eldest sister Lynn and their father Louis both cardiac surgeons. At times Marthe's eldest brother Rick, a fireman, loitered there too. Yet, outside this hospital, work rarely intruded. It was those siblings and ones younger surrounding Marthe with love and affection, easing an ache that nursing the dying left within her. Marthe departed her job every day, but it never completely dissipated.

"Hey, what's up?" Marthe had already informed her family of Ash's demise, this call probably an inquiry as to plans during her break. Maybe Jan's daughters wanted an afternoon with Aunt Marthe, perhaps a trip to the zoo might be in order. Time with her nieces would be a salve, easing Ash's absence. Marthe conjured a girls' day out with no boys allowed, living or only a memory.

"Marthe, listen. When you're off shift, can you come down to the ER?"

"Uh, yeah. What it is?"

"Honey, Kell's been admitted. Rick brought him in. It's nothing serious, I mean, you can wait, but yeah. It'd be nice if you could come down when you're done."

The phone felt big and clunky in Marthe's small hands. Kell had been a boyfriend, now he was in the ER. The receiver seemed to weigh as much as a body and Marthe gripped it, trying to keep it to her ear. "Does, I mean, should I come down there right now?"

"No, he's unconscious and they're still running tests. Mom and Dad are here, so's Rick and Lynn. It's okay, but just when you're done, that'd be fine."

Those people constituted half the family and while Patrick Souza would return to the fire station, that he was still there tripped Marthe's brain. That and her mother's presence.

The ward was busy, the floor packed with rushing bodies. One wouldn't be missed, but Marthe heard the ease in Jan's voice. Only tests for now, nothing requiring her immediate attendance. Handing the phone back to Aggie, Marthe viewed with new eyes this place so resolute, familiar. Eyes that suddenly saw through people and walls, not only their solid natures.

She never left work from the elevators, always using the back stairs. Exercise to keep those hips from spreading, yet that short ride felt to take as much effort as five flights' of steps. Others stood between Marthe and the door and she had to push to exit before it shut. Still in her work clothes, she edged her way through the crowded hall, voices speaking various languages, none of which she knew. Both Aurora and Louis had desired their children to speak English, raising them with a deep love for God and their Catholic faith with little practical regard to their Iberian Peninsula heritage.

Marthe didn't know Spanish or Portuguese, but sometimes she spoke Wisconsin, employing the accent of Kell's childhood, one slower in speech with pronounced _yah's_ , his negative answers an elongated _no-ah_ as though he was speaking of the biblical figure. When they met in the late 1970s, Kell's accent was thick, but over the years it had waned until almost untraceable. The last time they'd been together, in 1993, Marthe had teased when he called home, his tone merging with his parents and siblings, settling on that unmistakable Midwestern tenor. For days Marthe would offer that inflection, driving Kell crazy.

That was all she considered, approaching the emergency room doors. Offering her badge, she went through, finding her father near the end of the room tapping his foot, arms tight around his long white coat.

"Daddy?" Marthe called.

She hadn't meant to yell, but the room was a cacophony of shouts and low whispers. By her father's relieved face, Marthe saw even before she reached Kell's cubicle his condition was serious.

"Honey, thank God. He's been asking for you."

Louis's arms fell loose, then surrounded Marthe, unspoken anxiety pouring through their embrace. Ash's dad hadn't been there to see him die that morning, but Louis Souza stood near a man not even his son-in-law. His surrogate son, Marthe accepted. She had always suspected it and noting concern in her mother's eyes, it was confirmed. Kell was as much their child as Frank had been.

Kell lay unconscious, an IV in his left arm, tubes in his nostrils. His breathing wasn't as arduous as Ash's, but not smooth, and Marthe stared at the set-up. Kell was surrounded by Souza women who would be hard pressed to surrender him to any ailment, but Marthe's brother was missing.

"Where's Rick? What's going on?" Marthe asked no one in particular.

"Someone called 911, might have been Kell. They were just the ones to get there first. Rick came with him in the ambulance. Seems he has..."

"Jan, what?" Marthe asked.

"Pneumonia," Louis finished. "He's got pneumonia."

As when learning of Kell's presence, Marthe felt empowered. Instead of supply cupboards, she observed the next cubicle, a patient treated for stab wounds. She could see him encircled by police officers, a young Vietnamese man thrashing about, not lying still like Kell. Kell's face was flushed and Marthe stroked his bearded cheek out of habit. His skin was hot, probably running a temperature of at least one hundred degrees. But if he'd been here a few hours, he would have been warmer, more like one hundred four. One hundred four and drugs coursed through his system to offset the heat within his body, warmth to conquer a virus. Some virus, and tests had been run.

"What kind?" Marthe stared at her father. "What kind is it?"

"Lynn went to check, see if they know yet." Jan's voice was low.

Marthe looked to the curtain separating them from the other cubicle. Through thick fabric she saw an older Hispanic man with chest pains. The Souzas could be considered Hispanic, but Louis would sigh; European, from the Iberian Peninsula. From Marthe's earliest childhood she knew that word and here they sat on the tip of another peninsula, Kell with pneumonia, but the subtype eluded her.

"Does he know?" Marthe took his hand. Kell began to stir, then again succumbed to the drugs in his system.

Louis shook his head as Marthe's mother trembled. Aurora's hands twisted in her lap and Marthe knelt down, grasping those digits, still with Kell's hand in her own.

A conduit, how it had been with Frank, and Marthe wondered if her mother recalled that moment, held that in her memories. It never left Marthe, one small speck of history withstanding so many other details, so many other deaths.

"Mom, it'll be okay. He's in the best place." Marthe's voice was that of duty, her nurse's accent spoken with ease. Yet, they never were. She had said the same to Wendy days ago, warning of Ash's impending demise with a tone smooth, not detached but aware. Then Marthe discerned her eldest sibling far down the emergency room hallway. Through all the curtains and obstacles, Marthe observed Lynn's arms stiff at her sides, deep in conversation with another doctor, one Marthe knew only by sight.

This man looked stern, or maybe it was the news he relayed. As Kell's grip strengthened, Marthe released her mother's fingers, then stood to blue eyes rising her way. Eyes feverish, in a daze, and Marthe gave him a smile. "Hey there. You could've just called me or come by the house if you wanted to talk."

Her tone was light, which made him grin. She could tell he wanted to laugh, but was too debilitated. "You know me, Mr. Big Entrance."

Marthe heard her mother's small sigh, saw Jan gaze to the floor. "Oh yeah, asshole. It's all about you."

"Martha," Aurora scolded.

That did make Kell chuckle, then he began to cough. Marthe helped him sit up, Jan on his other side.

"You stupid bastard," Marthe continued in a cheery vein. "You better not expect me at your beck and call."

His choking subsided, then Marthe laid him down, adjusting the bed, tipping him forward.

He tried to catch his breath. "You think they'll mind if I have a cigarette?"

Jan tapped his arm as Marthe smiled. "Probably. Maybe you should switch to chew."

"Shit, might as well shoot me."

"Kell," Aurora groaned.

It was white noise, chatter to which Marthe half-listened, the rest of her focus on this man; a writer, ex-lover, her friend. Her friend from ages ago, like Ash but not. Marthe wouldn't ponder that; instead she noted Lynn's three-inch heels, much like the knitting needles of earlier, marking off time. Those heels approaching, Marthe sensed something beyond what she could see, what she could feel. Kell's hand rested in hers and as the stabbing victim calmed, the heart patient settled, Marthe knew. She knew and hated it.

"He'll be down here for the night, at least till we can get him into ICU." Lynnette Elizabeth was another wide-hipped, short Souza, always using her nickname of Lynn but never the last name of her philandering husband. Within the hospital she was known as Dr. Souza, as her father was also addressed, causing some confusion. There in the ER, Lynn was a rarely seen figure, but took no prisoners. "I want him up there as soon as there's space," she barked.

After the news had been spoken, Marthe hadn't left Kell's side. He had PCP, a serious case. Once this infection was cleared, then he would begin a regimen of antiretrovirals, a cocktail of drugs far advanced from ones Ash had originally been prescribed a decade ago. No longer was this illness a death sentence, which Marthe kept repeating to herself and to her mother. Like a diabetic, Kell would retain his life through the marvels of chemistry.

But those were only words. Kell was still, his large hands grasped by Marthe and Aurora as Jan stepped out to call Rick and their younger siblings, telling them their brother of sorts was in need of at least a prayer, more like a rosary. Aurora carried those beads in her Louis Vuitton purse and once Kell was asleep, they'd be retrieved, fingered gently, words murmured with love and reverence. Marthe never said a rosary for anyone, hadn't since she was fifteen years old. Maybe that night she might mutter one Hail Mary.

"Marthe, you there?" Kell's voice was losing ground.

"Yeah baby, I'm here. Listen, I'm gonna stay till they get you upstairs. Then I'll be back tomorrow."

"You gotta work?" he asked, sounding groggy.

Marthe saw her mother fumbling through her bag. "No, lucky you. I'm off until Tuesday."

"What's today?"

"It's Friday, Kell. Friday."

"Uh-huh." His speech was labored and Marthe only wanted him to sleep. She would wait in the ER until he was moved, then spend another hour in intensive care, confirming he was settled. For her own peace of mind, Marthe wouldn't leave until she was assured of his place within the hospital. For how long was unknown; a week, maybe two, depending on how he responded to treatment. He'd be treated, like another patient.

"Marthe?" he whispered.

As her mother began the intercession, Marthe noted her father and Lynn looking over a chart. Kell's chart was only a few hours old. It would be with him to the end of his life.

The end of his life starts now. "What Kell, what is it honey?"

"Marthe, don't leave, I mean, not until I'm really under the influence."

"I won't." She stroked his beard, then his hand, her body strangely itching for an ancient cadence of beads handled and words mumbled.

Wiping a few drops of sweat from his brow, she leaned down, setting her lips along his forehead. "Kell, I'm here. I love you and I'm here."

"For good?" he asked.

She smiled. They'd been together, then parted, how many times? How many times had she known this man, but now, as with Ash, it was different.

Christ was nowhere in the room except in the words Aurora Souza offered. Marthe gave Kell's hands another squeeze, then lay beside him, curling her small body along his robust frame. Brushing strawberry blond hairs from his face, she settled against him. "For as long as you need baby. As long as you need."

Chapter 2 - 1978

Wrapping her brown muffler tight against her neck, Marthe inhaled a cool, foggy October day. Often autumn was warmer than summer, but the chill made Marthe glad for her scarf, crocheted by her mother. Marthe had a dozen scattered throughout her room, used by her various flat mates, all nursing students like herself. Used as much in the summer as now, fall in the city a reprieve from the mild, damp weather Marthe had known her entire life. This city was her birthplace, also that of her parents, third generation immigrants calling California home. Marthe grew up here, on the northeast side, but now lived in a more western location near the university, sharing an apartment with three other women, all twenty years old and of a similar nature; young, Catholic, and so glad to be out from under their parents' roofs.

It made sleeping with Stewart so much easier, no sneaking around, although he never spent the night. That was asking too much of her roommates, a line all respected. They would borrow scarves and money, skirts and shoes, but no man shared their domicile, not even for one evening, a pact made to maintain harmony, self-respect, and the ability to leave bed dressed only in underwear. Yet some sensibilities were changing; while all shared the same faith, none of them were really _good_ Catholic girls.

They all attended mass, received communion, three of the four dating other Catholics. Only Sherry Canfield was seeing a man outside the faith, but Bobby Crosby was a Lutheran. They alternated churches on Sundays, but Bobby complained. Sherry never took communion at his church while he always went up with her for the bread and wine at St. Mary's.

Humming to herself, Marthe waited for Stewart. They would have an early dinner, then meet with her family for mass. Marthe loved that continuity and hoped all her siblings would attend. Frank was the only question and Marthe had considered calling him, reminding him how much their mother would appreciate his presence. Not owning a car, Marthe had left her apartment at two thirty, catching the bus. Now she stood, feeling chilled. Where was Stewart?

Marthe stepped into a bookstore that had been attracting customers before her birth. Her parents had brought the family here when the children were small, hands held with younger siblings. Eight Souza children and Marthe, the fourth, usually stood with Annie, nine and a half years Marthe's junior. It was Marthe's job to prevent her youngest sibling from grabbing everything her active hands could reach, but usually Marthe and older sister Jan traded, Jan better with Annie while Marthe preferred their brother Chris. He was quiet, would do what Marthe told him. He was still like that, so unlike Frank.

Loosening her scarf, Marthe draped it over her shoulders. Frank had also moved out, was living on the south side, a good twenty minutes by bus. When not busy with class, Marthe made that journey, finding him either sacked out in bed or on the rare day at his job. He worked at an Italian restaurant, his arms a swirled pattern of burn marks from the pizza oven. She had noticed those scars masking others, ones that truly frightened her, his needle tracks more visible over the last year. Marthe had scolded in jest, her fears cloaked in medically appropriate warnings. He needed to use clean needles to stay clear of hepatitis B, but Frank had only laughed, then kissed her, rolling from his single bed in a dank room smelling of urine. Marthe was the only Souza to brave that seedy, drug-infested neighborhood, Rick and Lynn not stepping foot on those streets, only Jan sometimes accompanying Marthe on those missions. Mercy missions Jan would sniff, yet, Marthe was undaunted. She didn't go there at night, only during the day, trying to reach into that brother, one of two younger than her.

There were five sisters and three brothers, Jan, Marthe, and Frank, short for Francis, right in the middle, each a year apart. That forged a bond, yet, Marthe adored them all, why she wanted to attend mass that night, one event since the beginning of the semester in which everyone met. Marthe's junior year of nursing school was proving her worth and busy with homework, Sundays weren't for church anymore, why her parents had switched to Saturday nights. Easier for all ten Souzas to gather, but usually it was only nine, Frank rarely making an appearance.

Looking at a book, Marthe considered taking a bus, finding Frank, but Stewart had said he would meet her at three. Marthe's watch read three fifteen and she scowled. Stewart was sometimes late, but Marthe forgave his tardiness, thinking what would happen after church. Nothing altogether Godly and she smiled. They would go to his apartment, not far from hers. He'd promised they wouldn't encounter any of his roommates, but Marthe wasn't bothered as long as no one actually barged in on them.

She turned, feeling eyes on her. That happened on occasion, usually Marthe catching an errant younger sibling with a hand in the cookie jar, maybe Chris trying to sneak up on her. He was quiet but mischievous, like all the Souza boys.

Seeing no one she knew, Marthe returned to her book, trying not to be irritated. Maybe traffic was bad, maybe Stewart had gotten a late start. She would dismiss small indiscretions, aware he would make up for it later. Physically he was her type; tall, burly, and blonde with a laughing smile and eager hands, hands for which Marthe ached, standing alone in the shop. Hands that had been intimate with her skin for months and she looked again, finding vaguely familiar blue eyes staring her way.

She squinted, not having worn her glasses. She only needed them for distance and they would have been a hindrance, gathering moisture from the dismal weather. But without them, the figure was hazy. Except for the beard and his blue eyes, which seemed to light from his face, it could be Stewart; the same large build, similar strawberry blonde hue to the shaggy hair. Except for those eyes; Stewart's were gray. This man's were water-blue.

She dropped her book as his voice rang in her ears, the tone so dissimilar, yet known. "You want I should get that for you?" he asked, picking up the novel.

Marthe stopped squinting, taking it from his hands. "Oh my God! How are you?"

His name was on the tip of her tongue, but he rescued her. "Kell, Kell Vander Kellen. From the uh..."

From the clinic, she considered. It had been a year, over a year, but she hadn't forgotten those eyes, that smile, or most importantly, his voice. Not a California ring but from the Midwest; hadn't he said he was from the Midwest?

"How are you?" His handshake wasn't typical but gracious, nearly intimate. Like Stewart's hands, warm and easy, so easy Marthe had slept with him on their first date. Slept with him, but Kell had only been a patient of sorts, accompanying a girlfriend for a pregnancy test. Marthe looked around; he seemed alone.

They made small talk, Marthe taken in by that accent, one that played in her brain, lyrical in a folksy way, setting him apart from all others in the store. It had eased some, the vowels not quite as rounded, but every time he said _no_ it came out as _no-ah_ , and she found herself smiling. Innocent was this bear of a man, out of place with his surroundings.

Moving to a quiet corner, they took two chairs. She no longer held anything in her hand, only Kell in her view, and Marthe listened with rapt attention. He'd written a book and by sheer luck had found an agent. The novel, entitled _1955 Rainbow Chessboard_ , was being published, and Kell's enthusiasm spilled in colloquial words, _oh wow's_ and _yah know's_.

"That's fantastic!" Taking his hands, again she felt a familiar vein. His fingers were large, encompassing hers, as was his smile. "So what's it about?"

He stared down, then into the room. "Uh well, yah know it's about this woman, and she's uh, had a baby. Well, she's pregnant. For a long time."

Marthe nodded as he continued, Kell unable to suppress a chuckle. "A really long time, yah know. Like," and he laughed.

"What?" her smile encouraging.

"Forty-four years. She's been pregnant most of her life. It's not literal, I mean, it's literary fiction, but certainly not real."

"Why was she pregnant for so long? Or should I not ask?"

Marthe's giggle eased Kell's and he removed his hands from hers, running one through his hair. "Hey, you mind if we step outside? I need a smoke."

Nodding her head, they left the shop, standing in the cool breeze. While Kell lit a cigarette, Marthe adjusted her coat and scarf, and they walked from the door. She was curious as to why he hadn't lit it inside, but didn't ask.

"I don't like to smoke in stores," he muttered as if reading her mind, blowing a white puff into the air. "Especially not in bookstores. Can you imagine buying a book that smelled like an ashtray?"

"Then why do you smoke?" No one in her family used tobacco, incongruous with her father's occupation as a heart surgeon. A dirty habit, Louis Francis Souza always remarked, especially in front of Frank, who had started with pot as a young teenager. He'd abandoned that custom last year, in spring, around the time he started work at the restaurant.

"Oh something to do, actually, my parents smoke, God, just something, yah know?"

"My brother used to smoke." Marthe stared to the concrete. Abandoned butts, some an inch past the filter, littered the ground.

"He quit?"

"No, just switched habits."

A cold wind blew against her face. Kell held his cigarette low, but she smelled that odor, not of pot, only tobacco.

"The one I met, I mean, the one from last year?"

Kell's voice had softened, losing that distinctive tone, becoming more like Marthe's, at one with their location. He took a long drag, then dropped the butt to the ground, smashing it with his shoe.

Marthe nodded. Last year Frank had been edging toward something stronger and while she'd tried to dissuade him, her words and pleas had gone nowhere. Now he was strung out. She struggled to cover it with phrases less harsh, but burn scars on his arms couldn't disguise what she knew as fact. Her brother, only nineteen years old, was a junkie.

Freed from his vice, Kell's arm linked through hers, and Marthe was led into a cafe. She didn't know if Stewart would find her or if he was still meeting her. Maybe he'd forgotten.

"I'm waiting for a friend, but God it was getting cold out here, yah know-ah?"

An _ah_ -sound was slapped on the end of some of Kell's words, his voice having returned to its native tone, making Marthe smile. "I'm waiting for someone too, but he's late. Really late."

"In the doghouse eh?"

She smiled again, his eyes twinkling. "Maybe. We'll see how the rest of the night goes."

Kell laughed, ordering them each a coffee and they only spoke of their plans, Kell seeing a film with a friend, Marthe's uncertain afternoon staring at her. As they shared two cups each, Stewart Campbell faded from her thoughts, Kell revealing more of the plot from his novel. Marthe wasn't really listening, only engaged by the sing-song nature of his inflection. Then one sentence almost made her drop her cup. "What'd you say?"

Kell wouldn't meet her gaze. "I said it's for you. You and your brother."

Looking to the window, Marthe had to escape his eyes. So blue, maybe like the lakes from his hometown of Appleton, Wisconsin, one fact settled in her brain. She placed her cup in the center of the table. "For us? Are you kidding?"

Kell stared into his cup, then looked at her. "I never forgot that day, how you were with him. Maybe this sounds weird. It was like you were his mother, but he was older than you."

Marthe tried to recall Kell's story. The mother had given birth at the age of sixty-six, but by the time she was eighty, her child was nearly one hundred. "Was her baby a boy or a girl?"

"You know-ah, I didn't make it clear. It's up to the reader."

Marthe felt tears, never considering the future and Frank in the same thought. Was that deliberate? "My brother's a heroin addict," she whispered. "No one in my family wants to talk about it, but it's the truth. He's a mess, just a goddamned mess!"

She crossed herself, tears falling on the table, Marthe afraid to brush them away. Stewart would probably find her if she did, but he didn't know about Frank, only that one of Marthe's brothers wasn't well. A euphemism as though Frank had a birth defect, some problem of which no one spoke, how her family dealt with him, though her father was a doctor, her oldest sister in medical school, her brother Rick a fireman. Might he find Frank one day, OD'd in the rat-infested hole he called home?

"Tell me what happens, I mean, at the end of the story." Marthe stared out, hoping to God Stewart wouldn't arrive that minute. She said a small prayer, would say a rosary if her boyfriend would only give her time to recover. She hadn't said a rosary in years, but if Marthe could just let this pass from her.

"Marthe, maybe not now."

She nodded. "Don't want to give away the ending?"

A smile came to her face, but Kell's eyes stole it. Eyes that seemed aware and wary, eyes not like her boyfriend. Stewart's were gray, cold, like Frank's.

"She buries her child."

"Uh-huh." Marthe wiped her face, then finished her coffee, clasping her hands together.

"I had no idea it had gotten so bad," Kell said. "I'm sorry."

He pulled out his cigarettes and after a few deep puffs, tapped pale remnants into the ashtray. Marthe inhaled it, wondering what her parents would say. They knew Stewart didn't smoke; would they ask where she had been?

"No one wants to admit it." Then Marthe smiled. "Next time I see him I'll tell him he's in a book. He'll like that."

"When will that be?"

"Maybe tonight. Well, probably not, but maybe." Her voice faded. "Maybe. When does it come out?"

Kell held another cigarette in his hand. "Next summer."

"You must be thrilled."

Marthe wanted to move away. Not from Kell, but from her brother. Suddenly she hoped he wouldn't be there, wouldn't manage to drag himself to church. It would be like that, Frank hauling himself as if a corpse, straggling and wretched. All she could picture were his burn marks as if sacrificing himself over a fire, hiding and hoping, waiting for salvation.

She prayed for him, but not as she had her maternal grandmother, Nana Garcia to her descendents, many of them living in that city. Marthe had said her last rosary over her dying maternal grandmother, leaving it to huge Catholic clans of Spanish and Portuguese extraction to continue that specific litany of prayer. Marthe only prayed that Frank wouldn't lead her family to another funeral, but it wouldn't be like in Kell's novel, a woman burying a child so much older and younger at the same time.

"You're not Catholic are you?"

Marthe's question came without warning and Kell chuckled. "Uh, yah I am. Why?"

"I'm going to church tonight and it looks like my boyfriend's standing me up. You wanna come? Maybe he'll be there, Frank. You can tell him about your book."

She didn't want to be alone in meeting her family. Didn't want to find some way to spend the next few hours, Stewart having forgotten their plans. Marthe didn't want to step into the cold by herself, instead preferring this lug of a man to shield her, even if he had stripped her naked. Kell had removed Marthe's invisible cloak, but maybe he could be the one to find it, set her right again.

"Well, I'd love to but I uh..."

"Oh, right. I forgot. You're meeting someone."

"Only a friend, a guy I work with. We're going to see _Midnight Express_. You can join us."

Marthe had read about the film, the true story of a man stuck in Turkey after trying to smuggle drugs into America.

Kell realized the plot as she did. "Oh Christ, I'm sorry!"

Marthe giggled. "God, maybe that's a sign. At least Frank's not in some Turkish prison."

Kell's chuckles began and Marthe's boyfriend approached a table caught in rapturous laughter. Marthe spotted Stewart first, tears pouring making it hard to see. Even before she said hello, she glanced at her watch; four thirty.

"Stewart, oh my God. Stewart Campbell, this is Kell, Kell Vander Kellen."

Neither Kell nor Marthe had stopped laughing, but Kell managed to extend his hand. "Nice to meet you."

Marthe scooted over, the men sitting across from each other. Looking at them, she wondered if they saw what she did; mirror images except for Kell's beard and the color of their eyes.

Turning to Marthe, Stewart seemed not to notice. "God honey, I am so sorry! I can't begin to tell you all that happened." He rattled off plausible excuses. Under the table Marthe felt his hand reach for her knee.

The squeeze was welcome and instead of an early dinner Marthe wanted to catch a bus, reach his room. Strip herself literally after all that figurative shedding, let this man inside her body. Let Stewart slip on a condom, then make love to her, erasing all her thoughts.

Maybe they would use two rubbers, Marthe with four in her purse. A careful woman if nothing else, but she hadn't been prepared for Kell's assault, one for which all the prophylactics in the world wouldn't have protected.

"Listen, I should be going. Jaime's never gonna find me in here." Kell stood, again shaking Stewart's hand.

"Oh, we should be leaving too." Urging her boyfriend from the bench seat, Marthe then pressed her body close to him.

Her overtures weren't missed. "Oh yeah. We're never gonna make church and dinner both."

Marthe smiled, Stewart's voice one of worry. He was a better Catholic than she, for if Marthe had to choose, she would skip mass, have sex instead. If she missed this one Saturday, perhaps she wouldn't have to explain the cigarette smoke that encompassed her body, nor think about her brother.

"Well, it was so good to see you," Kell began, reaching for Marthe's hand.

From behind her boyfriend, she offered her right arm, felt a warm squeeze of her fingers. It only made her move closer to Stewart as they exited the cafe.

In the breeze, the sun peeked through, Kell waving at someone down the street. A figure approached and Marthe squinted. He was dark-haired, not tall, with a friendly smile. Upon closer inspection, he had brown eyes, a voice familiar, local. Kind, effeminate.

Stewart excluded himself from saying hello, Marthe offering their introductions. Jaime Schuler was a waiter at the same restaurant where Kell bussed tables and for a few minutes those three exchanged pleasantries. Only once Kell and his friend walked away did Marthe notice Stewart's silence.

"Why didn't you say anything?" she asked as they caught the next bus.

Taking their seats, she slipped a hand under her boyfriend's right leg, warming her fingers. The bus was crowded and Stewart remained quiet. Marthe signaled for the next stop, the closest to Stewart's apartment.

"Why are we getting off here?" he asked.

She smiled. "I'm not hungry for dinner." Stepping from the bus, they walked up the small hill. Marthe's fast pace was matched by her lover and upon reaching his room, it was only minutes until they were naked, a condom placed where it belonged.

Both were near an orgasm but Marthe's earlier question rankled. "Stewart, why didn't you say anything to Kell and his friend?"

Marthe felt him shrink again, this time from within. She moved her hips, trying to retain what was being lost. Her attempts failing, Marthe watched Stewart's eyes close tight, then felt him pull from her.

"What is it?" Marthe ran her hands along his chest but nipples were flaccid, as smooth as the small organ in his groin. The rubber hung and Marthe kissed his neck.

"Why'd you ask that? I was nearly there!"

She moved back, wrapping the sheet across her chest, though there wasn't much to hide. "Stewart, what?"

No words followed, nor any further intimacy. They dressed, arriving early at St. Anne's, saving seats for Marthe's family. Frank never did show and with her youngest brother on her left, a boyfriend on her right, Marthe Souza repeated the liturgy, chanted the Lord's Prayer, then joined the rest of her clan for communion. She and Stewart parted with only a peck on the other's cheek, Marthe getting a ride home with her older brother.

After waiting two weeks with nary a phone call, Marthe returned Stewart Campbell's few belongings, a couple of t-shirts and one Beatles album, and didn't hear from him again.

Chapter 3 - 1985

"Hey, I gotta go. I love you and I'm sorry about yesterday."

Marthe kissed Kell's cheek, half wanting him to wake, half hoping he'd subconsciously note her apology.

"Oh Marthe, you really gotta leave?"

She sat next to him, feeling him press against her. He was hard and if there was any extra time... "Yeah. Someone'll have my hide if I'm late."

Kell's smile teased. "Shit. Gloria's a..."

"Don't say it," Marthe whispered, a giggle escaping.

As Kell rolled to his back, Marthe didn't mistake his erection, but the bus was due in ten minutes, and even with all their disagreements of the last week, this day would end her shift. A long day, sixteen hours, but Marthe owed Aggie Walsh, a debt having been claimed.

"Baby I'm sorry, really." Kell's voice was soft, loving, taking all the self control Marthe possessed to not slip under the sheet.

Instead she leaned over, kissed his mouth, gnawing on his lower lip. "I'll be back a little after eleven. Don't wait up, okay?"

He nodded and Marthe felt tears, right at the surface. Leaving the room, she gathered keys from the table, hearing him stir. As she reached their door, Kell staggered toward her, and she waited for him. It would have been so easy to just leave, not say _goodbye_ or _I'm sorry_ , but Marthe would be gone all day. All day she would have him on her mind and better for it to be missing him instead of anger.

"I love you, God, I love you." Kell's arms enveloped her.

"I know. I love you too."

He caressed her face, then her chest. Over her tiny breasts, further past her waist. Then he stopped, rubbing his fingertips along her hipbones.

"Find something?" she giggled.

"I'll be waiting," Kell said. "Just come home."

He stared to the floor, but Marthe felt his tears in the tenderness of his touch. She kissed his cheek, then opened the door, saying nothing more.

Kell made a mental list; noodles, hamburger, parmesan cheese, a jar of spaghetti sauce. Red wine chilled in their fridge, but they were out of bread. He needed to buy a loaf of sourdough too.

Nate's warm body was pleasant, but Kell knew Nate was annoyed. He hated using rubbers, but Kell insisted. It was the condom and the reason for it; sometimes Kell wondered which pissed Nate more, the prophylactic or Marthe.

Lying on his stomach, Kell rubbed his erection against Nate's mattress. After this, he would stop at the store and pick up things for dinner. Maybe a half-gallon of milk too; in the morning Kell could make pancakes for breakfast, one of Marthe's favorites. Who knew when they would wake? The double shift wouldn't see her home until almost eleven thirty, plenty of time for the store, cleaning their apartment, Nate. Nate Green had called not long after Marthe was out the door, not even six thirty that morning. That hadn't gone unnoticed, Nate so mindful of Marthe's schedule.

Some unfair notion was perpetrated as Kell accepted Nate's orgasm. Wrong in that here he was having sex with someone else and Marthe was working two straight shifts. She was the main breadwinner, but Kell's second novel, _An Opaque Ocean,_ still sold. He bought their groceries, she paid the rent. The rent, PG&E, water and garbage, but he picked up the cable, newspaper, and shopping. His own climax hovering, Kell moved against the bed, Nate's pudgy body still lying right on top of him.

"God, come for Chrissakes!" Nate hissed.

"You want me to?"

"Yes!"

Kell did so, thinking not only of the man over him, but dreaming of Marthe underneath. Wishing for them both, but that had only happened once. Kell's release staggered, emotions building all week. He and Marthe hadn't had sex for days, too busy fighting about, well, about this. About Kell's infidelities and a few of Marthe's own.

Nate moved from Kell, but Kell didn't budge, couldn't really. It had been four days since he'd had sex with another person, four long days of arguments, accusations, loneliness. He missed Marthe so much, this day an age until she returned. Then he would feed her, make love to her. Cook her favorite dinner, then lay her on their bed and... Kell smiled, glad he was face down. He would share many things with Nate, had for years, but Kell's satisfaction with Marthe only made Nate irritable.

Kell heard Nate use the toilet, imagined the condom being disposed with disdain. Too unsafe not to use them, the only way Kell would let Nate have him. How many deaths had he witnessed through Marthe's work stories, and he'd known some of those men, one a good friend. Knew them, had slept with a few. Only a couple, but always with condoms. For years that fact had been hammered home to prevent rectal gonorrhea, avoid unwanted pregnancies, and Frank. Because of Frank, more than anything or anyone, Kell never screwed around unprotected.

Not Kell, nor the men with whom he slept. Marthe always insisting her flings use rubbers. A drawer in her bedside table was stuffed with condoms and she carried several in her bag, sometimes handing them out, along with a couple of quarters, to panhandlers they encountered. Two bits and a rubber would emerge to a face at first grateful, then amazed, then embarrassed. Marthe was never caught out, always a smile, even if she was tired, angry, hurting. Even if Kell had hurt her again, Marthe always turned the other cheek.

Rolling to his left, Kell sighed, Marthe Souza the strangest Catholic he'd ever met. Between sleeping around and her visions of Jesus, Kell had never encountered anyone so free yet bound, her liberal views about sex and love tied into some mystical reverence for the Son of God. She believed in a woman's right to choose, never said a rosary, but tried to attend mass as often as her schedule allowed. Half the time Marthe received communion on the run, either on her way to work or in the hospital chapel where Kell sometimes found her kneeling, deep in meditation. She rarely prayed at home, only there, in that building, a shrine of sorts to the multitudes now dying every day.

People died daily in Ward 5B, Marthe with either another brave tale of some young man struggling with his last breath surrounded by a generous helping of family, lovers past and present, and friends. Or a more somber account of one lonely soul out of his head, covered in lesions, foaming at the mouth or simply unresponsive. Maybe he'd been given a near lobotomy to ease the incredible pain, holes drilled into a skull pounded by intense agony. Kell had seen some of those men, most older than he. Kell and Marthe were twenty-seven, yet her patients were usually in their mid-thirties, more often closer to forty. Only the drug addicts were young, like Frank.

Kell heard Nate in the shower. Nate Green and Frank Souza were both born in 1959. Sometimes Kell remembered that detail, a question Marthe had asked Nate the one time they'd all been together: _How old are you?_ Kell recalled her face, hearing Nate's voice, Marthe having only smiled, but Kell knew what else she'd heard. A man still living after Frank had gone.

"Hey, you look rested. What'd you do last night?"

Marthe's voice was light, standing next to Ash, looking over charts. Dark circles framed his blue eyes, a tired pallor on his face.

"Spent all night at the Borehead. Got so much Crisco up my ass, shit's gonna be sliding outta me for weeks."

His smile shone as he kissed her cheek, then strode in the direction of a patient Marthe knew would die that day. People died every day now, one, maybe two between Marthe's coming and goings. Yet, five hours into her double shift, it had been busy day for Jesus, Marthe already witnessing his presence twice. A third was due, probably before she broke for lunch.

Jennifer Reynolds approached Marthe, glancing over her shoulder. It wasn't hard as Jennifer was nearly six foot, Marthe one of the shortest nurses on the ward. "How is he?" Jennifer asked.

Marthe looked down the hall, watching Ash disappear into a room. "He's a crappy liar."

"What's it been, a month, six weeks?"

"Eight." It had been two months since Greg's death and Ash was compensating, untruths covering his pain. He looked like hell and Marthe knew he still wasn't sleeping.

"I don't know how he does it," Jennifer sighed. "Coming in here every day, seeing the same thing."

Marthe smiled. "How do we do it?"

Jennifer chuckled. "God, I don't have a clue. You really here till eleven?"

"Gotta pay the piper. Aggie's in LA."

"Yeah, I think that's what she said."

They chatted for another minute, then Marthe saw jittery, jerking motions, bodies heading toward the room Ash had entered.

"Souza!"

Marthe passed Jennifer and other personnel, her small stature quick in moments like these. Moments where a life ended and as Marthe reached the door she stopped, allowing someone else before her.

She followed Christ into the room as Ash stood near the bedside of Tommy Wallace. A housepainter, Tommy had been in and out of the ward over the last year with PCP, persistent diarrhea, and thrush. Blackouts followed, due to crushing headaches, then another round of pneumonia. Now death had found Tommy, a thirty-eight-year-old native of Tacoma, Washington, having moved to California when he was twenty-two. He lived in a neighborhood blighted by this epidemic, but his hospital room was empty save the medical staff and a khaki-clad Jesus Christ. Tommy's partner Gene had died six months earlier, both men with no family close. No family that would travel to see their sons, brothers, nephews, or grandchildren die of this agonizing, mutilating, embarrassing disease.

Ash stared at the clock, waiting to record the time of death. No resuscitation was performed, Tommy having insisted. Sitting at Gene's side, he'd made Marthe, Ash, and Jennifer swear that when his time came, they would let him go. Let him be with Gene and while Ash had sneered, Marthe had nodded, holding Tommy's hand while Tommy gripped his beloved. Marthe had seen God come for Gene and there, as Thomas Brian Wallace breathed his last, she witnessed a resurrection. Tommy stepped from a gaunt, wasted body healthy, happy, if not a bit surprised. His green eyes caught Marthe's and they shared a smile. Then Tommy left the room, his hand grasped by a man Marthe had come to know intimately.

Not from her own faith, but for the frequency of his visits. On Ward 5B, Jesus Christ was a daily presence.

Marthe's feet rested on a chair, her sister Jan across, both women with coffee in mugs. Marthe also had a sandwich, but Jan was on her way home, this only a quick hello.

"Julian waiting for you?" Marthe grinned, taking a bite.

"Oh God, don't say it like that."

"You know he is, probably there right now, making dinner."

They shared a laugh, tidbits of Jan's boyfriend accumulating like so many names Marthe held within her. Including Tommy Wallace, that day had seen a total of four losses, a record of which Marthe didn't wish to boast. She still had seven hours left.

"Julian's making you dinner, maybe spaghetti, oh God, that sounds so good!" Glaring at wilted lettuce hanging from pale white bread, Marthe pushed away her sandwich. "Lucky you."

Jan poked a finger into the bread, leaving a mark. "How are, uh, things?"

"Before I left I told him I was sorry."

"Are you?"

Marthe set her index finger into the mark left by her sister. Then she poked four more neat holes, mustard oozing out the last. "Yeah I am. He is too."

Jan shook her head. "I love you, but why do you two _do_ this to each other?"

Leaning back, Marthe stared at the ceiling, dark splotches catching her eyes. "I don't know. At least we're both unfaithful. Not like one of us is holding out."

"No, I guess not."

Jan's junior by eleven months, Marthe watched her sister fidget. Between the older siblings, Marthe and Kell's affairs were accepted, but not understood. Lynn and Rick were recently married, Jan and Julian Rossiter a certainty, at least to Marthe. Jan might not be ready to admit it, but Marthe saw the way her sister lit around the quiet, tall man, skinny and not at all Marthe's type. Most of the men she slept with were large, blonde, and rowdy. Like Kell but not, and if that was the case, what did that say about her, choosing partners identical to the one she loved. Marthe was promiscuous, but she did only love Kell.

What they had fought about all week, that and a broken Patsy Cline record. Patsy was Marthe's favorite singer and now one of Patsy's albums sported a crack. Kell wouldn't own up to it, but Marthe hadn't done it, and because she never brought a lover to their apartment, it had to have been Kell.

"He broke my record, I know he did. Can you imagine what he'd do if I ever scratched a Springsteen album?"

"Marthe, good grief. How in the world can you get mad over a record album?"

"It was Patsy Cline for God's sake!"

Marthe was hungry, didn't want to think about it. Didn't want the sandwich either. Other than an apple in her locker, it was all she had left, all she'd thought to bring. She had woken, taken a shower, consumed with the fight from the previous night, Kell's tears, words that stung. And now death. Marthe had apologized, but at work men still died.

She stood, taking the sandwich from the table. Dropping it from her fingers, it landed with a thud at the bottom of the can. "I can't make up for everything."

"Honey, you two! You know, and don't take this the wrong way, but I just don't get it, I mean, if you love him. Marthe, maybe this's totally sexist, but he's a _guy_. They can't keep it in their pants. Just how it is, but honey..."

Marthe laughed. "Maybe turnabout's fair play."

Jan finished her coffee. "I gotta go. Listen, this your last day?"

"Yeah."

"Okay well, call me tomorrow. Maybe we can get together over the weekend." They embraced, then Jan headed for the door.

"Yeah, maybe see a movie?"

"Sure. Call me. And honey, remember, it's not only him. You do these things too."

Grabbing her time card, Marthe watched her sister walk from the doorway. "I know."

At seven that night, another man died. Marthe had just said goodnight to Ash, seeing him to the elevator, then rushed off, hearing the code blue. Her weekend plans were set; tomorrow's dinner with Ash, then Marthe would meet with family for mass on Sunday morning, spending that day with her sister and Julian. If Kell wanted to participate, Marthe would be glad for his presence. If not, he could do what he liked, unlike the patients around her who were detained, old. Even if they were just legal, they all looked aged.

Studying another chart, Marthe noted a new admittance being wheeled in. Plenty of bed space was her first thought as she approached him. He looked familiar, gray eyes all over her. "Oh my God, Stewart!"

He looked away, then at her. "Marthe, Jesus Christ!"

She knelt, holding his hands. How many times had she wondered what happened to him, having never heard from him after that Saturday night years before. She had returned his things, only a roommate to collect them. As though he'd fallen from the face of the earth, Stewart had been a lost soul, one for whom Marthe prayed when she happened to think about him.

It had been a year, maybe two, since pondering a lover from the seventies. There had been so many since, but now Stewart had found her.

Stroking his hands, a few memories swirled; how he'd been in bed, how he'd touched her, but now his hands, once easy and intimate, felt cold, yearning to escape. Flee her or this place, she wasn't sure.

Marthe stood, motioning for another nurse, Jason Needleman, to admit this patient. Two purple lesions marked Stewart's face, his shrunken torso sinking into the wheelchair. Not once did Marthe worry about having slept with him, she and Kell both testing negative. Only that now she knew.

For what remained of his life, Marthe knew where Stewart Campbell would be.

By ten thirty, the sixth and seventh deaths had come and gone. Marthe wanted to forget those last two, Shane Wilson and Burt Wallace, no relation to Tommy Wallace. Shane had been a bouncer at a club downtown, Burt a county clerk. She'd known them since the ward's inception two years previous, some of her first patients. Burt and Ash were friends and she didn't want to tell him this news.

The men were similar in their deaths, succumbing quietly, strangled by pneumocystis pneumonia. More emaciated corpses, but it amazed Marthe as they died, then emerging in bodies vigorous, how they had once appeared, leaving the ward renewed, so damned good looking. Always happy, but then who wouldn't be, having spent the last months of their lives beaten to a pulp by a virus that took no prisoners. In the beginning Ash and Marthe had wondered how these men coped, lurching from illness to illness, inexplicable and vicious. Marthe and Ash had wondered until Greg got sick.

Greg Shepherd had been with Ash for five years, a twosome as contrary as Marthe and Kell. Greg was thin, wiry, a serious gaze worn at all times. While Ash was sarcastic, forever a joke on his lips, Greg oozed sincerity, hated Ash's flip, caustic tenor. Why they loved each other, Marthe had to wonder until Kell got under her skin. Then she understood, both in the way opposites attract and how it pulled a couple apart.

Yet, it hadn't been Ash to stray. Greg's sexual appetite had been voracious, as hedonistic as Kell's. Most of Marthe's flings sprang from a retaliatory nature, usually occurring with the same men. She revisited lovers, but Kell and Greg had multitudes, one-offs coming and going. Nate was a constant, but more because Nate was in love with Kell. Other than that one figure, Marthe wasn't blind. Kell would screw anything that walked and would wear a condom.

Any man; she was his only woman. He'd told her that and she believed him. Yet, when it came to the male species, Kell and Greg couldn't say no, couldn't stay faithful, why Marthe slept around. But Ash hadn't, remaining a one-man man. As former lovers trooped to Greg's bedside, Ash had stood firm, saying not a word. Never insinuating it might have been one of those bastards to get Greg sick, but in truth, the more they learned of this illness, it had probably been before Greg and Ash even met. Maybe as far back at the late 1970s, Greg infected years previous. Marthe ignored that devastating fact; if the incubation period of this disease was five or more years, the holocaust taking place that day was only the tip of the iceberg.

The tip, but what waited underneath? Caring for his lover had purged some of Ash's biting demeanor. Some, but not all, and it had been resurfacing since Greg's death two months' previous. In March, Marthe had sat with Ash, his sister Wendy, and Greg's parents. Ash had been stoic until Greg's body settled, then he let loose, but Marthe was hard pressed to weep, watching Greg depart in Jesus' arms. Greg was crying, not wishing to leave Ash alone.

Alone, where some were heading. Someone was always dying and while most times Jesus came for these men, sometimes he didn't. As Marthe collected her bag, punching her time card, she said goodbye to co-workers, staring toward the door that now held a chart for Stewart Campbell. At the end of the day, some of them were going to be alone.

The bus had been deserted, but Marthe owned no fear, not after the day she'd witnessed. She exited in front of her apartment building, one she shared with Kell and countless others. Most of them probably didn't know anyone from Marthe's ward, this area of the city somewhat sheltered. Yet, with Stewart's appearance, eventually it would be six degrees of separation. At the rate of infection, soon no one could say this plague didn't affect them.

Her steps were slow, tired, and she was hungry. Pushing up her glasses, she approached her door, and it opened, Kell with a spoon in his hand. The smell of spaghetti sauce hit her hard and as soon as Marthe went over the threshold, she began to cry.

"Oh baby, you okay?"

She inhaled, wanting Kell in her. Wishing to lie down, be spoon-fed her dinner, then feel him, as much of him as she ever did. Due to countless outside influences, the couple still relied upon condoms, supplementing her birth control pills. They'd not have any babies, wouldn't give each other any nasty maladies either.

Standing in the middle of the small living room, she felt him around her, wishing she could tell him, in one immediate breath, all of her day; Stewart and the Wallace men, Jan and Julian, Ash. Ash wasn't well, needed company. That she did share as Kell took her light jacket worn to blunt the late spring chill.

Kell kissed her face, leading her to the kitchen. "We'll have him over tomorrow. I made enough to feed an army."

A plate waited on the counter and he piled noodles, dousing them with sauce. Wine sat in a glass, a small bit of condensation where Marthe's fingers grasped. She drank the wine, ate half the pasta, not even bothering to sit. "Oh, this is good. Kell, I need to tell you so much. Seven, we lost seven today!"

"Good God! Seven?"

She nodded, spilling her encounters with Jesus, then with Stewart. The latter took Kell aback and he joined her at the counter. "Did you know, I mean, that he was sick?"

She shook her head. After they broke up, Marthe had learned that Stewart was bisexual. Marthe was aware because Kell had told her, but now he said nothing, only stroking her hand.

She gazed at him, finding compassion, sorrow, guilt. He couldn't lie to her, had never been able to keep his life a secret. Either he told her or wrote about it, but between them, lovers were never far from the surface.

That night, Marthe didn't question. Kell's day had been about what she could witness; her dinner, the tidiness of the kitchen and living room. He had cleaned, cooked, made enough that Ash could come tomorrow and they wouldn't have to think about what to serve him. They could spend the whole day in bed either sleeping or making love; all Marthe had to do tomorrow was get a shower, one most necessary.

Essential, as she set down her fork, her fingers taken by Kell's. Set in his mouth, small remnants of sauce were removed by his kisses. The rest of Marthe waited, only a matter of undressing, getting into bed. Closing her eyes, she felt Kell pull her from the chair, taking her to him. Marthe's day ended with no more death, only a warm, wanting body near hers, tender hands exploring the small of her back, a loving, accented voice whispering her name.

Chapter 4 - 1990

"Happy birthday to Mar-tha, happy birthday to you!"

The name had been sung in two syllables sounding formal, strange, what caught Kell's ear. Turning, he eyed the large group in the cordoned-off section of the back room, so many familiar faces aged since he last saw them three years before, the entire Souza family now honoring the one he had loved best.

Kell smiled, returning to his own party, his agent Samuel with his wife Giselle. They were celebrating too, film rights to _The War On Emily Dickinson_ having been sold. At a restaurant on the northeast side of the city, Kell hadn't considered where he was, not having seen a single Souza since 1987. Not since... Kell stopped, yet it was difficult to block out her face, one so broken. He looked over again, Marthe surrounded by a plethora of loved ones, a thin, dark-haired man at her side.

"You know them?" Samuel asked.

"Yeah." Kell smiled. "An old lover and her family."

Giselle peered through bright red frames. "Oh Kell, don't tell me. That's Marthe isn't it?"

Her voice had been discreet, but in the quiet, even their hushed conversation was audible as the Souza family attacked the massive cake. Kell gave Giselle's manicured hand a squeeze, then stubbed out his cigarette. Standing, he was met halfway by Marthe's eldest brother.

"Goddamned, if it isn't you?" Rick boomed as the men embraced, Kell a few inches taller and more than thirty pounds heavier than Marthe's brother. Pulling himself from Rick's grip, Kell noted so many brown eyes looking his way. Marthe's family and more; small children, pregnant women, and some faces Kell didn't recognize.

After exchanging pleasantries with Rick, Kell took them in. Louis and Aurora looked apart even sitting near the other. Kell winced, Marthe's parents still not having recovered from their son's death.

Next was Lynn and her husband Brett Davidson, both of whom Kell remembered. A small girl, Lindsay, cuddled on Brett's lap, a pregnant belly resting where Lynn's should be, her grin tired but welcoming.

As Kell was led to the table, Rick explained his wife was also with child. Lauren and their two small children sat between Louis and Aurora. Kell surmised that was how the couple managed to sit together, grandchildren easing their mutual discomfort.

Then to Jan, and Rick laughed; she was pregnant too! Not as obvious, her first baby due in autumn. Julian stood, reaching over the table, shaking Kell's hand. "How are you?"

"Fine, really good," Kell smiled, not gazing Marthe's way.

Then to the three younger siblings, who to Kell did look different. Diana Aurora Souza Collins stood, her husband Keith shaking Kell's hand, offering his wife was also in the family way. Laughter exploded from the table; how many pregnant Souza women were there?

Kell still didn't look at Marthe, not wanting to know if she fell into that group. He kissed Di's hand, making her blush, an old joke for the crush she'd had when Marthe first brought him around, long before Kell had been Marthe's boyfriend. Now Di was in her late twenties, Kell guessed, a few years between her and Marthe.

Frank had been flanked by those sisters, his absence accentuating the age gap between the older Souza children and those younger. Christopher Leo, or Chris, was almost finished with grad school, a girlfriend at his side. Kell didn't get her name on the first introduction, but Rick repeated it, Abigail, insisting there would be a quiz later as to all names and due dates. Kell chuckled, turning to the youngest, Anastasia Mary. Annie stood, offering Kell a tremendous hug. For years he'd filled her absent brother's shoes. Now her adult stature reminded him of Marthe. Annie cleared a chair for Kell next to her date, Michael, to whom Kell gave a friendly handshake.

"And this's Marthe's, uh..." Rick was stumped.

"Boyfriend," Lynn finished. "Kell, this is Stephen."

Kell had seated himself between Annie and Michael, but stood again, leaning over the depleted cake. He stared at this man, so unlike most of Marthe's lovers, avoiding her eyes.

"Nice to meet you. As in Vander Kellen?" Stephen's voice grated.

Kell smiled. "The only one in this city."

All chuckled as a piece of chocolate cake was placed in front of him. Small children were handed his way to meet their Uncle Kell, a name he hadn't heard in ages. Kell still felt Frank's space, wide and disarming, if for no other reason than the parents across from him. Louis and Aurora were miles apart even when only a foot from the other.

That pained Kell, so much agony between them. So much, yet, was Marthe pregnant? Was she adding to this huge group, a baby made with this rather petulant-looking man who cloaked Marthe, more wishing to spirit her away. Kell still hadn't caught her eyes, only her form, what hadn't been hidden by a jealous boyfriend.

"And Marthe, how are you?" Kell had been handed Rick's oldest child, a blonde three-year-old named Marie, the little girl snuggling against Kell's chest.

"Fine," she purred. "I'm just fine Kell."

Her brown eyes were kind, absolution Kell ached to accept. He returned her small grin, hearing in her slow, easy tone leisure and relaxation. A party atmosphere, and his accidental attendance hadn't set her off. He wouldn't have wanted that, not on her thirty-second birthday or any other day. "Good." He took a bite of cake, then gave one to Marie. "That's really good."

"God, we thought you'd fallen off the face of the earth or got flattened in the earthquake," Lynn said. "Where in the hell've you been?"

"Yeah Kell, and oh my God, I _loved_ that book, the Emily Dickinson one!"

Di's hasty words brought the table to a standstill. Kell smiled, catching Marthe's eyes. Were those tiny tears, he wondered, and if so, were they for him?

"O-kay." Rick stood with a small boy in his arms. "On that note, I need to take someone to the bathroom."

Kell grinned, Di still with a penchant for saying whatever popped in her head. Small giggles emerged, the family not minding her big mouth, all used to it. The only time they were hushed was if Frank was mentioned. Detailing the epidemic, Frank and Marthe Souza between the lines, Kell's third novel didn't linger as ample conversation flowed around him, about him, including him. An agent and wife ambled Kell's way, Samuel and Giselle Faust welcomed into this clan. Eight thirty became nine o'clock, then a quarter to ten, but chit chat was rife, babies and toddlers rocked by their parents, Kell speaking to everyone, all but Marthe and Stephen.

It was after ten when the party broke up, the older siblings the first to leave, all pregnant in one manner or another. Kell was embraced, receiving kisses and _see you soon's_. Louis and Aurora were next and Kell only wished to brook some rapport, accepting not even his surprise appearance as a proxy son could breach such distance. Aurora stroked his face, moving lightly over his beard, then Kell kissed her tears as her arms flew around him, attempting to recapture a lost child. A strong handshake was exchanged with Louis, one fierce grip again trying to pull from the depths that which had been taken. Having walked them out, Kell felt strangely in charge, now their eldest child of those remaining.

Then Samuel and Giselle begged off with promises of phone calls and a visit with Kell in New York as soon as he finished the new novel. That opened a door for another hour of conversation until Di, nearly off her feet, was led away by her husband. Kell kissed her as she apologized for her faux pas, but he only wished her and Keith the best with the baby.

Now it was a small group, one with which Kell wasn't overly familiar, the two youngest siblings and Marthe with a boyfriend. In the past her lovers were concealed, shrouded as his had been, most of them. At the table it was obvious she was with another, leaning against Stephen's shoulder, his arm around her. Both of his arms caressed her middle as if she held a prize.

Was she pregnant? Kell wanted to ask, but it hadn't emerged. She hadn't wanted one with him, their time together spent making sure conception wasn't achieved. Kell had never even made love to her without a condom. Did this man know Marthe more intimately?

Kell wasn't going to ask that either, but he smiled, dying for a cigarette. He'd not had one since leaving his table, wouldn't smoke around so many pregnant women. Aching for nicotine, he excused himself, receiving smiles from Annie and Chris, who teased him for that habit.

"God, you know how many times I've tried to quit?" Kell laughed, stepping away.

"Not enough," Chris joked.

Kell nodded in agreement, hands in pockets searching for his smokes. They remained on the other table, where Kell noticed the tab, the waiter not clearing those dishes as no one had paid the bill. Kell chuckled, now a famous and wealthy author, what with a high six-figure film sale finally completed. Samuel would let his client buy dinner and Kell would make his agent pay the next time he went to New York.

Ordering a drink at the bar, Kell lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply. He smoked that one in only a few puffs, nicotine flooding his system. A filthy habit he'd admit, Kell having smoked since he was fourteen, unable to quit. He lit a second and, distracted, missed Marthe's approach.

She took the stool next to him. "Boy, you needed that!"

"God yes." Her boyfriend wasn't at the table, her siblings gathering their belongings.

"Glad to see you're not dead."

"You too. Man, I thought you all'd upped sticks, moved outta Dodge after Loma Prieta."

"Are you kidding? Just under the radar, everyone having kids."

He smiled, not having seen a single one of them in the past three years. Odd, but he'd been gone often, either in New York for _Emily Dickinson_ or holed up writing, or with lovers. He'd been back east when last October's quake hit the city and when he returned it was to a quiet apartment, alone. Never out and about; had he wanted to avoid her, Marthe and all her family?

She looked the same, but wore glasses, maybe aware it would be a late night. While he preferred her without spectacles, these slender frames accentuated her eyes, brown and warm. Casually taking her hand, her fingers were also unchanged. Smooth, strong, small but willing. Willing, he wondered. Willing?

Kell finished that cigarette as Chris and Annie walked to the bar, saying goodnight. Kell embraced each with gusto, then Marthe's boyfriend joined them.

Marthe didn't move to acknowledge that man, and Kell smiled, yet he still didn't know if Marthe was another knocked-up Souza. She wore no ring, Lynn adamant that Stephen was only a _boyfriend_. As Marthe told her siblings she would see them later, Marthe's significant other returned to the table, taking his time picking up their few belongings, her jacket, his sport coat. A sport coat, and Kell stared at the butts in the ashtray, unable to hide his chuckle. "He's uh, fastidious."

"Yeah, that's a good description."

Kell looked up, a giggle waiting to spring from Marthe's lips. Turning back, they watched Stephen brush something from his pants. Then both sputtered in delight.

Marthe grasped Kell's hand, rousing a jump in his trousers. She was still there, within him! No matter how many others he had loved, no one had taken her place. He wondered if she felt the same. "You still at Marian's?" he whispered.

"I am but she's not."

"Really? I saw her a few months back. Said you guys were roommates."

Kell noticed now Stephen was torn. He seemed dying to intrude, but dared not. Yet, he was starting to make his slow way around the large table. If they were going to reveal anything more noteworthy, it had better happen soon.

"You there by yourself?" he blurted.

As though Stephen had heard him, Kell found they were no longer alone. Marthe moved from the stool, the boyfriend offering her jacket. She slipped her arms through as Stephen made overt gestures, touching Marthe's face with his hand, setting the other along her waist.

"Yeah, I'm alone." She didn't move from her companion's clutches. "No one but me."

Her smile was wicked as she leaned only the barest hint toward him. One hand reached for Kell and he took it with ease, but as their fingers met, a shock was heard, one sharp snap. Kell stayed still but his palm ached, while Marthe had stepped back, almost falling against her boyfriend.

"Well, maybe I'll see you sometime now that I know you're not all off in the outback." Kell lit another cigarette.

Marthe smiled. "You do that," her tone defiant, leaving Kell wondering over which man she wished to rule.

Two weeks later Kell drove to Marthe's new apartment, new to him. Warehouses had been reclaimed by developers, turned into condos, Kell having run into their mutual acquaintance only a few months previous. According to Marian Williams, the women shared the space, Marthe still working at the hospital, still friends with Ash. That Ash was still up and around had been news to Kell, but when Marthe left in 1987, Kell had been excised from her existence, and those she loved. It was only coincidence he hadn't run into any of the Souzas over the last three years, a strange one for the enormity of that clan. Kell prayed Marthe hadn't joined the baby brigade. She had never wanted kids, not his, nor from anyone else that she'd said. She hadn't said much when she left him, that particular issue not included in her last words.

Kell went into the building, found the mailboxes, saw Marthe's name, and only hers, for apartment 319. Climbing the stairs, all he carried was a square, flat package. A belated birthday present, but not only two weeks late. A gift years in the making and he hoped it would take the place of what had never been admitted. A record he'd scratched, then denied, but that was longer ago than 1987. He wasn't sure when he'd cracked that Patsy Cline album, before they had split, certainly. Before then, but those years were now a jumble in his head mixed with sorrow, repentance, a notion of a family lost. He had lost all those Souzas for three years. They'd lost Frank, then Kell had lost them.

Reaching her floor, he huffed, lungs aching. He needed a smoke, needed to cut back. Which occurred first would depend if she didn't mind him having a light in her place. Her place, hers alone, she had made clear. Kell smiled, rang the bell, hoping for a smoke inside if Marthe didn't just turn him away at the door.

Her features were easy on his eyes, no glasses allowing those brown irises liberty in her face. "Well hi there," she smiled.

"Hey. Surprise."

"You wanna come in?"

Kell nodded, gripping the record as she stepped aside.

The living space was huge, or was it the high ceilings? An open floor plan, the kitchen sat to the right, only a counter separating the rooms. Toward the back was a short hallway, the rest hidden, but within that main area Kell viewed all she was; music, books, and paintings, her embroidery waiting on a table next to large windows offering a foggy view of the city. A gray day, even in late May, but this room was warm, reminiscent of its occupant.

"This is beautiful." With no idea how it had looked before Marian's departure, if nothing else now it was completely Marthe's. All she had ever been was contained within this space, honest and spiritual. Icons hung from walls, crosses and the Virgin represented in nooks and crannies or in an area large, an enormous watercolor of the crucifixion to Kell's left sandwiched between bookcases and Marthe's framed needlepoint.

He approached the canvas, torn between wanting to see her and assess the picture. "Who did this?"

"A friend," her voice casual.

Time had set them apart, time and his actions. One book had changed everything for him, a book about the epidemic, but in truth a parable about her, about all he knew as fact. One book for him, but many rested on her shelves, and he found himself scanning for any of his. For any of those three, yet he saw other authors, different titles.

"Looking for something?" she asked.

He turned, finding a mischievous smile. Like the ones her brothers owned, Lynn too. Lynn hadn't minced words at the dinner, Marthe with only a _boyfriend_.

"Yeah," he chuckled. "Seeing if you had any of mine up there."

"No."

Marthe had moved his way, but a few feet separated them. Then Kell remembered his gift. "For you," his voice subdued.

"Thanks." She opened the wrapping and her gaze changed. Marthe had kept her emotions under the table at the dinner, but alone, she caressed Kell's iconic peace offering. Marthe worshipped not only Jesus and his mother, but the queen of country music too.

She said nothing, fingering the record. It had taken him ages to find this album, the very same she had accused him of ruining. Now Kell admitted his guilt. "Just a little something to make up for what I did break." Not only a record, but also her heart, which was out of his reach, for now.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered, tears falling. "You goddamned bastard! I knew you scratched it!"

For a few seconds Kell wanted to run from her agony, from Nate, Frank, and other lies bigger than a wrecked LP.

"Yah, I uh, yah. Marthe, I'm sorry."

She nodded, then set it on the turntable. "I Fall To Pieces" floated through speakers and Marthe watched the disc spin round. Kell wondered what she was thinking, if he should stay.

"Just a minute." Not looking his way, she disappeared down the hall and Kell heard her blow her nose. Patsy's voice rang through the room, anguished, plaintive. All Kell knew as Marthe rested in that song, all he had done to her. Looking back at Christ hanging from a ragged, painful cross, Kell missed her return.

She stood next to him, a book in her hand, _The War On Emily Dickinson_. The jacket was weathered and Marthe shoved it his way, tears running down her cheeks. "You tell me Kell Vander Kellen, you tell me why you wrote this!"

He sighed, then pulled cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one and when she didn't object, he took a drag.

After three long puffs, he held it toward the floor, hoping not to spill ashes on the carpet. Easing the novel from her hands, Kell squeezed it into the bookshelf next to him. Then he put the cigarette in his mouth, taking another drag. Spying an ashtray on the coffee table, Kell set it there.

"I wrote it because of Frank, Greg, and Jaime. And because I loved you. I wrote it because I love you Marthe, because I'm sorry."

Marthe's choppy breathing turned to gulping sobs as Kell took her in his arms. Patsy sang "Foolin' Around" from an album Kell knew by heart, _Patsy Cline Showcase_ the singer's second record, released in 1961. Kell mulled those trivial bits, soothing the great anguish Marthe's small body expelled. As Patsy crooned, Marthe wept until Kell found her bedroom, laying her down. Only then did Marthe quiet, Kell's body in hers as the last song ended.

During the night they spoke of his sister and brother in Wisconsin. Trish had four kids, but Lance was doing all he could to remain childless. Kell asked Marthe about her status and she had laughed; no, she wasn't pregnant. "God though, gotta watch myself. It's in the water everywhere I go."

He ran hands over her breasts, larger and more feminine than years previous. Before he'd appreciated her somewhat androgynous form, all but her hips, which were nothing like those of a man. In 1987, her chest had been anonymous. Now she was, while not amply endowed, no longer with a bosom invisible.

"I like these," he said, bringing her nipples to points.

"I've put on at least five pounds and it all went straight to my boobs."

He set his mouth on one, eliciting a sigh of pleasure. He hadn't been the cause of that sound in a long time and he continued, not wanting it to end.

"Oh Kell!" Marthe's voice ached and he stopped, unable to hear that tone.

Not from lust, but deeper, then Kell looked around her room, sparse compared to the rest of the apartment. White walls sported only a primary-hued Tibetan tapestry, otherwise the room was large windows covered by light blue curtains. The bed was a queen and they had employed every inch of space, Kell taking her with complete acceptance on Marthe's part. Except for the condoms they used, all their bodies had been touched by the other.

"Kell, don't stop."

Marthe sat next to him and he couldn't stop staring at her breasts. They were so changed, but she was too, alone in this vast apartment. And what about that boyfriend?

Stephen hadn't been mentioned, only Kell's siblings. Kell rarely talked to them, five years separating Kell and his younger sister, another eighteen months between the brothers. Kell hadn't been to Appleton since after Marthe left and again he wanted to flee.

Escape only memories, but stay with this woman. "Marthe, I need to ask you something. You and Stephen, is it serious?"

She set her mouth on his left nipple. "Not anymore."

He took in that sensation as if she laid claim to him. "I don't want it like before. I'll never cheat on you again."

She stopped, his words clinging to all the empty wall space in the room. "Don't say that," she whispered, moving away.

"I'm serious. I mean, if you let me come back."

Kell leaned over her, reaching for his jeans. Pulling his lighter from a pocket, he got up, walking from the room. He returned with cigarettes and the ashtray, placing both on the left side of the bed that seemed to be where he had landed, within her life once again.

With the sheet around her, Kell noted Marthe's bust where before it had been only flat skin, nothing to distinguish her upper torso from the body of a man. Now Kell was different, wanting other things. Only her, his desires for anyone else, male or female, having dissipated.

He lit the cigarette, taking sufficient drags, then set it aside. Breathing in the smoke was enough and while he didn't kiss her mouth, he took the sheet from her body, again setting his lips on her breasts. He stopped, took another puff, then stubbed it out. "Marthe, I love you. Only you."

"That's bullshit and you and I both know it."

"Can I come back?"

She nodded. "But Kell, it has to be open. Or else..."

"What?"

She looked out, then to his dead cigarette. "Or else we'll just fuck it up again. I don't want any lies."

"I only want you."

She laughed. "Right now. What about in two weeks?"

"In two weeks, if we stop using these," his hand pointing toward the used prophylactic on the floor. "Maybe you'll be just like the rest of the women in your family."

"Jesus Christ! So you bring me a new Patsy Cline record and the next thing I know is you've got me knocked up? Where in the hell've you been for the last three years? You know, if not for that goddamned book, I'd have thought you were dead!"

Marthe got out of bed, stomping from the room. She returned, flinging the novel at Kell.

"You know why I have that thing? 'Cause Dave Kedayis told me to read it, another fucker to die on me. Told me I had to read it, said that he KNEW about us, knew it was for me, that bastard. So I bought it, went out and bought another one of your fucking books, read it, and when I came to tell him, he was dead. That motherfucker was DEAD!"

Kell didn't move, but Marthe stomped around the room. "All you bastards, dropping like goddamned flies! Every single goddamned day and I read it, every single beautiful fucking word, and then he's gone. Gone, and you're gone, but I see Nate all the damned time, sneaky little bastard. He's sick, you know."

"I know."

"Yeah, deserves it too, the fucking sonovabitch. He comes under my watch and I'll slap his goddamned face!"

Kell had never seen her so angry, not when Frank died, not even when she left him. Then it was shock, misery, disbelief. Now all her residual aggressions were freed.

He stood, both naked in her room. Naked, nothing between them, her words and his book having stated it all. "Marthe, I love you. I don't want anyone but you. I mean that and for God's sake if you ever find me with anyone else you can cut it off. I mean it, just slice it right here." Taking her hand, he sets it at the base of his penis, which was not hard.

She looked stunned, then giggled. "You mean it?"

Kell laughed. "Totally," his accent all Californian.

"Eh now, I don't know about that," she retaliated in a Midwestern inflection, innocent and lyrical.

"I do." What he wanted to say to her in front of God and everybody.

By the end of summer, a baby girl had been born to Lynn. Marthe hadn't responded to Kell's request for their own child, but they had been tested, both negative, and in December would test again. Once those results were received, the condoms would be history. Kell wanted nothing to do with anyone but Marthe, which he had proved over the weeks much to her surprise, but a different test approached. Kell was needed in New York. While his smoking prevailed, the desire for tobacco remained his only vice. He'd seen a few old flames, received several long stares. No one intrigued him but Marthe.

They laughed about it, Ash offering to raise the stakes. If they managed to hit that six-month anniversary without intruders, he would treat them to a weekend in the wine country. It was a noble gesture as Kell could have paid for the vacation. More that Ash had offered, Kell on his list since 1987. Marthe had taken Ash's bet and that night after his departure, she couldn't stop talking about a trip to Napa.

"Baby, we can go tomorrow if you want." Kell reached for her, lying naked on her side of the bed.

Marthe sat on his chest. "No, I just wanna see the look on his face when I wave those results his way."

"It'll be sweet." Kell couldn't help his smile. He'd always liked Ash, was glad AZT was working for him. He looked thinner to Kell, but again, Kell hadn't seen Ash Denton since Marthe left. So much had occurred in the last three years; Kell recognized the magnitude of his negative status, especially with Nate falling ill. Kell had dodged so many bullets and Marthe was here. Soon they wouldn't need condoms ever again.

He stared at her face, then reached for her breasts, moving his fingers down her belly. "Marthe, I wanna ask you something."

Her head was back, eyes closed. "Yeah?"

"You think you'll ever wanna, you know..."

"No," her eyes shut tight.

"Why?"

She offered a weak grin. "I have enough nieces and nephews already."

"What about my baby?"

Her face fell, Kell's heart with it. "Kell, I love you, but honey..."

She slid from his body, but lay next to him, tracing his chest hairs with her fingertips. "Kell, I love you, but I can't go there. I look at my mother and I could never take that."

He nodded.

"Baby, only one of us is gone, but they just, oh, just died with him. And Kell, I know this sounds horrible, but I'm so much my mother, I'd do the same."

He said nothing, aware she was right. She could nurse the dying until her final breath, but losing Frank had nearly killed her, and yes, she was her mother's daughter. Maybe not in every approach, but in the ones that mattered. The way they prayed, how they took Christ for all he was worth; to Kell, out of all those Souza offspring, only Marthe revered God in a manner more than rituals or what was expected. Much of Marthe's life wasn't Catholic at all, especially not wanting children, yet, for all her secular views, a place lingered within her Kell couldn't reach, would never breach. The place where Christ dwelled, her mother the same.

The same, but wounded; Frank's death had stolen something from Aurora. Kell sighed. If they did have a child and something awful occurred, Marthe would never recover.

"I love you," he said, reaching over her to the open top drawer where the condoms were kept.

"Show me," she whispered.

"I will." Kell kissed her breasts again, hearing this time not an ache, but desire. Slipping the rubber over his erection, he continued kissing her, finding her mouth, then other interiors of her body.

Chapter 5 - 2004

As Kell undressed behind the curtain, Marthe stood flanked by her sisters and mother. His privacy wasn't their main concern, only that he heard all they had to say.

"Well, I mean, he's been in here now what, three weeks? And never had a cigarette all that time," Aurora clucked.

Lynn tapped the back of her heels. "I know he'd have paid big bucks to have us sneak some tobacco intravenously, but God, what a pain in the ass."

Jan's feet found the floor in rhythm to her sister's. "Well, I think we should just tie his hands around his back, or maybe cut 'em off. He doesn't need fingers to type, just get a recorder he can talk into. His next book can start an oral tradition."

"Jesus Christ, can't I even get out of this fuck..."

"Kell, my mother's still here," Marthe warned.

"No, I'll meet you later at home. Come on girls."

Aurora took her daughters' arms, leaving Marthe the only one not shrouded by hanging fabric. After Jan closed the door, Marthe pulled back the curtain, revealing Kell in his underwear, sitting on the edge of the bed.

She hadn't viewed him in a vertical stance for days. While not his nurse, she had seen him daily over the three weeks he'd been fighting PCP. Under blankets, Kell's body was cloaked by standard hospital issue. Now he was nearly naked and her eyes steadied themselves on the wall, light fixtures, anything but the man she loved.

Three weeks had left him tapered, whittled to a figure emaciated. Nothing she hadn't seen before, but not on Kell. Once a bear of a man but no longer, only flesh over bones, baggy skin around his middle and flapping from his upper arms. He'd once weighed over two hundred twenty pounds, but now carried less than one sixty. At six foot three, he looked miserable.

Yet alive, and Marthe turned her eyes to his, so blue and flashing. He'd never come so close to leaving her and now the tide had turned. No longer was he only positive, but coasting on the downhill slide.

She sat next to him, taking his hand. "Listen, if you wanna smoke when you get home, that's fine. It's up to you."

He kissed the inside of her wrist. "Wasn't sure I was gonna get home. Made some promises, maybe now it's time to pay the piper."

She giggled. "What all'd you offer?"

"Oh just that if I was ever able to leave, not have hospital food shoved down my gullet, I'd uh, I'd quit."

Those last two words slipped from him in a near whisper as he ran a free hand through his hair. With that distraction, Marthe had still heard him, felt him tremble. "You mean it?"

"Well, a promise is a promise. I didn't stop in '77. Guess now I'm locked in."

She stared to the floor, unable to view his face. For three days they hadn't known, hadn't been sure he would pull through, his status moving from a statistic of infection to what came next, the end. Marthe had thought Kell was going to meet it that spring and he had missed her birthday while unconscious. Marthe had turned forty-six while Kell stood at death's door, but there clad in only underwear, he sat by his own power.

She squeezed his shrunken hand. "You owe me a birthday present."

"I know. If I quit, will that be enough?"

"Nope. I need chocolate."

He laughed and she did too. Since his initial diagnosis in 1997, he'd bought her a one-pound box of See's Candies for her birthday, but that year Jan had picked it up. Marthe left it alone, refusing to touch it until Kell was home. If he had died, she would have buried it with him, placing that unopened box of sweets right in his casket. But he hadn't. Come awfully damned close, yet there he was, sitting upright, holding her hand. Not with any real strength, but his fingers, bony and cool, were within hers, gripping as best he could.

Kell stood, shaky and not without her assistance. Standing in underpants, his beard all white, he smiled, again running a hand through his thinning blonde-gray hair. "All right. On the way home, stop at See's. Then we'll talk."

"One month," Marthe called from the kitchen, circling the date on her calendar. "Baby, I am so proud of you!"

Kell reclined on the sofa, a blanket over him. "C'mere and we'll celebrate."

He patted between his legs as Marthe approached. A half-eaten box of candies was perched atop the sofa. As Marthe sat down, Kell grabbed one. She leaned back and he set it in her mouth.

While smooth chocolate melted on her tongue, Kell's arms enfolded her. He was still weak, but it had been thirty days since his return, since he'd had a cigarette within those walls. In the hospital abstinence had been forced, but in their house, he'd left nicotine alone, Marthe noticing the change in his appetite and how the place smelled, no longer like an ashtray. She had cleared all paraphernalia before his homecoming, giving him no opportunity to search for smokes, a lighter, or a place to rest his ashes, not ones from tobacco or his own body.

They talked of it, how close they'd been to that event. He didn't want to be cremated, not necessarily. Said it would depend on how he was feeling that day, the day he died. Marthe had laughed; he'd be unconscious, wouldn't have any say. It would be her call and she was planning a huge funeral pyre, dancing round the roaring flames in nothing but her birthday suit. He had laughed, promising to rise from the dead to see that party.

His death sat around them all that month, some boorish guest that didn't know when to leave. They had poked and prodded, trying to stir death from the recliner, but it hadn't budged, hovering as if waiting for a weak moment. Kell never broke down, never went around the corner to the liquor store, never bought a pack of cigarettes. Said he was too tired, couldn't even manage to get downstairs by himself. Which was the truth; Rick and Chris came by a few times a week, taking Kell for a walk. Not in the direction of Ernie's Liquors, but the other way, toward the park. Passing the cemetery, but Kell had only chuckled. Better that than stopping at Ernie's for a pack of Winstons.

Marthe had returned to work, her family filling the gaps. Her brothers took some days, her sisters the others. Aurora and Louis came by on occasion, but it was the siblings to heed Marthe's call, keeping Kell company, making sure he took his meds, ate a decent lunch, had enough fluids. The Souzas offered aid, time, voices, and affection. If nothing else, Kell had love pouring through his veins.

But no nicotine and Marthe was so pleased, proud, thankful. She'd been to church daily, on her knees for this man, and God had heard her. Others still died, they always did, but that spring, it hadn't been Kell.

"Baby, let's celebrate. Anything you want, I'm game." She snuggled into him, a little more to that body than when he was discharged. He'd put on ten pounds, noting all month how good food tasted, and not only because she was doing the cooking. Aurora had delivered Valencia paella, Kell's preferred Souza dish, although for him she omitted the snails. He'd had little appetite right after coming home, but within the first two weeks, growing accustomed to the tobacco out of his system and off his palate, Kell could sense aromas, taste flavors bitter, salty, sweet, and sour. Paella had been his favorite and Aurora furnished a large bowl of it weekly, Marthe hardly getting a bite.

"Anything I want huh?" Kell murmured. "Hmmm."

His hands traveled along Marthe's shoulders to her chest. Then to her sides and her lower body shuddered. They'd been making love with caution since his return, not for him, but her. His illness having shifted, he'd been terrified that perhaps now she was more at risk. Marthe had pooh-poohed that; as long as they used condoms nothing would change. Yet, everything was different. He'd quit smoking, was breathing without difficulty, the house smelling like anything but a cigarette, so much altered.

Sex too. Now he was hesitant, wary, and Marthe savored his touch throughout her whole body. Maybe they were in their mid-forties, but her needs were great. Three weeks sleeping alone had made her ache, a loneliness that frightened, warning of life to come. As death had taken up residence in the recliner since Kell's first night home, it had also rested next to Marthe since his hospitalization. Death still remained curled on her right side every night she lay down to sleep.

"Anything baby." Marthe hadn't told him they weren't alone, death not taking much room, only a few inches of space all along Marthe's side. Cool was this partner, a wispy thread of memory wrapping itself around her ankles. It seemed to like Marthe's ankles and she wondered if it was only waiting, would soon slip around her calves, sneaking to her knees. Once there, bringing her down, forcing her to a position where she'd be begging. Begging to let Kell live or maybe to let him go.

Marthe hated those dreams, Kell in agony like so many before him. Ash hadn't gone that way, instead losing his witty, razor-sharp brain, but others had died in writhing pain, their last moments agonizing. Kell had already told her he was a pansy, wanted to be knocked out, unconscious. He wasn't going to make Marthe nurse him there at the apartment and if it got bad, he wouldn't ask her to watch. Wouldn't ask her to hasten his death either. He'd go on God's time but with the full backing of medical intervention in alleviating pain; why Jesus created morphine, Kell had laughed.

"Anything you say, well, let's see." Kell's hands cupped her breasts and Marthe closed her eyes, imagining him on her, inside her, nothing between them. It hadn't happened, ever. They'd never had sex without a barrier between them, but now it was so much a part of the experience, she never wondered what it might have felt like, only his flesh between her legs. In her body where no baby had ever rested and only in small pieces of Marthe's brain did it matter. It didn't matter, not anymore. It couldn't matter because...

Because Kell was alive. He hadn't died, not that spring. Not at the age of forty-six and Marthe let other things go. He hadn't left her, but was right there, offering incredible pleasure. He'd stopped smoking, bless his heart. Had quit cigarettes, but not her.

"Oh baby, let's go to bed!" Marthe squirmed, not caring if she would have to share her side with that cold reaper. She'd share, but at that moment, death was going to have to get over and make room. Marthe Souza was ready to fuck the brains right out of Kell Vander Kellen's head!

"Baby, yeah. Let's. Then I know what I wanna do."

Marthe was off the sofa, her hand extended. She laughed. "What?"

Kell stood, stroking the side of her face. So tender, something Marthe had missed. She missed him on her, in her, but more than she'd thought, she had missed these simple, easy touches, ones that death seemed unable to steal. These small, intimate notions were sustaining, what had kept Marthe going when he started to stir, then would succumb for a few days, again unconscious, fleeting. His hand on her face somehow gave her strength, keeping her tears to a minimum while the rest of her family cried. All the Souzas had wept at Kell's bedside, everyone but Marthe.

Now his words did the trick, liquid pouring down her face. What he wanted, spoken in a voice strong, determined, and unflinching, tore at her heart.

"Marthe," he began, that hand still resting along her cheek. "I wanna write a sequel to _Emily Dickinson_."

Death hadn't been able to flee fast enough and it wouldn't return to Marthe's bed for a long time. While little took thunder from the reaper, Marthe Souza's temper was just the thing to make the most arrogant son of a bitch run for the hills. Due to shock, her initial anger was subdued, yet even death knew better than to argue. Packing its bags, that cool black hand hit the road even before Marthe and Kell hit the sheets.

"You have got to be kidding me," she glared, hands on her ample hips.

Kell smiled. He'd been considering it since conscious enough to realize what had almost occurred. Before his illness, the last time he'd seen Patrick, Marthe's brother had just gotten a buzz, clipping the white hairs that accumulated around his temples and all over his face. Rick was pushing fifty, his eldest child Marie nearly done with high school. That girl was Kell's favorite niece, but he would never admit it, too many to claim a pet. Yet Marie Souza was just like her Aunt Marthe, devoted and ethereal, funny as hell, also like Lynn. And, Kell faintly allowed, like Frank. Marie had come to see Kell when time permitted, dressed in the uniform her aunts had worn, St. Anne's High School still requiring skirts and knee socks. The last time Kell had seen that branch of the Souza clan, Rick sported his post-Easter trim, beard gone, hair almost scalped. Then Kell had been depleted, stuck in bed on the fifth floor. No longer called 5B but the same area of the city hospital for the same patients. Only a fraction compared to the old days and when Kell woke, he had noticed how much longer Rick's hair was, relatively. It was all relative; Kell had remembered a white light, voices calling his name, then a reprieve, hands having wrenched him back. Marthe's hands, which were now ready to wring his neck.

"Honey, I need to. It's time." Kell felt unsteady, but stood his ground. It had been a month and he had to start getting his legs back under him.

Marthe's small body looked ready to explode and Kell fought a smile, but bit it back, chewing his upper lip until pain replaced the giggle. He knew this needed to happen, her surprise and anger. Let her have a fit, then they could make love. He wanted her, the first time since coming home it had been so fevered, felt so instinctive. Kell wanted to fuck her brains out, wasn't sure if he could actually _do_ that in his weakened state, but the desire for raucous sex burned in his belly. If nothing else, at least that remained.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me and I mean it Kell. KIDDING ME!"

Her infuriated voice did it; his chuckle escaped and he had to sit in the recliner. It felt strange, solitary, and Kell offered a small prayer; thank you Jesus! Death had finally moved on.

Kell had seen that dark, menacing apparition since his return home, knew it still dogged his heels. He might have escaped it in the hospital, but in their apartment, even without smoke down his windpipe, Kell knew it was close. Closer than ever before and that had been frightening, also exhilarating. He hadn't written a thing since _The Monkey Retrieval System_ , nothing since the diagnosis. Since learning he was positive, writing his best book, then dwelling with the woman he adored, Kell had been mute. Two of those were new, but it was Marthe, always Marthe. Marthe and the writing had never gotten along, not on the best of terms. Only one book had tanked, the one he wrote when they reconciled in 1990. Kell liked it, _Brothers in Arms_ his only historical work, in a loose sense. Historical fiction set in the 1880s American West, but it had been a weak link after _The War On_ _Emily Dickinson_ , and thank God 1995's _Needle Tip_ had been better. Better, but not as good as _The Monkey Retrieval System_.

But then he had turned a page, one figurative, his life starting a new chapter; a man stricken, taken down, but not quite out, not even after this little drama. Death had been Kell's bed partner, breaths rattling and haunted, the grim reaper right at his side. There at the hospital and here at home, in this chair, but suddenly death had vanished, probably because Marthe was so pissed. She'd scare the devil himself.

Kell laughed, hearing a diatribe reminiscent of other moments he'd made her mad, been on her list. A few of those times remained within his head, 1987 and 1993 the biggest. She'd had a cow right when they got back together in 1990, but that was more letting off steam for loads of issues, and she wasn't only mad at him. Irritated at work, annoyed with Dave Kedayis. She still railed at him, was doing so at that very moment; this was all Dave's fault.

"And let me tell you Kell Vander Kellen, if you think you're gonna write one more lousy novel about fucking Emily Dickinson, you've got another thing coming. I'll wring your goddamned neck and then, shit! If I could dig up Dave, I'd wring his too!"

She stood with hands on her hips, graying hair loose and curly around her face. Glasses were worn, thick-framed lenses that he thought looked odd, preferring her with specs that weren't more than rims around her eyes. Or contacts: he liked her face with no obstruction at all. Easier to kiss her around those fetching brown irises, so lively and pissed off, but full of energy.

"I am," he smiled. "I am going to write one more novel about fucking Emily Dickinson."

The obscene image made him laugh, tears running down his cheeks. Now he would have _fucking Emily Dickinson_ in his head all day!

He hadn't laughed this hard in months, not since his birthday in February, receiving a card from Lance, who wrote of his girlfriend Debbie pregnant with twins. So many years Lance had avoided that particular role but parenthood had come to bite Kell's brother in the butt not once but twice. He'd busted a gut reading Lance's words, tears following, Kell never expecting any kind of relationship with that sibling, yet, times changed. Lance had sent a get well card last month and Kell kept it in his upper drawer.

"Marthe, I need to. For me, for you, my dad." He ran a hand through his hair, then threw both in the air. Bodies had accumulated, Frank joined by Ash Denton and Jaime Schuler, James Vander Kellen too. "Honey, I've been thinking about it since I knew what'd happened. Marthe, it's time."

She fell to her knees, a brutalized face landing in his lap. He was glad, unable to witness that agony for long. Jan and Lynn had told him, after he'd been alert a few days, as Marthe couldn't speak of how close he'd been. Instead all six of her siblings gave snapshot views. From those words, including ones implicit on the faces of Marthe and her parents, Kell knew where he sat in the big scheme. Not quite at the end, but getting closer.

"No, NO!" she cried, pounding his legs with gentle fists.

It didn't hurt, not in the physical sense. Within his heart, Kell felt her rebellion, rejection not of a book, but what it meant. What he was asking, telling her really. Telling her the truth, that while death no longer sat in their recliner, it was only outside the door, maybe down the hall or at the mailboxes. Death no longer hovered in Ernie's Liquors but just along the street, waiting in the cemetery. The reaper was waiting and there wasn't much time.

"Can't you write something else?" Marthe pleaded. "Please?"

Kell wished for a cigarette. A smoke after sex was always sweet, but those days were over. He had come so easily the first time, then took a nap. Finding her on him was the best way to emerge from sleep. Now they lay together, her small body wrapped in his.

If he had a cigarette, he wouldn't be able to talk, only smoke. Draw that nasty black tar into his lungs, relieve a craving that always dimmed when he wrote. He was curious; would that be the case now? Would he only want to write as before?

And would it happen with Marthe so close? He was an awful writer when she was near, but that had been acknowledged, no time for excuses. Marthe offered plenty, but Kell dismissed them all. "Baby, I gotta do this. There's no other way."

"But you don't even know what you're gonna write about!"

He laughed. "Actually, I do. It's gonna be a fight between Emily and Patsy."

Marthe sat up, offering a long, incredulous stare. "Emily Dickinson and Patsy Cline?"

Kell brushed graying curls from her face. He loved touching the skin near her eyes, wrinkles so beautiful, in that they spoke of time. He had known her for ages, long before the sides of her face sported little lines. Now he only wanted to grow old with her, see how many would accrue. That was hard to swallow, why he had to write. Time was a fleeting notion, its linage unknown.

"Emily Dickinson versus Patsy Cline. And I'll even tell you who wins."

"Oh Jesus, don't bother! Good God, like some stupid shoot-out at the fucking OK Corral."

"Hey that's good, I'll use that. Emily can wave pieces of paper in Patsy's face and Patsy'll just rip 'em in half."

He laughed again, but saw she wasn't moved. Not entirely, though a smile was forming. Marthe battled herself, trying to keep it hidden.

"Patsy'll kick Emily's ass, 'cause you know, Patsy beat death too."

Marthe lost her grin. "Not entirely."

"Honey, I have to do this. I love you, but it's gotta be told."

"What? Some dumb-assed story about two dead women from different time periods?" Scooting away, Marthe pulled the sheet around her. Then she balled herself against the pillows, turning to the other side of the bed.

"Marthe, it's coming. We know it is."

She shook her head and mumbled something. Kell couldn't hear what she said.

"Baby, I'm sorry."

He'd wanted to tell her that since the emergency room in 1997. Maybe he had, maybe he had told her. But if he'd missed it, now there was no question.

"Kell," but she stopped.

"What?"

Marthe turned, wiping tears with the sheet. "I'm not gonna read it."

"That's fine. I don't mind."

"And I don't wanna know what happens either, okay?"

"Okay."

That settled her some and she returned to his side. Kell noted her hands along him, her fingers running over newly exposed hipbones. He'd never been so thin and found it somewhat fascinating. She seemed unbothered and he let her explore his frame.

A thought poked Kell and he warmed the idea by reaching for her face, again needing to touch that lovely, responsive part of her. "Marthe?"

"What?"

Her voice was sleepy; he'd napped, had she? What had happened while he was sleeping? For three weeks he'd been in and out of consciousness, the longest time in his life for which he couldn't account. Those moments were lost, but others sat in his brain, days he now needed to reckon. "Marthe, I'm sorry if Sampson was too much like Frank."

Sampson was the main character of _The Monkey Retrieval System_ , a man Kell had physically fashioned after Bruce Willis. But in all other respects, Frank Souza dwelled in that two-dimensional body. Kell had written it on his _Twelve Monkeys_ kick, thrown that in for good measure. Anyone who'd seen the movie, then read Kell's book, wouldn't miss it, and Kell wasn't about to get sued by only implying inspiration. Sampson, only one name, was obsessed with that film, yet all his other characteristics were Frank Souza to a tee, including the platonic love for Cline, a woman so much like Marthe. Kell had never been able to purge those siblings from his written work, his Wikipedia page sporting an entire section related to that and the _Martha_ to whom many of Kell's novels were dedicated. If Dave Kedayis was still alive, Kell surmised he would out Marthe just for the sake of it.

She took a deep breath, reaching for his hand. "No, he'd have loved it. God, he would've been thrilled."

Kell often imagined handing Frank a copy of that book, seeing delight, recognition, appreciation. Kell's awareness of Frank was ephemeral, but so imprinted upon his psyche, and he squeezed Marthe's fingers, then kissed them. "Honey, I'm sorry about you too."

Her face became one with his side, moisture pooling where her eyes rested, right along the smooth part of his skin. Only a few places on him weren't covered in hair and Marthe's tears dripped down Kell's body. Where the air hit them, he felt goose bumps and they said nothing as Kell reached for the blanket, setting it over them.

Chapter 6 - 1977

"Hey, you got another one'a those?"

Kell nodded, fishing a cigarette from the nearly empty pack. He offered the young man a light and they stood at the side of the building, away from the wind.

Nothing was said as both relieved their cravings. Kell needed to calm his nerves, pondering a litany of prayer, hoping to God Samantha wasn't pregnant. She couldn't be, not now.

"Hey thanks. Shit, it's cold out here." Bare arms were tucked into his sides, hands shoved into armpits. He looked rough, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and Kell studied him, wanting some grasp on this place, one he still hadn't understood, not after a year.

"Eh yah, fuckin' fog."

The young man laughed, taking another drag. "Oh shit, summer's colder than winter. But uh," a smile beamed. "You're not from here are you?"

Kell grinned. "No-ah, from the Midwest, Wisconsin."

The young man chuckled, finishing the smoke. "Hey man, that's cool. Gotta be warmer here than there, right? You like the Packers?"

"Oh yah, but you know-ah since Lombardi, oh hey, they just stink."

"Well, no worse than what we got. Shit, fucking Niners, Christ, just going down the toilet!"

Kell watched his companion smash the butt with his shoe, then rub hands over his shoulders, warming his upper arms. He was short, maybe five foot six, with curly dark hair and large, expressive brown eyes. "I'm Kell, Kell Vander Kellen."

"Shit, that's a name. Souza, Frank Souza. What is it, German?"

"Dutch. We're all Dutch up there."

Frank laughed. "I'm a son of the Iberian Peninsula, but don't let my father hear you call us Mexican. Jesus Christ, he's European Catholic for God's sake!"

As Frank drew _European_ into long, haughty syllables, Kell didn't miss his tremors, arms jerking not only to keep himself warm. "How old are you?" Kell asked.

Frank smiled. "Almost eighteen. Just waiting for my man."

Kell grinned, but it was cold. He had left home right after graduating from high school, dwelling in this city for almost a year. He'd seen plenty in those eleven months, falling in love with this cool, shrouded place, but this boy, not even a man, was a fright! So young, yet old, older than anyone Kell had ever encountered.

Old, as if living for years that wouldn't occur. Kell pulled out the pack, two left. "You want another?"

"God yeah, thanks. Shit, why won't she come out?"

"Who?"

Frank looked to the small, inconspicuous door to their right. "My sister. She works in there, has, uh, something for me." He stared at the ground. "Just money. I uh, I'm gonna get something for her."

Kell lit both cigarettes, handing one to Frank. "She a nurse?"

"Nah, just works the desk. She's in college though, gonna be a nurse someday."

The wind gusted and while Kell was glad for his jacket, he wanted to drape it around this thin, shaking boy. A boy-man, still a youth, but one with a habit and not only for tobacco. Kell tried to glimpse the insides of Frank's forearms, but he moved too quickly, whipping the cigarette from his lips, releasing the white smoke, then back into his mouth. Deep inhalations were taken, making Kell do the same.

"Goddamned her, where in the fuck..."

The door opened before Frank could finish his sentence. Kell looked, having noticed a number of women while loitering at the desk with Samantha. The test would take two hours to process and they had nothing else to do. Nothing but wait and as Frank ran to the door, Kell followed out of sheer curiosity. Most of the women standing at reception looked old, and Kell hadn't liked their wary, accusatory stares. The clinic wasn't only for pregnancy tests but what happened afterwards if a couple was unlucky. Few who frequented this particular health center were hoping for a positive result, but if that was the answer, within those walls were options, either to arrange an adoption or initiate a more immediate solution. Kell had no idea what Samantha wanted, they hadn't discussed it. Only to find out _if_ she was pregnant, then they would deal with the consequences.

"Shit Marthe, where in the hell've you been?"

A young woman not much older than Frank emerged. She wore a white uniform, a skirt showing shapely legs, and like her brother she was short. Brown curly hair rested in a bun, glasses framing an open face, but her eyes were wide, brown, sad. Her sorrow ran all through Kell, but more; a fierce, protective love for the brother in front of her.

"Christ Frank, I told you one o'clock!"

Her voice was even but strained. Kell felt invading of their privacy, but couldn't move. He knew that face; she had been the one to take Samantha's details and Kell's money. This woman was Frank's sister?

But of course she was; they looked like twins! Were they? No, as Frank had implied she was older. They were nearly the same height, Frank with an extra couple of inches. The same cheekbones, high and spaced, and as Marthe handed her brother an envelope, Kell watched the manner in which she caressed his hands, taking them within her own. Kell hadn't realized he was only a few feet away, a voyeur drawn into their story. They seemed unaware and Kell inched his way nearer.

Marthe's hands were small like her brother's, the nails short but smooth with rounded tips just past the edge of her fingers, small white ends that carried no polish. This wasn't a woman who bothered with glamour, eyebrows not plucked to thin streaks along her face. She was lovely, gorgeous really, but Kell kept returning to her hands.

No rings, nothing decorative, but mighty as though she could heal with only a touch or set magical, soothing words to paper. Kell wanted to write, had come to the West Coast to do just that. He wanted to be an author, yet words swirled in Frank's sister's hands, some great power. Kell wanted those hands on him, his jeans growing uncomfortable.

He smiled, unable to ease that stiffness. His girlfriend was sitting by herself, waiting to find out if she was carrying his child, and all Kell wanted to do was take these beautiful, intriguing hands and lay them on his body. He looked down, saw his cigarette was nearly ash. Taking a long drag, the nicotine burning his lungs, Kell then threw the remnant on the ground.

Her eyes caught his. "Hey, don't leave that here."

Frank laughed. "Shit Marthe, you expect us to pick up the gum wads too?"

Kell stared at the cement. There must have been a dozen butts, but from guilt he covered his with the edge of his shoe.

Marthe marched toward him, hands on her hips. "Just 'cause other people litter doesn't mean you need to add to the mess!"

Mortified, Kell felt something more dangerous. All he wanted to know were her hands on him. One touch and Kell was sure all she contained could be transferred into his body. Then the words would emerge.

"I, I'm sorry," he muttered. "Really sorry."

She smiled, then giggled. "So-orry?" she imitated.

His rounded, Midwestern infection was impossible to hide and he nodded.

She stared at him. "Where on earth are you from?"

"Wisconsin," Frank answered. "Listen, it's been nice to meet you." He shook Kell's hand, then kissed his sister. "Marthe, Kell. Kell Vander Kellen, my sister Marthe Souza. He sounds Canadian, doncha think?"

A surge rebounded from Frank's handshake, Kell now aching to reach for Marthe's. He needed to know if those siblings possessed some strange, otherworldly power, or maybe it was this city. This legendary place Kell never wished to leave, only wanted to further explore, much like this young woman in front of him. What might her hands reveal?

Kell didn't hear Marthe's response, only nodding at her words, then watching as siblings kissed goodbye. Frank disappeared down the street, that envelope clutched tight, leaving Kell and Marthe alone.

"Your girlfriend's still in there," she said. "It won't be much longer."

"Oh yah, I uh, I was just coming out for a smoke. Gave one to your brother."

Kell wanted to inhale her. Necessary, maybe not the best thing for him, but oh how he wanted to trap Marthe Souza within his lungs.

She clucked, then looked behind her. Kell wondered if she was seeking the door or the last trail of Frank. "I didn't know he was still smoking."

"Seemed he needed something," Kell offered.

She nodded, then turned again his way. "Something, yeah. Wish it was only cigarettes."

"What's he on?"

Kell asked out of curiosity, then felt intrusive. None of his business, yet, Marthe knew something about him, aware he might be a father. Then Kell wondered; how was a woman like Marthe working at a place like this?

She didn't look butch and from what Frank had said was Catholic, as Kell was. He didn't dismiss maybe he was barking up the wrong tree, yet she was so young. Somewhat aloof, and he smiled, not having moved his foot, that errant butt still hidden under his left shoe. She was direct but in reaching for his hand, also soft, gentle, loving.

He looked at her face, saw tears. She was tender hearted, very tender, her heart breaking as words spilled forth. "Heroin," she muttered. "He just started shooting heroin."

Kell let Samantha snuggle into him, praying with all his might she wasn't pregnant. If God was listening, Kell would do anything, even quit smoking, if Sam wasn't knocked up!

Tapping his feet, he felt itchy, achy, maybe the same as Frank. Why he'd been so jumpy, needing a fix. God, so young! Kell couldn't get that from his mind, not even eighteen years old. What kind of city was this and that family, the Souza family, how could they have a kid like Marthe, so together and level headed, then one only a year younger, strung out at seventeen?

Their father was a doctor, maybe too much was expected. Marthe hadn't said another word, but Kell felt it all in her hands; love, despair, fear, acknowledgement. Aiding and abetting; Kell was sure Marthe had given Frank money, but it cost her a deep, lasting price. Kell tried to peek at her whenever the sliding plastic door opened, another client in need. Marthe worked the window, taking appointments, the whole room teeming with unwanted consequences of actions resulting from passion, great need, yearnings. Penalties, and Kell squeezed Sam's hands, hoping to God they could leave without a cost hanging over their heads!

Samantha Perry was small, red haired, a pretty girl he'd met at a party, but now as pointless as that butt under his shoe. As soon as they knew, Kell had a plan. If Sam was pregnant, well, his life was over. But if she wasn't...

Too soon to think of that, too high were the stakes, his hopes. His hopes were to give it a few weeks, break if off with her, then return here and find Marthe. Find this Marthe Souza and...

"Samantha."

Kell jumped, his life staring at him. The reception window was open and for a second, he caught Marthe's face. Those brown eyes found his and again a prayer was offered: _Please God, anything. Anything at all..._

Samantha led Kell toward the door, pulling him, Kell planted within Marthe's view. Then the plastic partition slid shut, propelling Kell's feet forward.

As they left the building, Kell breathed deeply. He wanted a drink, so easy to come by back home, but Sam's older brother was twenty-two. He could buy them some beer, maybe a couple of six-packs. They'd all celebrate together.

"Oh my God, am I glad that's over," Samantha said as Kell walked her to the bus shelter.

"Oh yah." Kell felt her squeeze his hand.

"I guess I'm just late, maybe just skipped a month."

"Maybe," he said, the bus reaching their stop.

They stepped on, Kell paying their fare. He had paid for the test, the bus ride, would buy the beer. Wished for a cigarette, but had given his last one to Frank, and he'd promised. Kell had promised.

Sitting down, he took notice of those around them. Older women, a few men, some young people like themselves. Then in the front, a woman who, from behind, looked like Marthe. Kell stared at her while Samantha rattled on, her words of no consequence.

The clinic had been a fifteen minute ride and Kell settled in, wanting a beer down his throat, so wishing for a smoke. No more of those, but the beer would suffice. His eyes returned to that one passenger, was it her?

Samantha had quieted, leaning into him, and Kell let her, a few weeks before he could break it off. He needed to make sure, let her have a period, then it would be over. The woman Kell had been watching motioned for the next stop and he sat upright.

She stood, heavily pregnant, which he hadn't noticed when getting on the bus. It wasn't Marthe, only a young woman who had appeared similar. Kell spied how she rose from her seat with halting movements, gripping the long pole, looking no more than twenty, yet ages older, like a senior citizen. As she turned his way, an idea emerged, one fleeting but having been birthed at that moment. In a city bus with Marthe on his mind, Kell Vander Kellen pondered the beginnings of his first novel.

Chapter 7 - 1986

Marthe woke, the night cool, their window open. The bed was empty on Kell's side, but from the light in the hallway, Marthe knew he wasn't far.

She put on her robe, padding to the living room. He was seated on the couch with the TV lit but no sound. Except for her feet and their breaths, there wasn't a single noise, not until she cleared her throat, alerting him to her presence.

"Oh honey, did I wake you?" Kell's quiet tone eased into Marthe, soothing her mind.

Taking the free space on the sofa, she leaned into his bulk, a body supple and strong. Over the last six months while trying to write, Kell had put on weight, eating instead. Eating and smoking, but somehow those scents, tobacco and fast food, were intoxicating, and Marthe ran her hands along his chest. Golden curls peeked from his open robe and as her fingers found his skin, his erection stiffened. It had wavered as she lay next to him, but after touching his torso, it jumped. All Marthe would have to do was retrieve a condom.

"You okay?" Setting her lips along his stomach, the soft part of him, hairy and pliable, she buried her face into his flesh.

"Baby, it's no good. I can't do it."

"Are you sure?"

He sighed. "I've been sitting out here how many nights and nothing. I just don't feel a single thing, yah know?"

An accent remained, especially when he was pained. When turmoil existed, Marthe heard it; lyrical were his words, but only those spoken, all that Kell wanted to write tied up somewhere within his head. He'd been trying since the first of the year and now in June, nothing had budged. Kell hadn't been this dry since she'd known him, unspoken that it was her presence. He'd written his first novel before they lived together, had left to write his second, but neither had broached those factors.

"Baby, maybe you need to get away. Maybe just take the summer. I've got plenty to keep me busy."

A smile emerged in her voice. Looking up, she saw his grin, cloaked in shame. Shame that what kept her so busy was death, what held his muse was her. Marthe had again stolen Kell's words, no getting around it.

"Kell, you go. Dave would love it if you wrote another book at his house. He's offered, God, how many times? I know he wants to be in one of your novels. This might be as close as he gets."

He laughed. "I think you're right."

Unspoken were other sentiments, those of who might accompany him, or Marthe, in the interim. Fidelity had never been their strong suit, but Marthe would have little time for lovers with so many events on her plate. One sister pregnant, one sister-in-law too. Jan and Julian were hinting at an engagement and Chris was hoping to finish school by the end of the year. Ash was finally seeing someone and the hospital was crazy. Even during her breaks, Marthe fell into bed exhausted from overwork and family dramas, her parents having settled into a permanent pattern of non-communication. Only last month at Marthe's twenty-eighth birthday dinner Louis and Aurora had owned opposite sides of the table, both Rick and Lynn announcing their pregnant statuses. Rick's wife Lauren had been ill, Aurora taking the opportunity to flee the group, spending most of the night in the ladies' room with a retching daughter-in-law. Lynn was only tired, Louis having gone to her side, talking shop.

Bored with medical chit chat, Marthe had only rested against Kell. In his arms, held so close, but now they needed distance. Kell had a storyline, which he wouldn't discuss, for over a year. Over a year and a half and nothing had emerged, not a single word. She would come home, find him watching TV, eating, reading, smoking, nearly anything but writing. And the biggest surprise had been his very presence.

They were both trying, but it was complicated. Nate Green called all the time, annoying Marthe to no end. He seemed to revel in her frustration, but it was Marthe to smile, Nate ineffective in his attempts to lure Kell away, which made this separation all the more bittersweet. Marthe knew Kell needed to go, but did she trust him to keep it in his pants, and did he hold faith in her to do the same?

Running her fingers over his bulge, she heard a moan, pleasure and desire, haunting in its resonance. Except for a few momentary episodes, they hadn't been away from the other since New Year's, most of 1986 marked by togetherness and devotion. Was it all those dead, talk of a wedding for Jan, or Marthe's parents' dismal marriage? Was it Ash's occasional bad days, still mourning Greg, or that Jaime Schuler was now within Marthe's realm. Kell's first gay lover had resulted in a friendship Marthe never questioned, but now Jaime was in the throes of another infection, having been on her ward for the last two weeks. Marthe had watched him rally, Kell visiting often, telling jokes of their days at the restaurant or tales of those no longer near. With so many of Kell and Jaime's friends and former partners either sick or nursing their own, loving anyone but Kell seemed ugly, wasteful, unnecessary.

They were healthy, not sick or ill. Not dying, and Marthe reached for Kell's penis, her hand small but efficient. Soon he was kissing her shoulders, pulling the robe from her body. Maybe she wouldn't need a condom, only get him off, returning to their room where he would kiss her in other places. Then the rubber, Marthe considered, hearing him so close. In their bedroom, they would apply that barrier, but on the sofa, Marthe continued her easy up and down motions, Kell's loud groan signaling his release.

"Souza, you got a minute?"

Marthe had been discussing a patient with Jennifer, but nodded, heading Ash's way.

"It's Dave Kedayis. Look at this."

Marthe sighed, Ash's small, neat handwriting precise in the details. "Yeah, that's it."

"Christ, won't this fucker ever give up?" Ash said, tired but indignant. Every time Dave beat one infection another arose, confounding the doctors. He'd endured more tests and drugs than anyone before him, but nothing worked. Yet, Dave hadn't succumbed. He felt like crap, complained like a baby, but would not die.

Ash's words covered not only Dave's indefatigable spirit, but the illness itself; still no cure, no vaccine, no word from the Republican administration about what to do. President Reagan remained silent, but this city, unlike so many other large urban centers, had taken upon itself to care for those infected. New York seemed an embarrassment and whenever possible Ash pointed that out, how their one municipality, less than eight hundred thousand people, had pulled itself up by its bootstraps. Or leather straps, Marthe would giggle. Ash would grin; yes, studded leather bracelets were accomplishing what the federal government was unwilling to do.

Los Angeles and Miami, Chicago, Philadelphia and everywhere in between had no claim on this illness like Marthe's hometown. Here they were alert, attentive; the bathhouses were history, not that it mattered now. Infection was one thing, but incubation was another. Relief for the baths' closure was tempered; what had occurred over the last seven years, perhaps as many as ten, was already percolating, Ash so wary to the dangers of exposure.

He had lived it, seen Greg die of it, and now nursed it day in and out until his four-day shift was over. Marthe knew it too, but for Ash, it was his life, his gay brothers, all of them. Gay or bisexual and Ash had reminded Marthe that Kell needed to be careful. "The both of you," Ash had remarked when they last spoke of this. Dave had been on the ward and in their minds back in February at Kell's twenty-eighth birthday party. Marthe threw Kell a bash, inviting her family and all their friends. All but Nate, which had pissed him off, and he had crashed it, Ash booting him out. Marthe's parents were gone by then, but her siblings had witnessed Nate prance through, throwing himself all over Kell until Ash hauled him out the door. Ash was the last to leave, imploring Marthe to take care; yet, since early April, neither had strayed.

Marthe pondered that while reading Dave's latest episode. In February it had been a nearly fatal encounter with PCP. Now thrush coated the interior of Dave's mouth, antifungal medications useless. What they would do to get this under control, Marthe had no idea. Why she was glad to only be a nurse, following doctors' orders. She was running out of ideas and seeing Ash's grim face, he too was stumped. "Says if he dies of thrush, he'll sue us. Can you imagine? That stupid bastard!"

Marthe smiled. Dave was never satisfied, always wanting someone's head on a platter, but maybe it kept him alive. "Well, gotta give him credit. At least he's never boring."

Ash sniffed. "Yeah, he's never that. Listen, what are you doing later?"

Marthe felt a chill. "Oh, just going home."

Ash didn't look at her. "You hear from him lately?"

Kell had been away two weeks but Marthe had talked to him last night, his work emerging at a pace neither could fathom, a few thousand words a day. For Kell, who plunked a paragraph in a week's time, it was a Godsend. "Yeah, it's coming. The words are finally coming."

"Anyone else?"

She hit him with Dave's chart. "Not that I know of."

"Good. When I'm done here, I'll pick up dinner. Seven at your place?"

She smiled. Her shift ended then, but Ash had a key. "Okay. But it's a mess."

With the chart in hand, he headed to Dave's room. "I'll be cleaning when you get home."

Ash would sleep over, too drunk to drive. Also Marthe didn't want to be alone. Not that night, not with all they had spoken.

Greg remained within his lover, an ache Ash couldn't release. There was Cory, a handsome, sweet-natured stockbroker, and Mitch, a rather full of himself podiatrist, but neither man had reached into Ash with much success. Then Marthe wondered; it had only been a year, one year since Greg Shepherd's death. Was Ash looking for a mate or only companionship?

He didn't seem to know, which had precipitated opening the second bottle of wine. The first, only half full, had gone quickly, the second more slowly, as were their words and thoughts about love, life, death. About those who completed them no longer close, but as Ash pointed out, swinging his legs over Marthe's on the sofa, at least Kell was only at the beach.

"I mean, you could go there, call a cab right now. It'd only cost you, what, maybe a twenty? Or shit, take my car. Go there, fuck his brains out, then leave."

"Oh, I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

Leaning over his legs, she stroked faint blonde hairs with her hand. He was tan, toned, a beautiful man, almost her type. A little on the skinny side and of course gay. Marthe never went after homosexuals, no point. With Ash she only sought familiarity. "Because he can't write when I'm there. Doesn't smoke much, thank God, but can't write."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know." She sat up, looking at her friend. They'd been friends for years and with how many who came and went, it felt like all her life. All her life she'd loved this acerbic, blonde god. Loved him, worked with him, and now spilled her soul; other than Kell and Jan, Ash was Marthe's only other confidant.

She scooted into her corner of the couch, taking his bare feet into her lap. "It's like he's this big shy Midwestern boy, but that's all tucked away, covered with cigarettes, sex, words, and me." She sighed. "The cigs and sex are always there, always. He can't live without those."

Ash stared at her. "And you?"

Marthe laughed, throwing her hands in the air. "Me and the words, we trade places. We come and go and since we go together, you know, after Frank died, it's been me, well, me and Nate and God knows who else." She giggled. "But I _am_ his only woman."

Ash nodded. "I know. He told me."

"Really?"

"Yeah, at the party after Nate left. Came up and thanked me for throwing his sorry ass out, then wanted me to know that no matter how many men he'd screwed, you were the only woman. And Marthe, I know he meant it."

She began to cry. "God then why? Why can't he be here, why can't he write around me? You know, he could fuck Nate all damned day if he could just write next to me!"

Ash smiled, shaking his head. Reaching over, he took her hands, kissed her fingers, then tipped her face his way. "Honey, maybe it's not you, but what he's gotta spill."

With the small sounds of water in the background, Kell squished sand between his toes, thinking of Marthe's voice, Nate's too. Marthe's had been far away, but Nate's had been right next to Kell's ear. While Marthe's was loving and supportive, Nate's had been toxic and Kell wondered what had pissed Nate more; that Kell wouldn't sleep with him or that Marthe hadn't asked.

Nate had been there when Marthe called and Kell had been surprised Nate hadn't spoken, hadn't wanted to let Marthe know. Let her glean his presence from his words, his breath, yet, Nate had stayed silent, still, as if unable to move. There in Dave Kedayis's beach house, Nate Green had been neutralized.

Over the last six weeks, Nate had appeared three times, yet Kell didn't want to have sex with him. Didn't want to smoke or get laid, either one. Well, if Marthe had appeared on the doorstep, but she hadn't stepped foot near this small cottage where Dave holed up in the summer. Stuck on Marthe's ward, Dave hadn't been to the cottage in ages, and the place had been a mess. Kell spent the first two days cleaning. After that, it had been all about the words.

_The War On Emily Dickinson_ had rattled in Kell's head since before Greg Shepherd's death, a seed planted at an anniversary dinner for Louis and Aurora in 1984. A notion Kell had known nine years back when he encountered the plot for _1955 Rainbow Chessboard_ , some inadvertent sighting of a pregnant woman inspiring Kell's first novel. As Kell had held Marthe in March of 1985, Ash's tears pouring over Greg's coffin, a poem by Emily Dickinson was read, fertilizing that small kernel of plot from the previous autumn. Kell and Marthe might never reproduce, but written words were Kell's children, his progeny. If nothing else, they would be his legacy.

_Emily Dickinson_ was half completed, the quickest work Kell had formed, a short gestation for this baby with which he was already in love. If he and Marthe ever did get pregnant, Kell imagined it would be akin to this process, one of fingers on keys, words hurled with desire, some small force, then anticipation for how they would string along, perhaps similar to fatherhood. Then Kell had stopped, for Louis Souza's face would invariably appear, a parent having been torn to pieces over the death of his son.

Within a novel, Kell could alter any heartache. If he didn't like the ending, it was under his control. Frank had never been in Louis's hands, not from the sound of things. A rebellious child spoiled after the births of two sisters, Frank had been indulged, mostly by Aurora, but also by his father. Frank sported Louis's middle name as his own, but didn't look like the male Souzas, more like his sisters and mother, a carbon copy of Marthe.

Underneath Frank had been weak, a poor student who wouldn't follow his father into medicine. Wouldn't follow direction, smoking pot from the age of thirteen, young and troubled. Reasons for that still weren't clear. Family issues had been ordinary, Frank not a victim of sexual abuse, not that Marthe or her older siblings knew. Nothing to suggest any inherent reason for that one child to go off the rails; then Kell thought to what Marthe attended on a daily basis. The epidemic had sprung from nowhere, hitting hard one particular group, but why? Why was this virus so deadly?

Why so lethal and endemic to gay men, so attracted to one particular culture? One aspect of society was being decimated and no one said a thing. As how Frank had been allowed to stumble, words and policies were muted, questions met by walls tall and unforgiving. Marthe had been devastated by Frank's death and while she could speak of him, her whole being was colored by his absence. She had changed, yet only Kell felt it, knew how much of her life had been altered by his passing. What she did now was to make up for it, try to save or just love any whom she encountered, why she was an excellent nurse. Having lost one so precious, Marthe knew the worth of a human life. Knew also it would end.

Which was why Kell had to write this book for her, for all those they had watched die. Not only Frank but Greg, and now Jaime Schuler. Stewart Campbell floated in and out of Marthe's view, a poor bastard who wouldn't face his own nature, but Kell had. He was bisexual and for him to send Nate away, while not difficult, had been telling. Kell had been stirred while Nate stood in the cottage, that he couldn't deny. It would have been easy to let Nate stay, yet, Kell had no condoms. He'd not taken any just to show himself he could be faithful. And since he wouldn't have sex without them and was _sure_ Nate hadn't brought any, Kell's celibate status remained. The urge had been there, one he wouldn't refute, but not the person he loved.

He loved only Marthe and now with the writing going so well, he'd be faithful. It had frightened him, only for a moment, when Nate approached, whispering in Kell's ear. As Nate spoke, Kell's slight erection faded. Words hoping to arouse only produced the contrary; by the time Nate left, Kell's libido lay on the floor. He'd smiled as Nate's Karmann Ghia spun out of the driveway, only wishing it was Marthe making an approach in Ash's ratty old Beetle.

Kell walked back to the beach house, one small light shining over the kitchen sink. This place was secluded; no one could have witnessed if Nate had stayed. But Kell would have known and as soon as he next saw Marthe, so would she. Neither could hide their affairs, those indiscretions somehow always visible. Kell set his shoes next to the back door, used his key, then flopped onto the sofa. He wanted to call her, hear her voice. Instead, he lugged his bulk to the typewriter. As keys fell under his fingertips, the story of Emily Dickinson continued, her letters an outreach to a world as mad as the one in which Kell and Marthe inhabited, death from illness as prevalent during the War Between the States as in 1986 America.

In early September, Kell returned home with the finished manuscript in a suitcase. Stepping over the threshold, Marthe gripped against him, Kell set that case down with little fanfare. In his arms was the most important element, this woman for whom he'd waited twelve long, torturous weeks. The book was done, but loving Marthe was only beginning.

She had two days off, then it was a matter of surviving a four-day cycle. Four long days, one of which was a double shift, but at the end, Marthe had squirreled away three days of vacation, and they were going to Muir Woods to celebrate. Kell hadn't even opened that suitcase, leaving Emily and the soldiers with whom she corresponded tucked in a closet. In Kell and Marthe's dwelling, Emily and those men, some from the north, some from the south, would rest until Kell was ready. Ready to read with eyes renewed, eyes first in need of only Marthe. Her skin, her body, her voice to fill Kell's ears, pour over him and they would have an entire week in which to do so.

When they drove away from their apartment, from a city so enmeshed in death, Kell sighed. He hadn't smoked more than five packs during those three months, yet since coming home, he'd plowed through most of a carton.

"Nine bucks for Winstons, can you believe it?" he complained as his car, an older Audi, sailed over the Golden Gate Bridge.

"Quit whining," Marthe laughed, the windows open, curls blowing around her face. "Just think of all the money you saved."

They joked about it the whole time, laughed while making love over and over. Kell assumed for every cigarette he'd smoked, they had also spent a condom, Marthe packing enough to kit out McClellan's army, Robert E. Lee's as well. They had enjoyed most of their time indoors, in bed. Marthe had made Kell take a short hike; otherwise all their attentions were focused on the other.

Only once had an outside force reared its head. "I know Nate came to see you," Marthe announced on their last day.

Kell said nothing, placing his toothbrush into a Baggie.

She approached him, kissing his face right where his thick, strawberry blond beard met his cheekbone. "He came to see me right before you got home. I don't know why, other than to tell me he'd stopped there a few nights. And that you never gave him the time of day." She looked to the floor, then took his hands. "Kell, I love you. We did it, you know?"

He nodded, ashamed to have her learn that way, yet also proud. They had stayed faithful. It was possible.

Returning from their sojourn, both were on a cloud, Kell ready to dive into the manuscript, prepared to attack it with all consideration. Marthe had work the next day, but wanted to give Ash a quick call, find out what she'd missed. Stepping into the apartment, Kell inhaled; smoke struck his nostrils, unpleasant and acrid, yet the next thing he did was reach for a cigarette. Lighting up, he sucked that poison into aching lungs, his bloodstream thrilled with the hit.

The answering machine flashed and Kell let Marthe gather those messages. Most would be for her, family or work. Kell's career had been stalled since _An Opaque Ocean_ 's publication over two years before, but he was eager to present this story to his agent. Within that suitcase lurking in the back of the closet, Kell possessed what he perceived as a masterpiece. All he wanted was to edit, revise, edit again, then let Samuel have a look.

With thoughts so giddy, the weeping hit Kell as soon as he emerged from the bathroom. For Marthe to cry meant something; had either Lynn or Rick's wife lost their babies? Both were due at Christmas; only an event of that magnitude would force tears from Marthe's stoic frame.

Kell found her sitting on the edge of their bed, a piece of paper in her hand. Notes from the calls they had missed, but she couldn't speak, and he wrapped her close. After so many blissful days, to what had they returned?

"God honey, did Lynn or Lauren have a miscarriage? Marthe, what?"

"Jaime, oh Kell, he's dead! It was Ash, he sounded just awful. Jaime died on Thursday and, oh shit Kell. He's gone!"

As she fell apart in his arms, Kell wanted another smoke. Wished no manuscript waited in his closet, wished Marthe carried his child. Kell wished death hadn't found them, hadn't claimed the first man with whom Kell had slept. It hadn't remained physical, Jaime now a good friend, but that was the wrong tense. He _was_ a good friend, _had been_ one of Kell's best friends. Far more than only a former lover, Jaime Schuler was to Kell who Ash was to Marthe.

That notion struck Kell with the same force as hearing his friend was dead. Marthe never made mention of it, but in the back of Kell's mind rested an unpleasant thought; had Ash sounded awful only for Jaime's passing or perhaps something more?

Marthe trembled so hard that Kell knew she was thinking the same. "You want me to call Ash, see what happened?" he asked, wiping her face.

"Just make love to me," she whispered. "Please?"

Nodding his head, Kell took clothes from himself, then from her, reaching into her bedside table drawer. With a condom in place, he lay down, then was inside her as death stood outside their room, twisting its hands in delight.

Chapter 8 - 1982

Marthe approached completion, so near to all she wanted. One part was missing, but leaning back atop a tall, blonde, muscular man, she let herself be taken away, her climax loud and telling.

He looked spent too; Devin Henderson was a friend of her brother's, a man Marthe had known since Rick went into the business of fighting fires. Marthe had been sociable with Devin when younger, now she was intimate. Wiping sweat from his brow, she kissed his nose, then moved from his body. Devin was also a fireman, not as burly as Rick, or as Kell. All the men Marthe slept with still looked so much like Kell.

They said nothing, Devin smoking a cigarette, and she smiled, an odor prevalent after sex. All her lovers seemed to crave nicotine or was it only Marthe? Did she have to sleep with men who preferred that particular vice; she wasn't sure. She'd been leery of going home, Kell not around. After having dinner with her brother and Devin, Marthe found herself leaving with the latter, not for the first time.

Nor was it the primary episode in Marthe's attempts at getting back at Kell. They had been sleeping together since Frank's death the previous December, but neither seemed able to stay committed. Kell had started it with that pinhead Nate Green, not missed by Marthe how much she and Nate looked alike. Both were brunettes with large brown eyes, although Nate was a bit chubby. Still, Marthe could have decked Nathaniel Green, taking him out with one punch. Instead she'd said nothing, inflicting her revenge in the most enjoyable way. As Kell went out and screwed around, Marthe did too.

Devin seemed aware this was temporary as he didn't reach for her, nor stir conversation. Marthe remained on her back as he discarded the rubber, then he stood, heading to the bathroom. This apartment on the east side of the city was Devin's alone, a small but airy one bedroom walk-up on the third floor. Rufus had played as they made love and Marthe longed to hear the rest of that album, 1978's _Street Player_ , once Devin returned from the bathroom. His routine, one side as they made love, the other as they dressed to leave.

She didn't want the record flipped only to precipitate her departure, but to hear Chaka Khan's voice and more of those sweet grooves which made sex with Devin so pleasurable. Moving to grinding beats, Marthe had lost herself in this moment, one that had nothing to do with a cheating boyfriend, a dead brother, and the onslaught of mysteriously ill men filling the city hospital. It had been a trickle the previous year, her last in nursing school, but now at the end of summer Marthe was witnessing the most bizarre maladies upon what had once been healthy human beings. Diseases from cats, sheep, even deer were being diagnosed, ravaging bodies inside and out. From the last case Marthe had tended, only a few days ago, the minds of these unfortunate souls, all gay, were now in the line of fire.

With Kell busy, Marthe had needed a distraction. She was careful and Devin hadn't argued, two condoms in her purse now needing replacements. Marthe kept plenty at the apartment, Kell's apartment, where she lived. After Frank died, Marthe had moved in with Kell, no question as to any other arrangement, yet, her boyfriend had slept with Nate in January, said it was nothing. Kell said that, but by the end of February, Nate had again weaseled his way into their happy domestic arrangement, a small apartment not far from Devin's. When this side of the record was over, it would only be a few minutes' drive, then Marthe would be home.

Home; would Kell be there, she wondered, as she heard Devin's steps to the stereo. As the record was turned, Marthe sat up, not bothering with the sheet. Little to hide, but Devin hadn't minded. He still didn't, returning to Marthe slightly stiff.

"I'm not doing you unless you have some rubbers. We used all mine," she laughed, wanting him again.

"I got some baby. Don't you worry." He searched his side table, producing a box of Trojans.

Marthe smiled as Chaka crooned "Blue Love", jazz-tinged rhythms leading Devin back to bed. Kell's whereabouts faded as Marthe closed her eyes, soft kisses along her small chest holding her attention.

Kell cooked breakfast but neither said a thing, Kell poking at his pancakes. They had taken the stairs together, the smell of sex all over them, but not from each other. It had been Kell to unlock their door, Marthe to cross the entrance first.

While he made the batter, she had showered, and he still needed one. Needed to wash off Nate, wishing he could drown that little fucker! Just kill him, and then, then... Then there would be another, Kell unable to discount what he knew was true. He loved Marthe and had to sleep around. Hand in hand went those issues, along with smoking. He smoked, screwed, loved Marthe and to his horror noted it was in that order!

Her hair was cut short to her shoulders, something she had done after Frank's death. She looked beautiful, always did after having been loved. Did she sleep around only because Kell did or was it more? Loss, fearful and pained, and now she saw it more than just a few times a month, no denying what was happening in the gay community, some dreadful illness invading. In the old days Kell hadn't always bothered with condoms; now he insisted. For himself, but more for the woman across from him, one he admitted loving, yet, not all he desired.

He needed more, far more than either she could give or what he wanted to ask from her. Was it his age, his gender? Kell accepted those as excuses, did she? Did Marthe allow for his predatory nature, dismissing his flings because he was a young man? Twenty-four years old, but so was she. Marthe seemed to need a good screw pretty often. More than most girls and if Kell wasn't around...

His appetite was gone, for food, for carnal pleasures. She was crying, which rarely occurred. Tears had flooded when Frank died. Now they were sparse but significant; if she wept, it was either for her brother or some deeper hurt, one Kell couldn't acknowledge.

He reached out his hand and she grasped it, apologies extended, then reciprocated. Neither said a thing, the actual words far too hard to speak. How could even he, a writer, conjure the proper way to say he was sorry for fucking others, other men? He didn't sleep with any other women, only men. Many of them, Nate peeved he wasn't Kell's only lover.

Kell stood, walking toward her. He still carried that scent, but Marthe seemed unbothered. She was stripped of last night's encounter and he was glad, which also reared shame within him. She seemed unaffected by his marked skin, but if Marthe hadn't showered, Kell might not be so close. Might not run his hands through her damp, abbreviated curls, setting his palms against her smooth shoulders, lifting her from that chair, and hoisting her to his torso. With her tears still falling, Kell carried her to their bedroom, and soon his body, protected, was all Marthe knew.

"Kell, I know. I mean, I understand."

He took a drag from the cigarette, then set it in the ashtray near the bed. His side table, on the left, carried a clock, smokes and a lighter, the ashtray and a book. The condoms were on the right, in Marthe's care.

She had reams of them, different colors and makes, what they used in addition to her birth control pills, but now they were changing in necessity. Since Marthe went to work at the city hospital, a rubber's purpose hadn't been only to prevent conception, but to preempt illness, illnesses that only led to death.

Most of Kell's conquests hated rubbers, well, all of them did. Kell slept with few men as concerned as himself, but he was the rare sport who had a serious partner who also happened to be female. A few of Kell's partners were in relationships, but _everyone_ screwed around, too tempting not to with the baths, bars, and discos. Such a free, easy city to dwell in if one's tastes were inclined toward the same gender, but that hadn't been why Kell moved here, which Marthe knew, what she understood.

Kell hadn't realized he was bisexual until after Sam got her period. Once that had occurred, he'd wanted to return to the clinic and find Marthe Souza. Instead, as soon as Samantha Perry was out of his life, Kell fell into the arms of Jaime Schuler, a waiter at the restaurant where Kell bussed tables. Their sexual dalliance was one of initiation, Jaime aware of Kell Vander Kellen's proclivities long before Kell was, but the men found friendship a stronger bond. Pleasure had been shared, but after only a few instances, Kell and Jaime concluded love went beyond their bodies, into each other's heads. With that admitted, both moved on, and Kell simply forgot all about Marthe Souza.

Forgot her until that afternoon at the bookstore. Seeing her, it had all returned, and as he looked at her now, brown eyes so knowledgeable of him, Kell wanted to flee. She did know him, all through. After their long chat in the cafe, he hadn't seen her until a year later when she appeared at that same bookstore, a copy of _1955 Rainbow Chessboard_ in her tender but powerful hands.

"How, why?" he asked, noting her fingers on his face, stroking his beard, then down to his neck, her light, easy touch like a knife, bleeding from him all she carried within.

"I don't know," and her voice broke.

He placed a large hand on hers more dainty, keeping her there. Without her, Kell wouldn't know what to do.

After that novel had been signed, it was a pact agreed and they never lost touch again. He had spent a year in the city unaware of her, then two more with Marthe on the periphery. Like a dervish, whirling about; he hadn't seen her, hadn't felt her except in two small instances, first at the clinic, then in a cafe. Finally with his book in her possession, Marthe Souza claimed her role as Kell's muse, confidant, best friend. His best friend until her brother died. Then she became his lover.

But not his only one. Marthe's hand moved from under his, down his chest, along his nipples. How and why indeed; for what ungodly reason had she stayed?

It had to be ungodly for what he'd done, so many fucks, but still she came home. He had met her at the bottom of the stairs, nothing said, nothing admitted. Only that she had returned and Kell didn't want to know. Didn't want to think about the man she'd slept with. If he did, she might be thinking the same about him.

"Marthe, I uh, I..."

"Don't say anything. This's just how it is."

"But why? Why am I like this?"

He had to ask; maybe she could give him an answer. To his surprise, she spoke.

"Because you're a guy living in a city where sex with anyone's as easy as breathing. And since you like other guys, you're all in the same boat, just go out and fuck anyone willing. And Kell, you're _all_ willing."

She looked down, then back to him. "Unfortunately for you, I'm willing too."

They spoke honestly after that, in the shower, then back in bed. Back in each other, then out again; as he removed the condom, Marthe put on a t-shirt. The room seemed cool, or was it their words? How unfaithfulness was circular; he cheated, she did so in reprisal. Not a kind way to treat one's lover, but Kell noticed she used that word only to illustrate their positions. She could have said boyfriend, partner, significant other, but she used lover, slipping easily from her tongue. Kell had told Marthe he loved _her_ , but that idea had not been reciprocated.

Did that make it worse? Why in the hell did he cheat if he loved her? He posed that in part to get it off his chest and to see what she'd say. Might she offer that sentiment in return?

"Kell, maybe we need to, oh, I don't know. Do something different."

"What, you sleep with a woman and I'll uh, well hell. I don't know who I'd sleep with."

She laughed. "No, not that."

She wasn't going to answer him, not that one response, and Kell used the moment to introduce a suggestion. "Marthe listen, I know someone who's uh, interested in something, you know, with you."

"Me?"

Kell nodded. Nate was dying to know just what it was keeping Kell bound to this woman.

Marthe's face registered all the differing ideas Kell assumed swirled in her head. She was free spirited when it came to love; she had to be to stay with him. Her spirituality was ingrained in ways Kell knew wouldn't be touched by this; Christ dwelled in Marthe so far down, sex was like eating. Marthe ate meat on Fridays when she felt like it and a threesome would probably be the same. Only an act, a physical maneuver, nothing to do with God, Jesus, or the Holy Spirit.

A smile eased over her face, but arms remained crossed over her body, warming to the idea, but not fully accepting. Kell said nothing, wasn't going to do more than offer it. Wouldn't tempt, tease, or cajole. If Marthe was game, she would have to reach that on her own.

"Who?" she asked.

Kell swallowed. "Nate."

For a second, Kell regretted ever mentioning it, her eyes flashing as if he'd said Lucifer. Then she grinned, offering a giggle that turned to a chuckle, then to heady laughter. "Nate?"

Kell only nodded.

Uncrossing her arms, Marthe exposed her entire body. "Well then, bring him on."

Ash Denton thought she had lost her mind and Marthe blamed their patients. Life was short, might was well give it a turn.

He'd shaken his head, then kissed her cheek. Marthe thought if it went well, perhaps Ash would like to join them. Ash, his boyfriend Greg Shepherd; maybe Greg first, Marthe sniggered. He was always screwing around, or maybe Ash would volunteer to get Greg's goat. Maybe this would usher in a whole new world for Marthe and Kell, all their lovers no longer left outside their room.

Maybe this would eliminate all the sneaking around, rampant games played, as though they could really lie to the other. That had been the oddest thing, finding while their mouths stayed shut, their eyes told everything.

All they did, everyone with whom they slept. Marthe wouldn't have breathed Devin's name, nor did Kell ever reveal his lovers. Except for Nate, Marthe knew no identities, but every single encounter was visible. Free to examine, feel, wish to hide, yet again and again they left the apartment, finding solace in the arms of others. Solace, but never completion.

Leaving work, Marthe shivered, waiting for the bus. She had never felt anything more than great physical pleasure, even with Devin. With him something teased, approaching what she knew with Kell, but not over the hump. Yet, Marthe kept that word from her brain, even though Kell had said it. He'd told her how he _really_ felt, but every time he fucked around, a veil coated that word, those emotions. Then Marthe didn't have to acknowledge her own.

Was that why she cheated, keeping that word at bay, keeping so much which hurt far away? Was she no better than all these men who used sex only as some way to expend physical pleasure? Expend and receive, over and over, so easy for guys, even those straight. Just hire a prostitute if you couldn't find an easy pick-up. However, that was becoming a roll of the dice. Many of the city's working girls were addicts and besides gay men, Marthe was caring for the junkies falling victim to this disease which had no name, except for ones somewhat tawdry. GRID sounded like an arcade game and Marthe wouldn't use it. Yes, it seemed more of a gay-related illness, but prostitutes and addicts weren't necessarily homosexuals, nor were the stricken babies born to those women with pneumonia and other health issues.

Thinking about work took Marthe's mind from Kell, from how she felt about him. She tapped her foot, easier to consider so many strange afflictions, ones of which her father wouldn't speak. Lynn found it fascinating, was itching to finish her residency. Not at all interested in having kids, but neither was Marthe. She didn't want children, hadn't said it as much, only implying that with a contagion running loose, her life would be consumed in fighting illness. Fighting it, getting it under control, only a matter of time until GRID was an acronym long forgotten.

Forgotten, swept under the rug, but that which hit her patients was brutal, lives torn asunder by trivial infections. In only the few months she'd been working with Ash, Marthe had realized immune systems were being compromised. She had taken these patients, as few other nurses wanted to work with homosexuals and drug addicts. Marthe didn't care; they were people, her figurative and literal brothers and sisters.

If Frank hadn't died, would he be here now, among those so sick? His death had been bad enough, but to have seen him covered in lesions, struggling to breathe as his lungs drowned him, only wishing for a bullet to end the agonizing headaches; Marthe could go on and on because this illness, whatever it was, seemed unbounded in how it killed. Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, or PCP, was the biggest ailment, but there were countless ways, little and large, that people were dying. Dying so young, too damned young; as Marthe stepped on the bus, the autumn breeze swept around her. There had to be a cure around the corner, this couldn't go on for much longer without the big guns from the Centers for Disease Control, the National Cancer Institute or National Institute for Allergy and Infectious Diseases bringing her and all other foot soldiers some essential relief.

Marthe waited in their room, Kell's footsteps in the kitchen. Nate was delayed and she just wanted to get this underway, start this new chapter in their relationship, one where the man she cared for might share more of his sex life with her. Even if it meant another person involved, Marthe wanted Kell to be all hers.

All of him, even the parts she couldn't satisfy. She had accepted his bisexuality because she found it interesting. If it had been another woman he desired, Marthe would have drawn the line. Drawn a line and knocked his block off, but that had remained unspoken. For all of Kell's infidelities, as far as Marthe knew, it was only with his own sex.

And if it wasn't, she didn't want to know. They hadn't been that blatant, but Marthe was certain she was his only female lover. For Kell's sake, she better be.

Why did that matter? Kell seemed to imply it was only his rocks he got off with men, nothing more meaningful than a good orgasm, but different from the ones she provided. That day she wanted to see it, needed to witness what it was about another man that gave Kell release, gratification, something obviously she didn't offer; was it only a penis, just anal sex? Kell craved it and sometimes Marthe worried for his safety. For his and her own.

Yet he swore he always used condoms, seemed indignant she would think otherwise, that he would endanger her health by having unprotected sex. Kell had been huffy, then had calmed. Yes he screwed around, but would never put her in harm's way.

Marthe wondered what Nate looked like naked. He was pudgy; did he have a massive schlong? Was that what Kell liked? Maybe it was small, nearly unnoticeable like her breasts, but not having to wear a bra was handy, and it was just how she'd been made. God had a plan for Marthe Souza and it didn't seem to involve huge boobs.

Only a large man, as Kell came her way. "Maybe he chickened out."

"Maybe," she grinned. "Too bad. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

"Eh you," his accent apparent. "Maybe if he shows I'll just send him away."

"Oh no," she smiled. "I'm all hot for this. Never fucked two guys in the same day."

Her statement was met by Kell's shaded gaze, then the doorbell rang. Marthe looked down as he got off the bed, for it was an untruth, one Kell had seen all in her eyes.

Not two men _in the same bed_ _at the same time_. Marthe sighed, hearing Nate's nervous voice. That was a surprise; the one instance she'd met him, the few times she had overheard him on the phone, he was self-righteous to a fault. Maybe this was going to be a revelation for them all.

From the doorway, she spied Nate setting his coat on the couch, Kell offering him a glass of wine like they were lovers, Nate coming round for a good lay. A fuck, then spending the night; would he sleep there? It was three in the afternoon, Marthe not having considered that. Then her mind flooded with possibilities, scenarios she hadn't wished to ponder. What if there, in that bed, Kell changed his mind? What if she wasn't all he wanted, who he loved? Marthe blinked tears. Steeling herself, she left the room, offering a kind voice and one outstretched hand to Nate Green. If nothing else, Marthe Souza would begin the proceedings as an adult.

Nate was gone by five and Marthe didn't see him out. Kell had taken that duty, then returned to her side. He'd brought her a glass of wine which she had chugged, then he snuggled against her, the blanket separating them.

"Baby, you okay?"

She nodded, didn't know if he could see her with the comforter pulled over most of her head. She was okay, but not right; for as easy as she could be, Marthe wouldn't repeat that multi-partner experience. No encores necessary, but she hadn't let Nate know, not let on how hurt she was, how uncomfortable. Nate had left early due to his own insecurities. Once he was gone, Marthe allowed hers into the room.

A room she would forever associate with not only Kell. Now another naked body filled her thoughts, the sounds Kell made with Nate inside him, the way he'd moved. Unable to view his face for more than the first seconds once Nate interfered, Marthe didn't want to think about Kell's pleasure. It only made her ache.

Was this the end? Would she ever be enough for him? How could she when the climax he had, all Nate's doing, had pierced Marthe's heart, severing her guts from the rest of her torso.

"Baby, oh Jesus, I love you! It's okay."

Marthe couldn't move, couldn't speak. All she wanted to tell him was the truth, that she _did_ love him. Nate Green didn't give a shit for Kell Vander Kellen, only wanted to fuck him, but Marthe loved him, God how she loved him! Too bad it took another man to point that out and if she told Kell now, would it make any difference?

"Marthe honey, can you look at me? Baby, it's okay. I love you. Please honey."

His soft, soothing voice hurt; could he really be saying those things to her? How could Kell say he loved her when he'd been so enthralled with another man?

Ash had detailed his exploits and it never touched her, never even made her blush. Just different ways of showing love, affection shared. It had meant nothing to Marthe except now it meant everything, all she couldn't do, couldn't give. She didn't like anal sex, but since Kell shared it with others, her refusal was no problem. A non-issue, and he did love it, climaxing with an abandon Marthe witnessed with great pains shooting into her body. He'd exhibited such incredible bliss, all more than she could take. Marthe couldn't fathom how Kell might wish to stay with her now.

"I love you," she whispered in a voice wrecked and aching. "But it's too late."

"Baby, what'd you say? Too late for what? Marthe, oh Christ! Baby, I love you so much and I'm so sorry! Oh God honey, I love you. Marthe, I love you!"

She cried, her heart so raw. Was he serious? How in the hell could he be?

Kell turned her to face him; in his eyes Marthe saw guilt, pain. And joy, his broken face screaming relief.

"Marthe, tell me. Do you really love me?"

"Yes, you sonovabitch! Happy now?"

She rolled over, her body trembling. Weepy, ruined; she hated that feeling, what Frank had done to her. She still didn't know where he was, but there in her own bed, Kell gripped her, swallowing all of her within his arms.

"Oh Christ Marthe, oh baby, oh my God! I love you so much. Oh shit, I'd thought this'd ruined it. Oh Marthe, I'm so fuckin' sorry I ever had him come over here, baby I am so sorry!"

His accent rose and fell as did his contact along her skin. He was contrite, kissing her face, stroking her hair. "Baby, I promise I'll never see him or anyone else ever again."

Marthe lurched. "Don't say that!"

He moved back and she continued to shake, filled with fear, worry, and determination. She could tell him she loved him, but for him to offer fidelity?

"Baby, I will never do that to you again."

"No, you won't. I mean, not someone here with us."

"Marthe, I mean it. No one but you."

She set aside her brother, Nate Green, everyone else. She had revealed to Kell, and herself, how she felt, but love and truth were divided issues. "Kell, I can't share you again, not like what happened here today. But I know you need it, I saw it. I know what he did to you so don't sit there and tell me you can give that up!"

Gazing at the sheet, she draped it around herself, not looking at him.

"I love you Marthe. Do you really love me?"

She didn't face him. "Yes."

"Then I won't be with anyone else, I mean it."

"You will be, I know it."

Silence fell, for that was reality. He would be with others, no matter how much he loved her.

"Kell, you will, and then so will I." Another truth and she continued. "I love you, I do. I love you enough to let you go out and get what you need, what I can't give you. I can't do what he did for you, to you. You are what you are and I fell in love with you knowing that. I knew that Kell and maybe expecting you to change was just stupid. Like thinking Frank..."

"Baby, how? How in the hell can you love me?"

Terror filled his eyes, Marthe the only one who loved him. Not his parents, not his siblings. Not any other man, only her. Only she loved him just how he was; promiscuous, loyal, smoking, hiding. She loved him, couldn't stop.

"I don't know," she sighed, falling into him, her grip permanent. He began to cry, but Marthe held on. "I don't know Kell, but I just do."

Chapter 9 - 1993

The turkey sitting on the kitchen counter was warm, not steaming but fragrant. Having been stuffed, it was then basted with butter and a small amount of white wine, how Aurora Souza roasted her turkey every Thanksgiving.

A holiday that since 1981 had been colored. Everyone accepted it, acknowledged with silent gazes, long sighs, and wary murmurs amid the sounds of football, chatter, and now babies. For the last few years, a chorus of men yelling at teams clashed with women shushing small children. However, that year was the first anyone had heard Marthe and Kell holler at each other.

"You goddamned bastard!" rang the bellowed retort from the upstairs guest room.

"Don't you say that to me Marthe, don't you do it!"

Outside the cracked door stood four sisters, two with children on the way. Jan stood stoic, pregnant with a daughter, but Di was only a few weeks along, sick as a dog. Lynn tapped her heel as Annie huddled between her elder sisters, all leaning against the railing, staring down to the foyer. Various husbands, sisters-in-law, and children milled about, gazing to the women, then were shooed away as voices rose.

"Fuck you Kell and the horse you rode in on! Some asshole's waiting for you, so get the hell outta my house!"

Jan shuddered, pulling Annie close. Why they were standing there, Jan wasn't sure, not that Marthe needed any moral support. Maybe for Kell, who was taking a verbal pounding. Marthe had been swearing like a sailor since high school, learning words at St. Anne's that none in the Souza house ever dared to speak.

Marthe was an anomaly, thirty-five with no children. Only Annie hadn't joined the mommy club, but she was twenty-six, just a kid. The youngest Souza was still lumped at the children's table and Marthe's profane anger seemed to separate her more.

Di motioned she needed to leave and Lynn nodded. Heading to the bathroom, Di barely made it, and through that open door the sounds of vomiting battled with Kell's words, not as wicked as Marthe's, but just as cutting. "You never wanted anything from me, never needed anything from me. Not kids, not love, NOTHING!"

Why they were fighting was known to Jan, assumed by Lynn, supposed by Annie, but Di no longer cared. She threw up, then flushed, missing more choice words from her sister, only sensing her husband holding back her hair. Keith Collins had left the couple's three-year-old son with Uncle Rick. As Di made her way from the bathroom, Keith steered her toward the stairs.

"You motherfucker! Why in the hell should I give you a kid? So you can screw around, leave me to clean up the mess? You self-centered bastard!"

As Di took one step, a loud slap was administered with enough force for all in the house to hear. That was the end for children on the edge, cries emerging from below. Lynn and Jan left the banister to comfort their offspring. Only Annie remained.

Inside the room, Marthe stood back, her hand ringing in pain. She hadn't meant to hit him, had never done so before. Kell's face registered shock, followed by a wave of resentment. Then agony, which caused Marthe the most grief.

"I love you, my God, don't you get that?" Kell's voice a whisper.

"Why then? Why fuck anything that moves within two feet of you? Why do you still DO that?"

Marthe had lowered her volume, neither aware Annie remained. And that through the small opening, she heard every word they said.

"Me? This isn't only me Marthe. For God's sake, look at yourself, look at you!"

She turned away, rubbing her palm. "You make me do it."

"Oh right. You know that's just, just crap!"

Turning back, Marthe's face was red. "Yeah, just utter crap, like all we've ever meant to each other, just one big pile of shit! Well, I'm tired of mucking it around everywhere I go. Like here, in this house, on this day. On this day, Kell, on this very day!"

Her voice had risen and she began to choke, sobs forming in the back of her throat. When this occurred, no matter how angry Kell was, he came to her side, soothing tears back into her body, not letting them escape.

"Eh yah Marthe, on this fucked-up day. Honey, you can just go to hell. I'm leaving!"

She flinched as Kell kicked the side of the bed. Then he stomped from the room, the door wide open behind him. As Marthe dropped to her knees, she saw her youngest sister, Annie's horrified face caught between Marthe's fallen stature and Kell fleeing down the stairs.

Within an hour Marthe had recovered, but it had been her biggest outburst since Frank's death. She hadn't tried to explain, could barely breathe. Her eldest sisters were on the nose with their diagnoses; lying underneath the foul words and loud voices were just two people screwing around.

Lynn knew because her own husband had done the same last year. Brett Davidson had been cheating on Lynn Souza since the middle of 1992, how she surmised the truth. As family came and went, Lynn spent much of that hour stroking Marthe's head, assuring her it would be okay.

As Lynn seemed to have Marthe under control, Jan left, aware of too much. Despite all the cheating, this couple only seemed able to breathe with the other, inhalations forced with difficulty, like some of Marthe's patients. Maybe it would be better to remove the oxygen, stop the machine. Allow the patient to die, as this prolonged agony was so painful.

Marthe huddled in the room she and Jan had shared. The master bedroom was on the first floor, where Aurora hid, unable to face her children's turmoil. Louis retreated to the study while the rest hunkered in the living room, the smell of food excruciating. No one approached the kitchen except Rick, who snuck bits of turkey for hungry children. When Aurora got around to carving it, much of the right breast was missing.

By that time it was late, after five, the meal in shambles. A shaky holiday since Frank's death, but this year was the absolute worst. As people were seated, Kell's place setting removed, Marthe was on the phone, no longer in tears, her voice resolute, almost teasing. Rick could tell to whom she spoke and he squeezed his wife's hand, uncomfortable for the words Marthe used and the fact that Devin was coming here to collect her, a plan apparent not only in Marthe's language. Her feet twisted, revenge plotted in those small toes. She was seeking an exacting price and wouldn't only be hurting Kell or herself. If Devin picked her up here, what would the parents and older grandchildren think?

Rick stepped to where his younger sister continued to flirt. He tapped her shoulder but she ignored him. He didn't move and as soon as Marthe finished the call, she turned, ready to bite.

"Don't you even think about it," he warned. "He's not coming here."

"He is. What, don't wanna think of your sister fucking one of your friends?"

If not for his seven-year-old daughter within eye contact, Rick Souza would have slapped Marthe's face. Marie had asked enough questions, ones Rick and Lauren weren't eager to answer.

"That has nothing to do with it. You wanna hurt Mom and Dad some more? What about the kids? What about Marie and Lindsay?"

Marthe lost her determined scowl. "I'll wait for him outside."

Rick nodded, returning to the table. Marthe collected her bag and jacket, gave all her nieces and nephews kisses, then squeezed the shoulders of her siblings. She offered their parents a small grin and Rick wanted to knock that smirk right off her face. None of the siblings missed it; Louis and Aurora had lived with one another for the last twelve years in stony silence, Marthe following in their footsteps. Ignoring a problem, hoping it would disappear.

Neither parent said a thing, but all eyes were on Marthe as she opened the door, closing it quietly. The softest sound she had made all day, but within minutes a car pulled in front of the house. Against their parents' wishes, Marie Souza and Lindsay Davidson ran to the window, those small girls witnessing their Aunt Marthe step into a strange vehicle, then be driven away, Uncle Kell nowhere in sight.

For a week, no one heard a thing, Kell's whereabouts a mystery. Jan wouldn't pry, Marthe indifferent and aloof at work. When Lynn cornered her, Marthe only revealed she was still at Devin's if anyone needed to contact her.

Rick gave Devin's number to his siblings, but not their parents. They didn't want to know, just wished to forget that holiday as they had the last one with all their children. Rick said nothing to them, but did try to locate Kell. Ash Denton had no ideas, didn't seem to care what happened to that goddamned motherfucker, Ash's words. He hoped Marthe would finally put Kell behind her and from the looks of it, Marthe might be doing just that.

Her brother noted detachment, her reaction after Frank died, some deep reluctance to accept. Then she had come round, returning to the mystical but snappy girl of previous. Rick had sensed a change in her; none of them were ever the same, but after their parents, Marthe had taken Frank's death the hardest, as though she would never see him again.

Frank had always been beyond them. Patrick Souza still missed him, yet Frank dwelled somewhere good, peaceful. It hadn't been a suicide, only an accident, the priests assuring them that Frank rested in Mary's arms, in Jesus' shadow. Tucked close and safe, Frank was attended by Christ, no longer in pain. In the few words she had shared, Marthe seemed to discount that and Rick wondered if she still thought their brother's death was intentional. Rick never believed Frank had enough brains to coordinate that act, only a dumb, stoned kid all his life. Rick had loved his brother, but Frank was gone, why Rick was determined to find Kell.

Monday became Tuesday, turning into Wednesday; a week after that Thanksgiving nightmare, Kell seemed to have fallen from the face of the earth just as he had in 1987 when the couple split. As Rick arrived for a three-day shift at the fire station, he found Devin Henderson's Mustang parking at the back of the lot.

Rick waited at his truck, Devin's steps slow. When he approached, Rick stuck out his hand. "How's it going?"

"I uh, dropped her off outside her building. Man listen, I uh..."

Rick shook his head. "It's her life. She's a big girl."

Devin only nodded. Slapping his friend on the back, Rick said a prayer, and like he had Frank, let Marthe and Kell rest in God's hands.

Marthe had stepped from Devin's car with Kell in her sights. He reached their building at the same time, walking her way.

She waved goodbye to Devin, but couldn't look at Kell. Her hand still hurt; was that possible? She had never slapped anyone, though she'd wanted to deck Nate Green, sometimes felt Dave Kedayis would have benefitted from a hard punch across the mouth. Dave had been dead since 1988, just after forcing her to read Kell's damned book. That stupid book about Emily Dickinson and Marthe's anger returned.

"Hey there," Kell said. "You uh, been around?"

"Here, you mean?"

He nodded.

"No I haven't." She said it quickly; she hadn't been home since last Thursday night, Devin stopping long enough for her to gather clothes and her birth control pills.

She hadn't taken any condoms, hadn't used any either. She and Devin were old friends and while Marthe and Kell always had sex with rubbers, with Devin it wasn't necessary. Why, she wasn't sure. He probably screwed around as much as she did, but Devin wasn't gay and maybe she was prejudiced. Or lying to herself; maybe Devin harbored some insidious form of gonorrhea, but she hadn't wanted to feel latex, hadn't wished to use condoms. Instead Marthe had engaged in unprotected sex, enjoying every single unsafe minute of it.

"Have you been here?" She wondered if he'd trooped anyone to their house. Her house, that anger still heady. He'd bought the apartment for her, but it was still _their_ place.

"Uh, no. I haven't been around."

"Oh shit!"

"Well, better go face the music." Kell's voice was circumspect and she was curious as to what; a massive mildew infestation or something more destructive.

Marthe dealt with nasty microbes all the time. Perhaps a few were swimming in her body; she would have to get tested after that week-long romp. It was stupid, really dumb, and if Ash found out, she'd never hear the end of it! He would too; Marthe couldn't lie to him. She had deceived many, her family for ages, all but Jan and Lynn. Maybe the sisters would have a drink together. Lynn had been so understanding, Brett unable to keep it in _his_ pants.

So many affairs spoiling perfectly good relationships. Marthe wanted to laugh, but instead she winced at letters piled in their box. No one had even checked the mail.

Marthe carried a bag, so did Kell. Both had popped in only to retrieve necessary items; her birth control, which he hated, and what had he taken? Maybe his typewriter, not having done any real work since _Brothers In Arms_. A rather crappy book in Marthe's opinion, all her fault. Written after he came back three years before and around her, he just couldn't do it. Couldn't write, couldn't produce. Could lie, screw around, but fidelity and the written word escaped Kell when Marthe was near.

Maybe he'd taken his typewriter, but he wasn't carrying it as they reached their door. Maybe it was out in his car. Maybe he had written a book, God knows where. Dave Kedayis's beach house perhaps? He'd left to them, to Kell and Marthe both, along with his remains, asking that his ashes be distributed in nooks and crannies as if to glean any tidbits Marthe or Kell might leave behind. Ash had been so appalled he'd dumped the rest of Dave Kedayis down the toilet. Marthe had laughed, then shuddered. Had it backed up the septic system? Ash had said no, seemed to go down fine, all of Dave flushed down Ash Denton's crapper.

The beach house was in both their names; maybe that was where Kell went, all Marthe wished to imagine. Stepping into their apartment, she stewed over that, noting their belongings appeared untouched. No invasion of microorganisms had swept away her embroidery table or Kell's writing nook. A void where the typewriter usually sat was marked by dust on his desk. Not much happened there anymore.

As Kell headed for the bathroom, Marthe set down her suitcase, walking to the kitchen. The sink was a disaster, a small colony of mold attempting a coup d'état. She didn't look forward to tackling that anytime soon. Noting the toilet's flush, maybe it was better to empty the sink, easier than facing her lover.

Her lover; Marthe hurt, her heart and lower body. Devin had made sure she was fully at ease before driving her back and while Marthe didn't love him, she did lust after him, so much like Kell but different; hairless and muscular. Devin wasn't the smartest guy, but this time Marthe hadn't wanted to be overly reminded of Kell. Not in brains or in bed.

She heard footsteps, turned to see him standing five feet from her. Kell looked broken, aged, older than thirty-five, more like fifty-five. Then Marthe's hand ached, pulling the rubber glove over her fingers. She had slapped him and not lightly.

"Marthe, I think I'm gonna pack some things."

She looked to the floor. "What are you gonna do with them?"

He only sighed, but she wanted to hear him say it, tell her he was leaving. Just tell her, then it would be over. It was over, she knew it, but wanted him to set it in stone.

"I'm uh, ah shit." He began to shake and Marthe watched as hands concealed his face. Shame, guilt, but it wasn't just his, not only Kell bringing them to this place. This time it was more Marthe than anything.

The first time both came quickly, Marthe surprised as she had received the once over hours before. Devin had made her howl but Kell brought her to her knees, then further, into the center of her being. To tears, Kell the only man to love Marthe until she cried.

He wept too, then they loved again, and that time Marthe thought she would lose her mind. If Devin Henderson was a great lay, Kell Vander Kellen could have eaten Devin for breakfast, and Marthe surmised that if given a chance, Kell would do just that. However, it was only she and Kell in that bed, just them. Only the two that actually made up their relationship and if ever Marthe had wished for a third party to dilute the emotion, it was on that day.

Even Nate Green could have intruded if only to temper Kell's physical possession of Marthe. Afterwards she couldn't move. If Kell Vander Kellen didn't do anything else for her, he always knew how to fuck the brains right out of her head.

She breathed that in as nerves tingled, ones she hadn't noticed all week or longer. It had been months since they'd loved this way, with all they had, and Kell even wore a condom! What might he be like without one, she pondered.

Then she began to cry. Little by little, Marthe's misdeeds from the past week, and of long ago, slapped her face; within a minute she was heaving tears similar to seven days back in her old room, surrounded by her sisters. Or as when she had cried over Frank well before his death, other girlhood traumas racing through her mind like when Richie Reynolds weaseled out of taking her to prom, or Andy Wilson trying to accost her at the homecoming dance. Or when she had lost her virginity to Murray Cavendish, who then refused to drive her home from his house, making her walk, sore and bleeding, for two long miles.

Those memories lingered, yet they hadn't screwed her over, hadn't made her hate men or give up sex. On the contrary, Marthe had allowed those experiences to loosen her expectations, why it was so easy to go from guy to guy; was that why she had tolerated Kell's screwing around all these years, why she had fucked it up right before they were going to test again? Just screw things over, then sex would mean nothing, not to procreate or show just how much you loved someone.

How much she loved Kell. How much she loved him and she caught her breath, feeling him around her, then crying harder. It wasn't Kell's fault, not this time.

That small fact stayed out of things until eight o'clock that evening, the couple regaining some ground. Kell returned his typewriter, said he hadn't written a thing. He should have fibbed, would have been more comforting. It also would have been a lie and as they always saw through the other, Marthe didn't inquire. It didn't matter anymore.

Kell had cleaned the sink as Marthe napped. Her breakdown had led to a long sleep and she woke to the smell of cigarettes and bleach, not a pleasant combination. Yet, the mess was cleared, plants watered, the house resembling their usual living arrangements. He was at his table reading, the typewriter in place. Marthe took her seat, a cross stitch waiting.

She fumbled with the fabric, then set it down. Dressed in her robe with nothing underneath, she gave a long sigh, staring out the window. The drapes weren't pulled, the view of city lights, the bridge, then darkness where the Pacific Ocean loomed.

The apartment was Marthe's, one that Kell bought for her after they reconciled in 1990, after the blockbuster success of _The War On Emily Dickinson_. She hadn't liked that book, but couldn't argue with Dave Kedayis, and not only because he was dead. _Emily Dickinson_ was a fantastic novel, deserving of all the accolades and financial benefits that had come Kell's way. _Brothers In Arms_ was another story, but Marthe left that for critics to study.

The lights sparkled or was it only remnants of tears in her eyes? She blinked, removing the last bits of liquid. The landscape looked dreary. Maybe it was better before, but she couldn't fathom any more emotion. All Marthe wanted was a good night's sleep.

Kell glanced her way. "You okay? Want anything to eat?"

She shook her head. "Thanks for cleaning the kitchen."

"I should've done it last week."

"No, I should have." Marthe gazed at him; he looked flat, two-dimensional. It was slipping from her hands, this man, their life. She wanted to note this moment, the last time they would be together.

He turned from her to his papers. His shirt was old, faded, blonde hairs reaching his collar, curling at the ends. He needed a haircut; sometimes Marthe gave him one if he was too busy to get out or if she felt courageous. His fingers drummed on the table, his small curls moving in tandem to the beat.

As if her whole life was his hair, those fingers; Marthe paid special attention to the thick fuzz on his arms, so light in color. Only a few hours ago he had set those limbs along her body, and she hadn't given it any thought. It hadn't mattered, but now her eyes watered, and she wiped her cheeks.

Looking down, suddenly he was in front of her, taking her hands. Had time shifted, had she missed something? Then his voice: "Marthe, let me make love to you."

"Now?"

"Yes, right now." As though he too sensed the shift, the next thing Marthe knew those hairs on his arms were brushing across her skin.

She woke to Kell's suitcase on the end of the bed. The hall light glowed, how she saw the location of the case and his empty space beside her. She glanced at her clock; one forty-two in the morning.

Crawling to the foot of the mattress, she found the bag nearly full. On the floor sat another, stuffed and zipped closed. She heard Kell in the bathroom and waited for his return.

With the light behind him, she couldn't see his face. He hadn't expected her to wake, flinching as she knelt near his possessions. He didn't say anything and Marthe struggled to not fall apart.

Kell filled the case resting on the bed, then closed it. "I'll come back for the rest of my stuff."

"Why?"

"'Cause I don't want to do it all tonight."

"No, I mean, why are you going?"

He flipped on the light and Marthe didn't miss his face, red and aching, as though where she'd hit him was still apparent, and maybe it was. Maybe that mark could be found, but she didn't want to look that hard. She wanted him to give her an answer, some verbal response that wouldn't be so difficult to swallow.

"Because it's time Marthe. I've screwed around, you've screwed around. We're even."

She took a breath, a punch administered. She'd slapped him, now he landed his own blow.

"Is this because I don't want a baby?"

Gathering items from his dresser, Kell stopped and looked her way. "No. It has nothing to do with that."

He wasn't lying, not entirely, and she sighed. "Well, I guess you're right. We're even." She felt defeated, but maybe it was fair, deserved, for what she had done three years before.

Creeping back to her side, Marthe pulled the blanket over herself. Suddenly it was torn away, Kell's angry face staring at her.

"Goddamnit Marthe, we were so close! So damned close and you had to fuck it up, had to fuck around! I love you, God I do, but shit, it didn't mean anything to you. All that time we waited and you just threw it all away. I never meant anything to you!"

"What are you talking about? We both did this," but her voice was weak.

He moved back, somewhat ashamed. Then he lit a cigarette. Smoking most of it, he ground the butt in an ashtray on his side of the bed. Then he stalked to where his cases sat. He pulled one, grabbing the other.

Small mementos remained on the dresser. Marthe sat up, keeping the blanket close. "What about all your stuff?"

Kell kept his back to her, staring at those items. "It doesn't matter, not now. Not with all we could've had, not that it mattered to you. Throw it away. I don't give a fuck!"

He didn't look at her, dragging the bags from the room. Marthe heard him open the door, step through, and not return.

Chapter 10 - 1979

Gripping the book in her small hands, Marthe exited the bus right in front of the bookstore. It was after seven, a cool breeze blowing, and a scarf hung around her neck. Stepping into the shop, she didn't bother with it. Once inside, it would only have to be loosened again.

She had bought this book a week ago, wanting to read it before this night. It had only taken her two days, over a weekend, but an entire box of Kleenex had gone with it, and Marthe felt her eyes were still red, although Sherry Canfield insisted she looked just fine. Sherry and Bobby Crosby were getting married, she and Marthe the only ones of that original foursome remaining in the apartment. Two others had left via marriage, but Marthe had sworn Sherry to stay through this school year. The wedding, Marthe as a bridesmaid, wasn't until next summer, all the time Sherry and Bobby needed to convince their parents a mixed marriage would work. Marthe had laughed, the only time that weekend she'd broken away from Kell's novel, assuring Sherry that a Catholic and Lutheran could make a go of it. It wasn't like Bobby was a Baptist or anything.

Then Sherry and Bobby had left for his place where Marthe knew they would have sex. No one stayed a virgin until marriage anymore, but the heroine of Kell's book, Westry Hunnels, was an unmarried pregnant woman, and that was fairly rare. Marthe's two former roommates had only gotten hitched because babies had been conceived, situations over which Marthe had mixed feelings, neither couple particularly stable. Since those weddings sons had been born, infants Marthe thought cute, but not for her. She was already sure, at the age of twenty-one, she didn't want children; yet, Westry Hunnels was pregnant for a long, long time.

Marthe didn't approach the back of the store, lingering in the front. The shop was open for another hour, a line of people waiting, all with Kell's book in hand. It had gotten terrific reviews and she listened for other opinions. They ranged from tepid to gushing, men not as enthralled as women. Several couples waited for the author's signature, most of them collections of mixed genders. A few men stood together, pairs that Marthe knew were also couples, but in this area of the city they acted as friends, their effeminate voices and tailored clothes setting them somewhat apart. Two women claimed the end of the line, another couple trying to act estranged, yet so much of the other. Leafing through her book, Marthe sighed.

Why did people have to hide? Why did Sherry and Bobby pretend they weren't sleeping with each other and why did these two women, their attraction obvious, act stiff and unsociable, as though nothing in the world would pull them together, only chance, fate. Why did Marilyn Jessop and Annette Snyder marry those bozos instead of giving their babies up for adoption, or just not bother with a ceremony, only have the baby? Abortion wasn't an option, not because Marthe thought it wrong, but due to the strength of her friends' convictions. Neither Marilyn nor Annette had even considered terminating their pregnancies and while Marthe hadn't commented, it would have made for an easy solution. She felt no guilt with those thoughts, her relationship with Christ beyond what the Pope decreed. Marthe had seen Jesus, actually watched him lead her grandmother out the door, escorting his beloved home. To Marthe, God wasn't a finger-wagging adjudicator of daily habits, but she accepted her views were far off the beaten path. If her mother knew Marthe's ideas about abortion and premarital sex, Aurora Souza would strangle Marthe with a scarf made from her own hands.

Laughter emerged from various twosomes, soft murmurs from the women at the end of the line. Marthe completed the procession and they looked at her, then turned forward.

"You like the book?" Marthe asked, interrupting their mumbled conversation.

The taller of the two, a somber brunette near thirty, gazed Marthe's way. "Uh yeah, yeah, a great feminist message. Why women shouldn't allow themselves to be used as men's playthings. All they end up with is heartache."

Marthe only nodded. Kell had told her about this book over a year before and it had nothing to do with feminism or pregnancy.

"I think he's saying that women spend their whole lives subservient to men, then all that happens is death. We're always left holding the bag." The other woman was warmer, with shoulder length red hair and freckles.

"Hmmm. Well, I think it's about how we love people, even when it hurts, but maybe at the end we're just as stuck without them as with them. No matter what, we're trapped by love."

This silenced the couple, but made heads turn toward Marthe.

"Yeah, yeah, I think that's it," a man added, standing with his girlfriend.

The dark-haired woman shook her head. "Well maybe, but I think for a man to have written this was incredibly brave. I hear he's really young."

"That must be why," her companion said.

Marthe smiled, eager to see the look on Kell's face when she stepped his way.

Marthe was the last in line and she kept her back to the women, only hoping to surprise Kell. But the redhead was friendly, questioning Marthe about other books; what was Marthe's opinion of _The Women's Room_?

"Oh I loved it," Marthe raved. She had read and reread Marilyn French's novel, offering it to her roommates, but Marilyn Jessop had been appalled, and didn't even like that the author shared her name. With Sherry, Marthe had been more candid, but not the other two.

Marthe became so engaged she forgot all about concealing her presence. It wasn't until the couple ahead of the women reached the front that Marthe realized how close they had moved. She gazed to the floor, hearing Kell's gentle banter, his accent spilled. He'd been talking all night; maybe once he got going he wasn't able to set it aside.

Turning to shelves nearby, Marthe peeked to the deserted store. Her watch read ten to eight and with no one behind her, she held the last book Kell would sign. She hadn't planned it that way, hadn't meant to appear wanting all his attention. As the two women stepped to the table, Marthe felt eyes on her as she did a year ago in this very place, Kell's eyes.

She smiled, wondering if he saw her. Unable to resist, she looked up. As the older woman set her book on the table, Marthe caught a cheeky grin, blue irises staring in her direction.

Kell took a deep breath, but couldn't contain his happiness. He'd seen who he believed was Marthe Souza half an hour before, but only once she stood within ten feet was he sure. Then he had to slow his speech, steeped in his Midwestern inflection, as not to rush those also waiting for this moment.

Not that he was some literary genius, but _1955 Rainbow Chessboard_ had received excellent reviews and in that city was selling well, selling at all the shops he had arranged signings. This was the last for a while, and as Marthe stepped forward, Kell smiled. Sometimes the best was saved for the end.

"Hey there," he began, watching how she giggled.

"Hi."

It was all she said, but in how she twisted and twirled, Kell had to laugh. "Eh, you look like an elf." Grinning, he took her book, thumbing to a page he'd already considered. That if she appeared, he would leave not only his signature, but something personal, just for her.

"You look like an author. It's, oh God Kell, it's fantastic!"

He was busy writing what he'd memorized, held within his head since seeing her last year. She was alone tonight, that boyfriend not with her. Kell wasn't surprised; he saw Stewart Campbell often, not really Marthe's type. Did she know? Kell said nothing, not for him to tell Marthe about Stewart's true nature.

"Thanks," was all he said, finishing his written thoughts. He closed the book, then handed it to her. Then he stood and stretched, having been seated for two hours, more people than he'd expected. The one he had most hoped to see waited in front of him, with no one to follow.

Marthe picked up the book and began looking for his note.

"Oh yah know, wait. Don't read it here. I mean, it's a bit long, and I uh, well..."

She nodded. "I'll read it later."

He smiled, relief flooding his whole body. Then, a thrill. There she was!

Kell had never forgotten her, but had been sidetracked and not only with the novel. In his heart a spot ached for something considered, not accepted. Once he'd glimpsed her in line, it became less painful. With every book autographed, that twinge diminished and now Kell felt whole. He hadn't noticed it before, but there, near her, an unacknowledged grief had been eased; maybe he wasn't gay after all.

Maybe something about women did appeal, but since Samantha Perry, Kell hadn't been with any. Only men, including Stewart Campbell, and maybe one day Kell would tell Marthe. At a bathhouse, he had found a body like his own, large, blonde, and ready. Ready and raring to go; once the man moved from his stomach, Kell found a familiar face, a recognized voice. One with whom he'd already been acquainted, Marthe Souza's boyfriend.

Stewart had been humiliated, fleeing the space as soon as he was dressed. Kell had chuckled, then felt distressed. Were they still together? Was Marthe being exposed to God knows what either one might carry? Kell had already experienced a few bouts of gonorrhea, not any fun, but a price paid for easy sexual dalliances. Yet, standing near her, all Kell wanted was to touch her as he had last year in this place, or two years before, waiting outside the clinic with her brother between them.

Kell hadn't seen Frank anywhere. Not surprising for the places Kell frequented, but Marthe didn't look overly saddened. Maybe her brother had straightened himself out. "How's uh, your family, your uh, brother?"

She flinched and he wished he could take back his words.

"Frank's in the hospital. My dad put him there."

Kell reached for her hand. "I'm sorry."

Her smile relieved. "Oh no, it's okay. He got arrested and instead of jail he's at some high dollar facility up in Marin. Not that it'll do him any good, but at least he's not in the poke."

Her voice told of acceptance, both of her brother's addiction and his fate.

Kell looked around, no one nearby. Squeezing her hand, he kissed her face, feeling tears he hadn't seen fall. He grabbed his coat and led her out, giving a wave to the clerk behind the counter. Kell Vander Kellen then arranged Marthe's scarf around her neck and they left the shop together.

He'd smoked four cigarettes as she spoke, coffee cups gathered between them. Sitting at the same booth as a year before, but this time no one was coming for either of them. Kell had mentioned to his roommate they could see a late film together, but this was more important, and Jaime Schuler would understand.

Kell didn't inquire as to Marthe's status, but she seemed in no hurry. Spilling news about her brother and the rest of her family, Kell's head spun, facts slotting in places his brain hadn't previously explored. As if a part of his gray matter was waiting for that clan, Kell arranged all those Souzas, from Louis to Annie, into neat, pre-formed positions. Even Marthe's roommates had spaces and both laughed at Sherry and Bobby, pretending to be so chaste.

"Chaste my ass," Marthe giggled. "Man if I wasn't coming home tonight, they'd be humping all over _our_ couch."

Kell stiffened with her words, but it was odd, not like he did with men. He felt something else, more personal, intimate. Again he wanted to touch her hands, ascertain if there was something about her, only her. He hadn't felt this way with Sam, or any of the girls back home.

"Well, maybe you'll have to tell her she could've just stayed put," he said, reaching for her fingers.

Instead Marthe picked up a cup, draining the last remnants.

Kell shuddered; he did want her! Did want to hump her on a couch, his, hers, anybody's. Since making love with Jaime in the fall of 1977, Kell had been sure he was gay. He'd been to enough bathhouses and the few bars he could get into before turning twenty-one in February to know that men offered a delight never before anticipated. Kell hadn't moved to this city wanting to explore that side of his nature, only wishing to be where writers thrived. He'd had no idea he was gay, none at all.

Only a sheltered Wisconsin boy, which had been turned on its head, all but his accent. It came and went, but there with Marthe it was fading. He could tell because she'd stopped teasing him.

Wasn't teasing his voice, but the rest of him throbbed. He'd not had an erection around a woman since Sam and that had been half hearted, their last time with plenty of birth control. She was on the pill, he wore a thick condom, and they'd even used jelly. No way was he going to risk another visit to the clinic, at least not _that_ clinic. Kell had endured other trips, but across from Marthe, all he wanted was to make love.

Make love to a woman, Kell grinned.

A month later he bumped into Marthe and one of her younger siblings, a sister she introduced as Di. Kell grew embarrassed, in part due to Di's gushing adoration over Kell's novel. He was also slightly self-conscious for his companion, Nate Green, who next to Marthe was a chubby ringer for her.

Kell sighed, shifting in his shoes, wishing he could rearrange his jeans. Marthe's lovely smile, another scarf around her neck, made him ache, and the blathering of her younger sister, whom Marthe didn't resemble, only gave Kell trouble. That and Nate's pissy behavior, rocking back and forth on his heels.

If Di and Nate weren't there, Kell would ask for Marthe's number. He hadn't at the cafe, then kicked himself. Now she stood in front of him, but if Kell said a single thing, Nate would make a scene. While Marthe seemed aware, Kell wouldn't initiate anything around Di, only pretending Nate was a friend.

Like they were spinsters or old ladies, out for a day with a _friend_. The euphemism turned Kell's stomach. If he was a fag, so be it. A queer, queen, fruit, or fairy, but for God's sake Nate was not Kell's _friend_.
Yet, Kell's erection seemed to suggest that maybe he wasn't any of those titles, or least not those alone. As Di rambled, catching Nate's attention by something that idiot found interesting, Kell felt incredible longing. He wanted to spirit Marthe away, kiss her, do other things to her, things he bet she would appreciate. Marthe wasn't some cloistered Catholic girl, even if her little sister wore a uniform Marthe admitted she too had donned. Skirt, knee socks, smart white button-up shirt with a green tie, the garb of a St. Anne's pupil; Kell found himself fantasizing about Marthe in such a get-up, maybe with a whip in her hand.

"So, you think that's true?" Di asked.

Kell shook himself, looking at a girl not at all like her sister. Di had large breasts, was taller than Marthe with small brown eyes. Eyes that sought his opinion, about what he had no idea.

Samantha had big boobs, so had all his dates in Appleton. Back home Kell had been popular, a nice guy willing to go far, but not all the way until the young lady was equally flustered. Yet, it was never as good as he imagined, never as satisfying. At the time Kell chalked it up to his intelligence. He was smarter than most of his peers, leaving the Midwest for California an easy choice. His father's job at the paper mill couldn't finance college, but writers didn't need a formal education, only life experience. What had filled Kell's head that day at the clinic; Frank and Marthe Souza meeting head-on with a pregnant woman on the bus leading to a novel Kell had written with far more ease than he could have imagined.

Just as simple were his thoughts now; get Marthe's number, call her, take her to dinner, then see if she was game. See if she wanted him too. See if all his feelings for men dissipated as soon as he was naked with her. Confirm if he was gay or maybe...

Marthe's cough interrupted his thoughts. "What?" he asked, that bulge getting painful.

Di repeated her question. "Do you think J.D. Salinger is ever gonna write another book?"

"Oh yah, I'm sure he's written other books." Kell's speech was rapid, needing to consider other topics.

"Yeah, that's what I told Penny. We're reading it in school. Sister Agnes is pretty open-minded and I think he must have other novels, just that he's not published anything else."

"Uh-huh," Kell muttered, feeling his pants loosen.

Then without warning, he was ready to explode. Marthe had taken his hand, slipping something into it.

"Listen," she smiled. "We'd better go. So good to see you Kell. Nate, nice to meet you."

Gripping the small paper, Kell hoped Nate hadn't noticed. Putting his hand in his pocket, Kell watched as Nate didn't give Marthe or her sister the time of day. Hearing Di's shy goodbyes, Kell saw Marthe take her sister's arm, one small wink offered his way.

He thought about nuns, a whole stern-faced row of them, all waving copies of _The_ _Catcher in the Rye_ over a blazing fire. Books were tossed, his included, easing his erection to something manageable. Nate huffed, complaining about women, teenagers, and J.D. Salinger; what a crappy book _The_ _Catcher in the Rye_ really was. Walking behind Nate, Kell let him vent, dying to examine whatever it was Marthe had set in his possession.

Later that night, after Nate was asleep, Kell read for the tenth time what Marthe had written. Seven numbers were implanted in his head, but even more were words, long and lovely. She hadn't scrawled this standing there as Di prattled and Nate sulked. This piece of paper had been crafted beforehand. That thought alone made Kell smile.

More than a smile, it made him hard, and he'd only just come. Reading Marthe's note spurred an erection, but more; it warmed his heart, filled his being. Not only what she'd said, but that this had been within her possession since signing her book. After taking in his inscription, she'd been waiting for him, wanting to present proof of feelings reciprocated. Some written proclamation that while short and to the point was more powerful than his note to her on page one hundred six, as fluid as the entire book he'd penned.

She had written in pen not only her phone number, which he couldn't wait to call, but a piece of herself, which now stuck to him, alleviating doubt, anxiety. And raised a smile, her words revealing two things; that she knew him and that she cared for him. Cared deeply, her warning of rectal gonorrhea making him wince and laugh. He needed to be careful, she wrote, couples often visiting her clinic with that nasty bug.

That hadn't come first, more of an ending. Sandwiched between her phone number and that advice was also to make sure he didn't come to _her_ clinic. Two of her former roommates had been careless and were now in the throes of motherhood. Not something Marthe seemed eager to accomplish and she hoped he was taking precautions for all _sorts_ of reasons.

Her handwriting had been hasty at the end, a smiley face added after the word _gonorrhea_. Her number also had been scrawled in a rush; maybe she'd written it that night in the cafe, but not had a chance to hand it to him, tears over her brother ending their stay. Kell accepted that, but in telling him not to knock anyone up, her penmanship was slow. She had formed her letters as if using his voice, rounded vowels prominent, words not scribbled but placed with care and concern, which Kell couldn't dismiss. Then one more notion; her brother. She'd said nothing about Frank with her sister and Nate near.

Kell glanced at the clock, ten after ten. Late, but was it too far into the evening to call her? Nate's snores rumbled and Kell's roommate Jaime was gone. Within the quiet apartment, Kell felt emboldened. Picking up the phone, he dialed Marthe's number, forgetting about her current roommate. All Kell considered was Marthe, all she'd said, and that which she hadn't.

A young woman answered, slightly peeved, and Kell coughed, then asked if Marthe was around.

"Uh no, she's out. Can I take a message?"

Kell's heart felt trapped under his bed, the weight of Nate and countless others smashing it flat. "Oh no-ah, I uh..."

"Wait a minute. Marthe, that you?"

Kell's body jumped, that hole in the middle of his chest begging for her voice, pleading for his heart to be returned. As she came to the phone, for one second, Kell felt it settle, blood pumping, veins and arteries reacting. Then in the very next moment, heartache.

She was crying and not quietly. Kell heard Sherry's tone, soothing but inadequate. It was Frank, Marthe blubbered. Her brother had left the hospital, then returned, yet not to one in Marin. To the city hospital where Marthe's father worked, to the emergency room. Frank wasn't dead, not this time, Marthe wailed, only because their oldest brother Rick had found him in the middle of an overdose.

As Marthe warbled, Kell pulled a blanket over himself, curling into the couch. He didn't know anything else to do but let her cry. Wishing he could leave, be at her side, instead he did the next best thing, listening to her until she fell asleep. As Sherry put Marthe to bed, no reason remained for Kell to grip the receiver. He hung up the phone, then settled into the sofa, not noticing Jaime's early morning return.

Someone did hear Jaime Schuler's footsteps; Nate woke to Kell's roommate with a man Nate's discerning ears didn't recognize. Finding the bed empty beside him, Nate peered out, Kell's snores audible from the hallway. A chill hit Nate's bare legs, winding all through him. Returning to bed, he then remembered a fragment, some dark hush in which Kell's gentle accent spoke to someone else. Someone very close to Kell, a sound haunting Nate's dreams all the rest of the night.

Chapter 11 - 1983

Marthe watched her father all evening, the way he stared at her, yet keeping his distance. She had wondered if his true feelings about her new position would emerge, but all summer he'd remained tight-lipped. On that Saturday, the twenty-third of July, Marthe approached her dad, having slipped from Kell's grasp. It was the only time that night she managed to free herself, Kell possessive and clingy.

"Daddy, you got a minute?"

Louis offered a smile, one Marthe remembered him giving Frank. Appearing kind, in truth it was taxed, unwilling, as Marthe's mother moved their way.

"I'll be right with you, Aurora," Louis sighed.

In her parents' faces lay many unspoken notions and Marthe was glad, at least in that instance, her father's dismissal of her mother was for an actual reason.

They left the backyard, Kell the only non-Souza in attendance. Siblings stood without partners, all but Lynn, having suffered an early miscarriage only a few weeks before. Yet Brett didn't know, Marthe the only one aware, Lynn needing a shoulder, one with a medical edge.

That night Kell was being a pill. The writing wasn't happening and Marthe was ready to boot him out, let him stay with Dave Kedayis for a while, the one man Marthe would trust with her boyfriend. But Kell had been hedging; maybe it was easier for him to bitch about not being able to write than to attempt it.

Kell lingered in her mind, but arriving in the study, her father closing the door, Marthe switched gears. She put Kell's doubts on a high shelf, next to a picture of her parents, similar in distance to where Louis and Aurora now stood apart from the other.

"Martha, what?"

Only her parents employed that long version, usually when peeved. Neither her father or boyfriend was happy with her, but Marthe wouldn't let that dissuade her. "Daddy, I am going to work on 5B."

Louis sighed, sitting in his chair, a small desk between them. "Martha, it's not a safe place."

Apprehensions about her job had never before surfaced, not as they were now. Not because nursing was inherently dangerous, but due to the patients Marthe wished to tend. "Daddy, for God's sake, don't be like this! Your attitude is not one I need to battle here at home."

Words were tendered with awareness. Her father hadn't been to war, but carried a sense of higher purpose. The main group falling to this infection might not sit well in Louis Souza's brain, but Marthe petitioned his intellect; calculated, devoted, as professional as she was. If nothing else, that part of Marthe was solely her father.

"Martha, if you come into contact with this, this..."

"Virus Dad, it's probably a virus, spread by blood and other bodily fluids." She wouldn't elaborate further, not wanting to diminish her case or drive her father from this cause, which to Marthe was noble, with far more purpose than she'd thought when entering nursing school in 1976. Seven years later this city was in the thick of conflict, a race against the clock to save as many as possible. The worst wasn't that no one survived, this illness a death sentence, but attitudes like those her own father held, a disease shunned because of those afflicted.

If it had been any other segment of society, Marthe was sure her father would be urging her on, giving all his support. While a gifted surgeon, Louis Francis Souza was an old fashioned Catholic man, father to eight children, one dead. Hadn't Frank's death taught him anything?

"Daddy please just tell me you'll not try to stop me, not that I'd let you." They smiled at each other; her words had been well metered. "Dad, no one wants to work up there. Yeah, it's scary as hell, and yeah, if I get infected, that's it. No more Marthe."

Only twenty-five years old, she said those words as so many young men had heard them. Once the diagnosis was delivered, one or two years were all that remained. A cruel malady, twisted with a discriminating, isolating grip; in growing more ill, death approaching, no one wanted anything to do with those affected.

"Dad, I keep thinking about Mother Teresa, how she cares for all those lepers in India. I bet she'd be here in a hot minute. Hell, I know she would."

Louis winced at her language, but it was Marthe's last card. Her father loved that Albanian nun, had openly wished one of his five daughters would join an order. None leaned that way, but if Marthe couldn't sway him with Mother Teresa, her cause was lost.

He stood, not looking at his middle daughter, but toward his wedding portrait. Marthe tried not to stare, but found him lost in a picture taken in October of 1952, her parents married thirty-one years in the fall. Since Frank's death their relationship had floundered and Marthe prayed for them, lit candles in hope they would find one another again. Why Mother Teresa stirred Louis Souza to that photograph Marthe didn't know, but in finding her eyes, he looked defeated. Not exactly what Marthe had wanted, but as he nodded, motioning for her, she went to his arms, feeling a peace. He may not say it, but Marthe knew she had his blessing.

Three days later, Nurse Souza stood to the side as a ribbon cutting ceremony occurred in an area of the hospital once used by interns trying to catch naps between shifts. Now it was freshly repainted, ready to be inaugurated as the nation's first ward for those with an illness from which there was no reprieve or escape. The cheeriness of the staff, all like Marthe having volunteered for these positions, was marked by the attending press and other hospital personnel, chief cardiac surgeon Dr. Louis Souza among them.

Marthe noted her father's restless stance. While Ash Denton gripped her hand, she returned a quick squeeze, then joined her dad, kissing his cheek. "Daddy, you made it, oh thanks!"

He said nothing, but took her hand, the same Ash had held, bringing it to his lips. A kiss was set there, something Louis Souza offered to his daughters, used to share with his wife. Marthe saw her father looking Ash's way, Ash with an embarrassed grin on his face.

Marthe's heart raced. Only the three of them had witnessed it, but as if Dr. Souza had made a verbal announcement, Marthe's father was behind her. Maybe not right at her beck and call, but if need be, she could get him up here.

The rest of the afternoon went as expected. One man died, three were admitted, but now this was their place, their customs and rules; men made their own decisions how they wished to die. Who they preferred for company remained a sticking point, but Marthe was sure as time passed those chosen by patients, and not their blood relatives, would be permitted. From how many bedsides were lovers and friends excluded because mothers and fathers were ashamed? Marthe's father had opened his heart that day, but not all were so forgiving. Yet, while her dad had embraced her work, he'd not stepped near her mother during the rest of Saturday night, just as he had banished Frank that last Thanksgiving. Dr. Louis Souza could go far, but limits remained.

As Kell filled his bags, Marthe gave him a hand when something was needed. Extra socks, a few t-shirts, all packed with love. "I'm gonna miss you," her smooth voice hiding small tears.

"It won't be long and you're basically kicking me out."

His smile was what she wanted to see and she blinked away tears. Only he brought her to such emotion, but this parting was necessary. Kell needed to leave or else would drive them both mad. No words were being produced and Marthe allowed it was her presence, a muse and blight all at once. He said she inspired fantastic ideas, yet they were locked in his brain, and while he hadn't gone looking for distractions, it was time for Kell to depart.

"Dave'll drive me insane and I'll be back next week." Kell's tone teased, but something sat under his words.

Marthe kissed him, tongues playing games. They had made love that morning to the point where Marthe wondered how she would live without him. Then he'd done things to her that left within her his very soul. This man was her soul mate, always would be. They had all the time in the world.

"You just tell Dave to keep his fat mouth shut so you can write and get your ass back home!"

She squeezed his behind and he squealed. Then they laughed and soon Kell was pulling out of his parking space, Marthe watching him go.

Within a week, Marthe was weary, but it wasn't only from Kell's absence. Nate Green had been calling daily, wanting to know Kell's location.

Marthe wouldn't tell him, which only pissed him off more, and she wasn't sure if a torturous nature was good for a Catholic to own. Was that the start of the Inquisition? She would giggle, sharing those stories with Ash. He laughed too, one of the few things that brightened his mood.

Greg was ill, not in their ward, but forever suffering one ailment or another. Ash's boyfriend screwed around, and half the time Ash wouldn't sleep with Greg not due to revenge but from fear. Daily Ash witnessed the results of rampant promiscuity, or was it one unlucky encounter? Some of their patients were whores, Ash's words, in and out of bodies like getting a shower. A daily occurrence, but really, a few or sometimes several times a day. Marthe missed Kell, but from her boyfriend's habits, she accepted the lives these men led; so many partners, most without protection.

Yet, men didn't need defending the way a woman did, the specter of pregnancy absent. Without that shadow, sex was frequent and freewheeling, and what was fun about a condom? Babies weren't an issue, so who would bother?

Marthe knew Kell hadn't packed a single rubber. He wouldn't have a whirl with Dave and from the sound of Nate Green's desperate voice, that little bastard didn't know where Kell had gone. Only Marthe, Ash, Greg, and Dave were aware, and none of them were talking.

Greg was barely getting around, having picked up shingles, aggravated by strep throat. Who at their age got strep? Shingles were usually uncommon, but not Marthe's ward. While Ash was often vociferous about Greg's constant state of mediocre health, he had turned quiet of late, not wishing to discuss Greg's latest run-in with the doctor.

Marthe didn't needle, other men over whom she could fuss. As summer turned to autumn, with Kell still away, her mind roamed in places better left unexplored.

Over the Labor Day weekend, Louis and Aurora hosted another barbecue, one to which each Souza, save Marthe, brought a guest. Kell remained at the beach and all missed his gregarious presence. Brett and Lynn were at odds, Jan and her ex-boyfriend too. Marthe wondered why Philip was there, but Jan only said she hadn't wanted to be alone.

"Well, you don't see me hauling in some guy off the street," Marthe laughed.

Jan smiled. "Yeah, I suppose I should've left him out. He wants us to get back together."

Marthe made a face. "Dump him. He's a jerk."

Her voice didn't match the strength of her words, but Marthe rarely lied. Her sister could do so much better than Philip Winters, a wannabe poet who had been with Jan for two years, only bringing Marthe's sister heartache. He slept around, mooched off anyone willing, and as he stood with Rick and Devin, looked like a weasel. Like Nate Green and Marthe wondered what Kell was doing.

They'd not spoken for days and Nate hadn't called either. In fact, the last time he'd pestered her was before her last shift, over ten days ago, the last time she had heard from Kell.

Marthe poured herself some wine, drinking it in one go. Then she got another. Watching her brother, Devin, and Philip, Marthe thought about the last time she'd been with Devin, a whole year ago, right before she told Kell she loved him, before she'd seen Nate Green's schlong. It wasn't all that big, but had done something for Kell. Marthe felt cold, then chugged what was left in her glass.

Finding a quiet spot in the study, she called the beach. That long distance number would show up on her parents' bill, so she'd have to tell her mother. Tell her she was only missing Kell and needed to talk to him. Needed to hear his voice, but not that she was checking up on him. Marthe dialed Dave's number, but no one answered.

In July, she had stood in that room with her father. Now he came to see her on the ward at least once during her four-day shift, significant in that Dr. Louis Souza was a prominent physician, his name carrying weight, respect. That he set foot in Ward 5B noted acceptance. Marthe looked to her parents' wedding picture, finding a man proud of his heritage, in love with his wife. One of those remained, but Marthe's mother now stood for little.

Was Nate with Kell? Was Kell with Nate? Was Dave in between as Marthe herself had been? A memory she never revisited, yet Frank sat in between Marthe's parents, but he was dead. A small threat in the short term, but they hadn't been able to move past him, and their marriage was suffering. Marthe and Kell had been together not even two years and only in the last few months had no one intruded, not a single male frame. Marthe's conquests were few, preferring the same men. One man in particular, and he stood in the back yard looking good. Nate's paunchy body was nothing special, but Devin was a hunk. Strong, defined, and Marthe's insides went weak.

Returning to the phone, she made a local call. She wouldn't need to tell her mother about this one, but Nate's endless rings gave Marthe food for thought. With a quick glimpse to her parents' photograph, she offered Kell one more chance.

Dave's phone rang and rang.

Kell returned in early October on the first day of Marthe's break. They would have seventy-two hours in which to celebrate his homecoming and Marthe had cleaned late into the night. Food filled the fridge, bottles of wine chilled, and she'd even bought him some flowers to show she loved him. She did love him, realizing that the second night she'd spent with Devin. Only two nights, but enough to remind Marthe what Kell meant to her. No matter how much he'd screwed around in the past, Marthe loved him, would stay with him. She wasn't her mother or father, willing to live in a shell of a relationship, tiptoeing around as though the other was invisible. Marthe had screwed Devin, then come home, her conscience clear.

She didn't hear Kell's key, didn't hear him set down bags. It was seven in the morning and she'd only been asleep a few hours. She had no idea he was there until an erection shoved at her side.

"Baby? Hey Marthe, honey? I'm home!"

Stirring, she looked into a face that brought hers to tears, followed quickly by his. As usual, nothing was hidden from the other; while Marthe saw he hadn't slept with Nate Green, Dave Kedayis, or anyone else, she knew what Kell observed.

That she'd not been as faithful.

That day was quiet as Kell unpacked, Marthe stuck in their bed, but not due to illness or shame. She was in the wrong, but not enough to confine her; she spent all day under the covers reading Kell's new novel.

Page after page made her weep so hard she was rendered motionless. She could only read, _An Opaque Ocean_ lyrical and deep like Kell's voice. His speaking voice was so lovely to her ears, except for the pain she had caused it. Similar to his written voice, coming from the bottom of his heart; the words he spoke were still tinged with that accent, one innocent, searching. Longing, and while he'd found the treasure of his heart, Marthe had sold herself cheaply, without warrant.

The story was a mix of fantasy and literary genres and she felt herself bleeding. She wasn't on her period, but as if so, all her interiors were dredged, as how Kell must feel, Marthe noting the great price of those two days with Devin. It had cost so much, all Kell could afford.

Then more. Finishing the book, Marthe let out a howl, her body heaving with a sudden burst of sobs. She didn't expect anyone to comfort her, but Kell was at her side by the second breath.

"Baby, oh Marthe, it's okay, it's okay. I love you!"

She rocked back and forth, wishing she was dead. Wishing she was the female lead from Kell's book, a woman having thrown herself from the Golden Gate Bridge. Tossing aside her life was all Marthe wanted to do.

Then Kell moved to her, as had his main character, taking a boat onto the bay, looking for a body, her body, the only one he loved. Marthe was the only one Kell loved, but she hadn't been as loyal.

She hadn't been devoted at all, had fucked a man who took her from that holiday barbecue, all eyes on them. On her; Marthe had initiated the contact, and she hadn't been that drunk. Tipsy, she'd give herself that. Tipsy, then a tramp, what she told Kell, all but Devin's name.

"Baby it's okay. God Marthe, I love you! It's only what I deserve."

She stopped crying, gazing at his face. He was contrite, understanding, aware. It only augmented her feelings of unworthiness, extreme remorse, loss. Loss of a moment where both had been committed, steadfast, faithful. Until she broke the rules.

"Kell, I'm so, so..."

"Beautiful," he whispered. "Marthe, you're so beautiful!"

She stared as though he was seeing someone else in their bed, or maybe he'd lost his mind.

"Marthe, I love you. How many times have I fucked things up and here you are, always waiting for me. I ask things of you no woman has a right to hear and you take it, take me. Maybe you took something else," his voice wavering for only a second. "But honey, I love you. I will always love you. I wrote this for you because I'm not the one in the boat, you are!"

Her entire life was brokered with his words; her past, that moment, their future, everything contained in that one statement.

"Honey, I'm the one flinging myself off that damned bridge and you're always out there, looking for me, not letting me go. And baby, I love you come hell or high water, come anyone between us. God knows I leave the door open, and I do. I've let how many others..."

Her fingers silenced his lips. Setting the manuscript to the floor, Marthe removed the blanket. Only her t-shirt remained, nothing below. A deep moan escaped from Kell as her hand massaged his groin.

Marthe removed her shirt while Kell undressed, his loving voice slipping in her ears, meeting where his written words lingered, a swirled language piercing her heart. As he entered her, Marthe imagined sitting in that boat in the middle of an ocean, Kell once again leading her to shore.

Chapter 12 - 1994

"Goddamnit Kell, what in the fuck are you doing?"

Marthe's voice echoed in his head, but since they hadn't been together in months, Kell knew this was another dream. Dreams he'd suffered since the beginning of the year, or maybe his birthday, since turning thirty-six, the last time he'd worn a condom. Or insisted someone else use one and like an agony aunt, there she was, waving her finger in his face.

"I'm having unsafe sex Marthe. Jesus, what'n the hell does it look like I'm doing?"

With how many men, Kell didn't wish to concede, didn't care to consider. Many, too many, although it would only take one. One bad apple and Kell watched as she crossed her arms, pissed as hell. If she didn't love him anymore, why did she care?

"Kell Vander Kellen, I swear if I could kick your ass..."

He smiled, roused from sleep; if she was there, she would kick his butt. Kell also smiled from who woke him, a stunning blonde named Russ. Leaving Marthe as a figment, Kell turned over; far more real was the body next to him, warm, hard, wanting. Kell was too and soon he wasn't alone. He wasn't alone as skin met flesh, soothing, intoxicating and as empty and unfulfilling as the last man with whom he'd slept.

In the nurse's station, Marthe stood next to Ash's chair, reading a chart over his shoulder, wondering how he felt. She often pondered his wellbeing as they hardly spoke about his health. As Ash hadn't wished to discuss Greg's decline, he didn't seem interested to troll his own.

She couldn't miss the slow manner in which he moved. Not as in the old days when he would rush to a room, beating her due to longer legs. He was six foot, still blonde, handsome as all get-out, but now weariness hedged his steps. From age, she allowed; age and grief, death and resistance. Resistance to antiretrovirals, the drugs which kept him alive.

Marthe would never broach that, could hardly bear it. As unsavory as every time she spotted Kell, usually with a man on his arm. She knew other places those guys landed and Marthe prayed to God that Kell was using condoms, had prayed for Kell more since they broke up than ever in the past. She ignored what that meant, focusing on her words to Christ, that Kell was using rubbers, demanding those with whom he slept to use them too. Marthe offered those petitions on her knees, only acknowledging it was about saving one more life. For all the deaths she had witnessed, Marthe only wanted to save one more.

Like Ash, another cause over which Marthe prayed. She couldn't do any more for him than that and he detested it, hated being one of her candles lit, loathed being on that list. Preferred to be on her usual list where Kell also dwelled, those two taking top billing, alternating depending on her mood. Sometimes Kell was first on both, one when she was pissed, the other when she was contemplative. Ash only desired the former, allowing Kell all the room on the latter.

"Damnit Marthe, stop praying for me," he'd whined the last time he found her in the chapel. "It's not gonna do you or me any goddamned good!"

Marthe had turned, tears streaming down her face. Only in that small room could she weep for the men she loved, would always love, but it was easier to confess that fondness for Ash, not so much with Kell. She was still mad at him and every time she bumped into him, it only increased.

"Don't tell me who in the hell I can or cannot pray for, Ash Denton!"

"Well fuck me but I don't need your God!"

They had been joined by a diminutive nun, one Marthe knew well, Sister Agnes having left teaching and St. Anne's to nurse the dying. She would nurse any dying soul, and for the last six years had been a familiar sight on Ward 5B. She was tiny but a force, and even Ash apologized. Sister Agnes had only smiled.

"Martha, you keep praying for this heathen and one day Jesus will take him home." Sister Agnes had squeezed Ash's cheeks, then gripped Marthe's hands, hands to make Marthe tremble. Sister Agnes was maybe five foot, not more than a hundred pounds, but within that small body dwelled great strength and Marthe allowed it room. For all she was battling, she needed every spare ounce of mettle she could muster.

Bravado to eke out every day, observing Ash's weakening condition. Watching that and the game of Russian Roulette Kell played with every man he loved.

At the bookstore, Marthe noted tomes Lynn held, ones about pregnancy over forty. "So, anything good?" Marthe asked.

Lynn stared at her stack of books. "Marthe, you think I'm an idiot?"

Those sisters had spent the day together, Jan having begged off, breastfeeding her three-month-old daughter. Was that infant stirring Lynn's thoughts or was Brett cheating again?

"Honey, I love you, but I don't really think I'm one to ask."

Marthe's smile was honest. She had never wanted kids, one sticking point with Kell, but not the main one. The main point had been...

"Uh hey Marthe, Lynn."

As if summoned by Jesus himself, there he was. Gazing up, Marthe found Kell Vander Kellen not three feet from her looking like he'd just fallen out of bed.

Next to him stood a young man, one equally tousled, and Marthe's heart was crushed. Why? They were over, all over, yet the way Kell sounded, that accent so faint, just a trace. Only a trace of who he'd been and who she remained stood between them; apart they were less than whole, less than a quarter. Marthe felt it, then saw it all over Kell.

He looked rough, like he hadn't slept in ages. He must be writing, even though he'd never written around her. Hadn't been able to, but that had to be it, that and some hellish sex, Kell's body reeking of it, he and his companion.

The man couldn't have been more than twenty-five, the flavor of the month. Of the day more like it; since they'd called it quits last December, Marthe had seen Kell more than she had imagined possible. Seen him for all the moments they hadn't laid eyes on the other the last time they split. In the late 1980s, Marthe had wondered if Kell was even breathing, not spying his lovely, familiar frame until her birthday in 1990 when she was thirty-two. Four years later she felt sixty-two, but wasn't sure why.

"Hey Kell, how are you?" Lynn's voice was generous and Marthe only then felt her breath return. She couldn't speak, wasn't sure why that was either. On previous occasions she'd been civil, cordial at times. If Ash was in her head she might be cool, but at that moment Marthe had nothing in the tank, gutted as if seeing something beyond the grave. Unlike Christ, this was dark, foreboding.

Returning her gaze to Lynn, Marthe only saw the corner of Kell's head. His hair was matted, unkempt. So was his... Lover? Date? Pick-up? Marthe's chest ached, her heart thumping as it had only one other time, when Frank had overdosed but not died. Rick had the unfortunate task of being called to an emergency, finding their younger brother near death's door. Frank had escaped that incident with only minor consequences, yet it had led to further exploits, the last of which Frank hadn't survived, a moment Marthe never conjured. Then her blood ran cold. Next to Kell hovered that sibling, one for whom Marthe prayed, only wondering where he was. Now she knew. Scruffy and ashen, Frank stood beside Kell as if to lead him away.

Not as Jesus escorted so many of Marthe's patients, not as he had guided her grandmother to heaven. Not as Marthe wanted to move Kell to her bed, but that didn't warm her soul, only made her shudder. As Lynn made small talk, Marthe exited the shop, running for the closest Catholic church she could find.

At Marthe's apartment, Lynn cradled her sister, only Patsy Cline and those two Souzas present, ones that knew the workings of hospitals and each other's secrets. Jan could have been included, but her awareness was administrative, official. Rick could have sat in, but he was male, and only visited the hospital on occasion, a fireman's role transitory. Marthe could only share her vision with one other and it had been Lynn to offer an ear.

She had found Marthe at St. Luke's just down from the bookstore, but it had been luck. Why Lynn Souza had been drawn to that church she wasn't sure, but in front of the altar she knelt beside her younger sister, Marthe hysterical. Lynn had fallen to her own knees, trying to console, then get Marthe upright. To Lynn's surprise, confessions emerged within the sanctuary, so many truths Marthe shared, things Lynn had never known. Marthe knew much about Lynn's life; Brett's affairs, the miscarriage, doubts of how to balance motherhood with work, and now a baby. Lynn wanted another baby.

Marthe only wanted to be honest, revealing indiscretions which made her sister wince, but Lynn had just heard the same laments from Kell. After Marthe had fled the bookstore, Kell's boyfriend excused himself to the bathroom, prompting a flood of questions from Kell; how was Marthe, was she seeing anyone? He'd even asked about Ash. Ash wasn't well, Lynn had admitted, but as to Marthe's state, she'd said nothing.

Now Marthe's mood was clingy, clutching Lynn with all her might. As Patsy serenaded, Marthe had curled into a ball, wailing for Frank, for Ash, for Kell, three men to whom she was forever bound. One was dead, was one moving away and one was... Ready to step over the line, cross a boundary for which there was no return. Marthe was sure Kell wasn't being careful and it would only be a matter of time.

"God, do you realize how much I have prayed for that fucker?" Marthe's breaths rose and fell. "And there he is, just throwing his life away, that stupid, goddamned bastard!"

Those words were also meant for Frank and while Ash's infection had sprung from Greg, he too could be included, yet at the time who knew? Who knew sex could be lethal if engaged with the wrong person? Not wrong, only unlucky. Regrettable, Ash so unfortunate to have loved a man who'd been screwing around. Yet now they knew, everyone knew. Knew to be careful, knew to use condoms. Knew if that virus was allowed even one inch, life was forever altered.

It might take a while, years perhaps. Ash had been dealing with it since 1987, right when Marthe and Kell split the first time. Kell had really fucked it up then, but as Marthe cried, Lynn learned a few facts. Yes, it had been Kell's fault, at a low moment when Marthe was dealing with Ash's positive status and a former boyfriend's death all at once. But three years later, Marthe had made a poor choice, a mistake now haunting her. Haunting her and causing Kell's demons to fly.

Lynn sighed, more within her than she usually allowed. A cardiac surgeon like their father, she lived behind a mask and scrubs, her patients equally cloaked in unconsciousness. Only a brief visit afterwards was required with family and the one having been at her disposal; Dr. Lynn Souza was held in great respect as was the other Dr. Souza, both revered for their skill and precision. Yet, Lynn would admit their hearts were challenged, unable to rise to the level of their minds. Tough, settled, but you had to be to do this work, as Marthe was. Lynn admired her sister's resolve, so able to tender unlimited support, kindness, love. Marthe loved each and every one of those men and the few women who landed on her ward. She loved them, nursed them, laughed and cried with them, giving all she was for the brother who'd broken her heart. Now Ash was falling in line and Lynn gripped her sister, feeling one more approach. One more, but Lynn knew not if Marthe could bear that cross. If Kell stepped into the world of the sick, what would Marthe do?

Summer had turned to autumn, Marthe's neck protected by scarves, her heart in need of a similar cover. It was not forthcoming; Ash had suffered a relapse and she used precious days off to care for him. Others assisted, Jennifer and Aggie among them, but it was Marthe to assure Ash was well fed, bathed, kept company. He seemed pleased for her presence, except when she was on her knees, but not scrubbing his toilet or cleaning his shower. Ash was fastidious, little for Marthe to do in that department. What drove him round the bend were the murmurs, the cadences. Ones of hushed adoration, restful devotion, or simple thanks. All Marthe's prayers made Ash want to scream.

He said nothing for it seemed to alleviate what they knew, what they'd seen, what Marthe predicted was coming. Kell was playing with fire, fucking around without protection, that damned bastard, words Ash could take. Not nice to hear, but at least she wasn't spilling Hail Mary's and all that crap. Yet Marthe really didn't use that language, didn't recite rosaries, only her own requests from a heart long battered. Beat from all the years they'd been at this particular game, one Ash was losing.

He wasn't sure when it would end. How many more trips around the board did he have? Free passes were far and few between, but this was only a bad spot, a rough patch. Ash wasn't yet at death's door. Neither was Kell, Ash told Marthe. Just playing with fire.

"Yeah well, that sonovabitch is gonna burn his prick right off!" her voice tight and coiled.

Ash hadn't worried about Kell; if he wasn't being safe, what comes around goes around. How many times had he hurt Marthe? Too many, and while Ash liked Kell, thought he was a fantastic writer, as a human being he was hurting. Hurting Marthe for too many years and now himself. How many self destructive types had to fall Marthe's way?

Ash didn't include himself, nor did he blame Greg. It was the breaks, some good, some not so good. Ash had enjoyed his life, still did. Even when feeling sick as a dog there was Marthe, bless her little religious heart. Then he smiled. "Hey Souza, I just had my first spiritual thought ever."

"What?" her voice chipper.

"Just thought bless you, you know. Bless your little heart."

She smiled, standing in his bedroom doorway. If she was taller, without those enormous hips, he could almost mistake her for Greg. Ash never forgot that man, some exhilarating, wispy dream that had been in his life for short, fleeting years, and now was the cause of his death. His eventual death, but not quite that autumn.

"See, you're coming round. I knew you would."

He laughed. An atheist, Ash loved Marthe in spite of her faith.

She moved to the edge of the bed and sat next to him. Ash reached for her face, skin so smooth; if he'd ever had a heterosexual yearning, it would be for someone like her. So devoted, vibrant, beautiful and Ash smiled, reaching for her jaw, setting his hand along her neck. Not a single fiber of his being wanted her for any more than a friend, but he understood Kell's desires, every one of them.

He began to tell her that, why he loved her due to those dependable traits, how she had stuck with him through thick and thin, even her prayers. Anyone else would have told him to get lost, but not Marthe Souza.

She was steadfast in that unfathomable calling, a place within Marthe he didn't understand, thought was folly, but it meant something to her. Christ, this man-God, Ash admitting that while he thought she was nuts to assume there was anything after this life, if nothing else she'd held firm, not let him or anyone else dissuade her. As he found himself laughing for the sheer novelty of his candor, he heard tears, Marthe's tears falling.

They were soft, yet deep; had he insulted her? They had argued about God in the past, her God with a capital G, but lately he'd been easing off; was it that nun? Had Sister Agnes reached into Ash with her small stature or, more truthfully, her immense patience? He was a heathen, he'd not deny it. Some unwashed barbarian but only when it came to that God. Ash had no time for flights of fancy that led people to believe in angels and saviors, had even bet Marthe ten bucks her Jesus wouldn't come for him. The way Marthe shook, falling into him there on the bed, Ash didn't think it was due to anything he'd said about her heart's desire. Christ was that for Marthe. Christ on another plane, but in this city someone else held her captive.

"Ash, I gotta tell you something."

"What Souz?"

He moved over as she snuggled against him. She was tiny really, not much more than Sister Agnes, but as that small nun had given him a hug, rendering him powerless, so did Marthe's embrace. As though she could carry the weight of the world and never break, never bend.

"Ash, you remember how in 1990 you were gonna treat us, me and Kell, to that weekend in Napa if we both stayed faithful?"

He nodded. It had never come to pass just as he'd expected. Ash had made that wager only to tease Marthe and after the New Year, once those tests hadn't come and gone, Kell had taken Marthe there himself. Better for him too anyway, Ash had laughed, for Kell was a wealthy novelist. Once _The War On Emily Dickinson_ broke the bestseller lists, that man had hit the big time. Ash thought it a brilliant work, describing Marthe to a tee, and if he'd known Frank personally, probably that guy too. From all Ash knew of Marthe's brother, Kell had somehow crawled into Frank's head, turning bits of him, Greg, and so many other dead souls into ten Civil War soldiers all begging for Emily's blessings, her love, affections, attentions, salvation. As if one small, possibly autistic poet could absolve their failings, ease hearts scarred by war, seared by battle, reduced by the inhumane savagery necessary to kill one's own countrymen; kill them by bayonet, gunshot, illness. Ash hadn't known the leading cause of death during the War Between the States was the outbreak of infectious diseases, hordes men crowded together, fevers and colds, flu and random childhood maladies having spread like wildfire through the camps. Ash hadn't known that until reading Kell's book.

Kell's third novel had broken open a different world for that couple, Marthe no longer the breadwinner. Kell had been the one to take her to Napa because Kell had lost them the bet.

"Yeah, I remember. Marthe, we'll go when I'm feeling better. I'll hire us a limo, we'll taste every vintage they make, just get plastered."

She shook her head. "Ash, it wasn't Kell that screwed it up. It was me."

He'd been smiling, thinking about a vacation. Once he was over this setback, they would take a weekend, reward themselves. Him for having beaten the reaper, her for enduring his illness. This wasn't easy on either of them and what did she just say? "Marthe, what?"

Her face was nearly invisible, making words hard to hear. "It was me Ash, it was me."

He felt her tremble, then noted her tears, but they didn't last long. She let them out, then sat up, wiping her face with his sheet. She sighed, tucking curls behind her ears. "Ash, when Kell went to New York, I slept with someone. Didn't use condoms and then, well, that was it."

She met his eyes with a face that stole Ash's breath, as if Marthe was the reaper, as if she was pushing Kell off the plank or shoving a needle into her brother's arm. _Brothers In Arms_ was Kell's fourth novel and Ash had thought it okay, but not as good as _Emily Dickinson_. Too many things spun in his head, Marthe's guilty grimace echoing the aching countenance she had worn in December of 1990, telling him the bet was off. She had lost, Marthe and Kell both.

"Baby, oh Christ! Why?"

"No reason, not one that means anything. Devin was at Rick's Christmas party, Kell was gone, and I was horny. Nothing, it meant nothing except that then it didn't matter. Kell wanted a baby and we'd been talking about it right before he left. He only wanted me to think about it and while he knew I didn't want kids, he just needed to say it. Needed me to know it was something he wanted. Not something I wanted, maybe that was why."

Ash wanted to defend her, but also remembered Kell's distressed demeanor after he returned from New York. Chastened, but with such a price. How many times had Kell fucked around on Marthe, never making her the only one. If he was bisexual, fine, but there was this thing called loyalty, fidelity, commitment. Ash loved Marthe, heard her words, then chose sides. Kell never stood a chance. "He doesn't deserve a kid and he never deserved you!"

"Oh shit Ash! It was me, okay? I screwed it up, I'm the one that couldn't keep it in _my_ pants! Couldn't wait for him, it was only two more weeks. Two more fucking weeks and do you know I have never made love to him without a rubber? Never felt only him, NEVER!"

For over a minute there was no sound other than their breaths. Marthe had cleared the air, cleared her conscience, Ash hoped. Looking at her, it was a misguided assumption.

"Ash, he's out there fucking anything that moves because I did the same. I'd never have had his baby, but I could've been faithful. I could have been but I wasn't. And now he's out there, getting God knows what shoved up his ass, into his system, and it's my fault. My fault!"

"No it's not, that's bullshit!" Ash grabbed her by the shoulders, wishing to shake loose all Kell had done to her, all Frank had wrought. Marthe had supported her brother's habit, but she hadn't killed him, nor had she forced Kell into whatever situations he now inhabited, or who inhabited him. "Marthe, they were big boys, Kell's a grown man and yeah, okay, maybe you did that. But you could have set it aside, got tested again. You didn't kill him, not Frank, not Kell. They're both grown men and it wasn't your fault Marthe. It's not your fault!"

As Ash spoke those words, he saw Greg standing in the doorway, bowing his head the same as Marthe. Yet Greg Shepherd didn't weep like Marthe did. Repeating those words, Ash clutched Marthe as close as he could get her. Maybe he could absorb her, if that was possible, but Ash only rocked her, letting go of his own demons, hoping one day Marthe could purge hers.

Chapter 13 - 1984

Like a ghost, Kell climbed the steps to his apartment door. He hadn't been here in weeks, longer if truth be told. He had seen Marthe around but it was the invite he'd received from Jan that forced him home. Home, but just for confirmation.

Did Marthe really want him at the anniversary dinner? An odd number to celebrate, Louis and Aurora together for thirty-two years, but maybe the Souza offspring sensed their parents' faltering relationship was turning more rancorous. Kell had last seen Marthe's folks back in May on Marthe's twenty-sixth birthday, one of the last times he and Marthe had made love.

Retrieving his key, Kell felt odd, as if in a place only recalled from a dream. This was his apartment, but he had been the one to move out. Move out wasn't right, his belongings right behind this door. Behind this door lay most of his clothes, all his dishes and books, his bed, stereo, but not his Bruce Springsteen records. Those he'd collected due to Marthe's anger. She had threatened to take every single one over her knee and the last time he'd returned, assured of her absence, he had packed those discs in a doubled paper bag. Removing those albums, fingering her Patsy Cline LPs; Kell had taken Bruce but left Patsy, and now all he needed were a few words with Marthe.

He knew she was home, Jan told him so. She had given him Marthe's schedule and all Kell had to do was open the door.

He hesitated; what was left to discuss? Again he'd screwed around, but she had said little. Kell had been in New York for the book, _An Opaque Ocean_ ready for publication. There would be future trips east, but by the time of the anniversary dinner Kell's second novel would be in shops, book signings already arranged. This time his agent, Samuel Faust, handled those details. All Kell had to do was arrive.

As he was now, on the threshold of his house, his apartment, his place. Marthe waited on the other side of the door and while they shared this space, he had been the one to depart, the one to precipitate the pause, this break. Not a break-up, only time apart, away, space. Kell had stayed with Jaime, Marthe aware of his location, yet she hadn't called, not contacted him, giving him room to make a decision.

Kell still wasn't certain. All he knew for sure was where he stood, in front of his door. Maybe if he lingered long enough Marthe would emerge, make the entrance easier. Yet a few minutes had elapsed and he heard no sound, footsteps, or music. Patsy was stilled, maybe she missed Bruce. Bruce and Patsy were about all that turntable played, sometimes Supertramp, Marthe's other favorite record _Even In the Quietest Moments_. If it wasn't Patsy warbling through the speakers, an English band took precedence now that Bruce was gone.

Yet Kell heard nothing, not a peep. Maybe she wasn't there, maybe she was at work. Maybe at Ash and Greg's, but Kell didn't like that thought. He had seen Greg Shepherd, thin, in pain. Greg was beginning to appear as so many others, pale, wasted. How many men in this city looked like death warmed over or were just plain dead?

Kell had stood outside long enough. Either Marthe was there or she wasn't. Or she was there with someone and in turning the key, Kell wasn't going to wait. He flung the door wide, the room as he'd last seen it. She had done nothing to alter the furnishings or arrangements and he didn't even close the door, heading straight for the bedroom.

Where he found her alone, huddled under blankets, feverish and achy. Gay men weren't the only ones in this city to catch colds as Marthe Souza lay semi-conscious, delirious and soaked in sweat, only asking for the record to be flipped, Patsy's voice all she needed.

By that evening Marthe sat upright, albeit in Kell's arms. She had ingested soup, several pain pills, loads of water and juice. She was only now starting to make sense and Kell wondered about her family. Had not a single Souza known she was so ill?

"I was fine yesterday," she mumbled, but Kell's heart still raced and he hoped all the messages he'd left had hit some buttons. Marthe's beleaguered state pounded his, all the way through. She looked peaked, still felt warm, and her small body seemed shrunken, even less of her than usual. They hadn't spoken in so long and while he was peeved at her family's absence, Marthe hadn't contacted Kell either. She knew Jaime's number, but hadn't bothered to tell him.

"Baby, it's okay. I'm here now and you're stuck with me." Kell couldn't fathom leaving her, all his previous thoughts wiped clean. Only illusions; finding her so weak and helpless had cut him in places she'd never made him ache. Kell thought he knew them all, knew how deeply she rested within him. Really, he'd had no clue.

"Oh Kell, you don't have to stay," a cough shaking her so, Kell thought she was going to bring up a lung. Had she contracted something from work? Did _she_ have PCP?

"Where in the world you think I'm gonna go?"

"Back to Jaime's." Her voice had gained strength, but underneath small pieces of worry festered as if he might walk away.

He kissed her forehead. She smelled sick, dirty and sweaty, microbes everywhere; who knew what gunk lined Marthe's skin? Yet, despite his Florence Nightingale activities, Kell's erection hurt, Marthe's scent the one he loved. So busy preparing for the book's publication, he hadn't been with anyone in two weeks. He'd smoked like a chimney, but there next to her all he wanted was to be naked, take from her all that pained, invade her like a white blood cell. Attack whatever was making her so sick; attack it, then love her.

That never changed. She was always there, always; he adored her even if she had threatened his Bruce Springsteen records. Even with that, Kell still loved her. "I'm not going back to Jaime's," he whispered. "I'm staying right here."

"For how long?"

Her tone was weary, muscles so tired. She had been fighting on so many fronts; work, her parents' troubles, Greg's increasing fragility, all falling in on her. Was that due to being alone?

Kell again set his lips to her forehead. "I'm here for good." Wishing to move to her mouth, he only left a mark in the middle of her brow. As she relaxed against him, Kell smiled. He wouldn't need to say another thing.

He only left her once, to retrieve his belongings. Unspoken was his return, only in the music that played, Patsy and Bruce alternating, Supertramp spelling them. Kell was also given a breather as sisters, brothers, and Marthe's mother came round, Ash and Greg too. Kell learned Marthe had been doing all right until the day he arrived, the flu hitting like a tornado. The clean-up took longer; a week after he'd found her, she was still napping during the day. Ash had been horrified, sheepishly thanking Kell for his presence. No one had ever seen Marthe so ill, she never got sick. Only her collapse at Frank's deathbed had wrecked her to this extent and Kell reclaimed his position as boyfriend-lover-partner-companion without a single voice of dissent. He assumed most knew why he'd been gone, nothing to do with his novel. No one said a thing to the contrary, as though he'd been sent away for a few months' work to a foreign country. It was during this time Kell realized his place within Marthe's life; permanent, even in its transitory nature.

Kell had become a Souza as if marrying into the clan, taking Marthe's name. He'd been a surrogate son since Frank's demise, but now it was for good. Of course he would attend the anniversary dinner, of course he'd join them for Thanksgiving. He had been invited home to spend it with his family, his sister Trish due with her first child. Instead Kell would eat turkey with the Souzas, no other place for him to be. He looked like none of them, fair-haired, light-skinned, taller than all the men. His accent still set him apart, but despite those differences, he was now a member of this tribe and would be, he imagined, until the day he died.

That became a truth, what he and Marthe having shared in the past returning as the norm even if she was wobbly on her feet. Even as she needed his help in the shower, even as he walked her around the neighborhood. Whichever way, Kell was back in Marthe's arms, their bed, her body. It had only taken a few days for that strength to be regained and while the first time had been intense and immediate, every subsequent day had only expounded on that passion. With her, Kell needed no other, couldn't imagine wanting anyone else. Was it her illness, time apart? He wondered until two weeks after his return, when they had dinner with Ash and Greg.

As if preparing for that anniversary celebration in another week's time, Kell and Marthe met with those also close to the Souza homestead. Greg Shepherd and Ash Denton were coming to Thanksgiving, Ash's sister Wendy invited too. While Kell watched Ash in the kitchen, Marthe offering small bits of assistance, Greg sat in the recliner, looking wan, tired, as Marthe had been, unable to stand. Sporting lesions along his face, hands, and neck, Greg was the first ill man to pierce Kell's heart. Jaime was beginning to show signs, one of the reasons Kell had stayed with him. Night sweats were common and nursing Marthe had come easily, Kell having done the same for his best friend all summer. Jaime hadn't wanted to admit anything until August, when Kell saw a purple spot on his right leg. Then it was only a matter of the biopsy, the diagnosis a few days later. Marthe had known for it was on her ward Jaime had convalesced in early September while Kell was in New York. Having contacted thrush, Jaime spent a week in the hospital, also suffering from crushing headaches and herpes, a jumble of symptoms all boiling down to a small, four-letter acronym. This illness had finally been given a name and with that, Marthe had declared, a vaccine and cure couldn't be far behind.

Kell drank his wine, studying Greg's face. Not the lesions, having moved past those, but further, to his eyes. Greg used to have the most gorgeous blue eyes, pools deep and sparkling, looking somewhat odd in his olive face. Ash's blue irises blended well with his fair features, but Greg had always appeared an anomaly with those striking sapphire eyes. That night, the first time in ages since Kell had seen Greg up close, his eyes looked charcoal grey, the color stolen, stripped along with weight, energy, hair, life. Kell gazed to Marthe, her color returning, and her colorful vocabulary, as she gave Ash hell about his cooking, too much celery in the stuffing and the way he cooked corn.

"How in the fuck long are you going to boil these goddamned things?"

Greg's laugh filled Kell with wistfulness, so close to the past, hearty and earnest. Ash's sarcasm clashed with Greg's sincerity, but it wasn't Ash to cheat over and over. Instead it had been this solemn, now weathered man who had bedded a multitude of lovers, so many that Kell had been silenced after Greg's diagnosis, Ash angrily detailing how many men with whom Greg had engaged. Greg was eight years Kell's senior and before he'd been stricken had stood as a hunk, the type everyone wanted. So direct, almost severe, and he liked to screw that way too, what Ash had lamented, practices now considered an invitation to a funeral. From the looks of Greg, they'd be attending one in 1985.

Kell had used condoms since getting together with Marthe, wouldn't dream of not. Wouldn't dream in endangering her or himself, which had made his sex life sometimes pedantic, at times winnowing his choice of partners. There was Nate, always Nate, and Kell revisited him because Nate Green didn't balk at rubbers. A guy like Greg wouldn't have given Kell the time of day if a condom was mentioned and how many men like Greg, guys smart and sociable but so unwilling to concede in that one manner, were dying, going to die? As Marthe and Ash continued to argue over vegetables, Kell moved to Greg's side, offering the man's limp hand a squeeze, helping him stand. They stepped to the kitchen and laughed at their lovers, innocuous minutes that later Kell Vander Kellen would associate with Greg Shepherd, moments spent debating over-cooked corn and Marthe's detested celery. As Greg's small body only wished for rest, Kell's heart was confirmed. Marthe was all he needed, wanted, the only one he truly loved.

Ten days later Kell sat beside her at the end of a long table in an elegant restaurant. At the other end Louis and Aurora were seated next to each other, their eldest children with partners close by. After Brett, Kell was the next Souza in-law, although Rick's girlfriend was stitched to his side. As the evening progressed, it was apparent Lauren Brighton would develop into an actual Souza, one by name, not only association.

Kell was pleased, not that he felt pressured toward anything more than cohabitation. He and Marthe were just acquiring those feet back under them, feet on which Marthe now stood without weakness. After the dinner with Ash and Greg, Marthe had regained her previous energy levels as though Greg's life had been handed to her. That was stretching it, but Kell had observed something from that evening, the awareness of Marthe's importance and the fragility of time. Of love and lives, but mostly time; knock on wood, but Kell felt he and Marthe were safe. Now that the disease had an actual name, a mystery had been removed. As long as neither was pricked by an errant needle or someone unsavory, they would be fine.

Perhaps that was haughty. Watching Rick and Lauren, Lynn and Brett too, Kell was jealous. For all intents and purposes these two couples would never fall sick. They weren't gay, seemed monogamous, and while the hospital was full of the ill and dying, here at this restaurant, it was invisible. They were safe, untouched as if living in a bubble. A bubble of normalcy that had nothing to do with protected sex, night sweats, Kaposi's sarcoma, or PCP. Like an alternate universe from the one in which Kell lived, a nightmare of lingering illnesses and longtime partners left behind, all that Marthe battled on a four-day a week basis.

Kell could reside in this ailment-free existence as long as he was a Souza. As long as he stayed with Marthe, even if there were bumps along the way, Kell was immune, safe from death, from disease, from the scourge. He watched as siblings joked and bantered, even drawing smiles from their parents. Louis and Aurora were so changed since Frank's death, but that night, Kell saw a small return, one so fleeting, it was frightening.

As though they suffered from an illness and this was all for show. For one moment of joy, then they would return to a comfortable house, large and empty; did they sleep together, did they share a room? Did she go to bed first, leaving her husband with his papers? Did Louis tell Aurora goodnight, giving her some small bit of affection or was it cold, aloof, how Kell had known them since November 1981. Nearly three years had passed since Frank's death and while Marthe had let some things go, her parents seemed to bear that dead son around their necks, a burden so heavy and permanent they didn't know where to set him.

Kell drank his wine, felt Marthe next to him, a precious jewel, her illness knocking into his brain how lucky they were. Lucky to be alive, in love, death not holding their treasures, the loss of each other or someone between them. Kell's novel had been released, was garnering good reviews. He'd be at a book signing tomorrow, was being interviewed by the city paper in a few days. A thrill reaping these rewards, but noting frail bodies in front of him, not blighted by a contagion but weakened from bereavement, more needed to be addressed than anniversary dinners. Love and loss; life was a war and men like Greg Shepherd were dying, men like Frank Souza already gone. Affection that Louis and Aurora had shared was slipping from their hands and as Marthe touched his, Kell felt empowered, ideas forming, notions spinning. He'd been feeling something since returning home, but nothing had struck him with force. Someone had compared his novel to poetry which had been gratifying, another review mentioning Emily Dickinson, but Kell couldn't recall the actual quote. He knew little of that poet, only that she'd been a shut-in much of her life, engaging in long correspondences with various friends, letters her means of communication. Communication, what Louis and Aurora seemed unable to find, what Kell had regained with Marthe. What Frank had given none of them, what so many dying men were denied. Scant discussion was raised between those ill and the government, spotty dialogue between the gay community in New York and city officials. Kell had been stunned at how little was being coordinated in that metropolis, only the Gay Men's Health Crisis offering any real means of support. Kell's adopted hometown seemed the only one taking this epidemic seriously, other cities treating what was happening as some illusion.

Kell sat up, not so fast as to startle Marthe. It was all an illusion; Louis and Aurora's smiles, Ash and Greg's laughter, Frank's place within this family. Only what people wanted to see and while this night was full of amusement, in a neighborhood only blocks away men were dying, other men nursing their lovers and beloveds as Kell had done for Marthe. Ideas were cloistered, this devastating plague never mentioned by the president as if only a fantasy. Kell shuddered. It was all too real and as Emily Dickinson's poetry had, by and large, been unknown until after her death, this pestilence Kell did recognize seemed invisible to most, not one single peep having been mentioned all night. Frank was unspoken, as well as the feted couple's frostiness since that son's death. Unnoted, swept away, and as happiness rang in Kell's ears, he made a few notes on a napkin, stuffing it in his pocket.

Later that evening Marthe sat atop Kell's body, her soothing words and soft touches creeping into his brain. Tucked into places only she went and Kell savored her movements, taking them for the blessings they were. He was blessed to have her and told her so, told her how she took his swirling thoughts, unsure notions, the only one with whom all doubts were erased, all worries extinguished.

"Oh Kell, my God, I missed you so much!"

She leaned down, covering him. Wrapping arms around her, Kell sighed, feeling more than he could say. He wanted to tell her of his new idea, wanted to share all that had run through his mind that evening. Instead he only set his mouth to hers, feeling her hair along his face, her hands satisfied, then needy. She needed him, which only fueled his desire.

They came, then lay in the quiet. Sometimes after sex Marthe was chatty, sometimes she only doused him with her limbs. As if laying claim, but she didn't need to, he was hers. Inside Kell churned more than a new idea, his next novel already having been conceived, but more. A connection with this woman, one Kell wanted to explore for the rest of his life.

"Marthe, I love you."

"I love you too. Tonight was really good, you know?"

He did, but not for the same reasons she held. He had birthed a new nugget and reached for her face. Ideas weren't firm enough to share with her, first some research into Miss Emily Dickinson and the American Civil War. Then maybe a few questions after the new year about Frank, but not until after Christmas.

"It was good. Honey, I wanna tell you something."

"What?" her hands tracing his body.

All Kell needed to turn forgetful was her touch, what he had coveted since first meeting her. Writing around her was difficult and he wasn't sure why. From her sprang such creative thoughts and more as he felt her hand on him, stroking his half-limp penis into something resembling a mast.

"Kell, what do you wanna tell me?"

Her movements were with purpose, but her voice had been genuine, wanting to know his thoughts, then get him off with equal sincerity. Why he loved her; she cared for him as a person and as someone with whom to make love.

"Just that you're the only one I can trust. No one else gives a shit about me."

His mother had shown slight disappointment that he wasn't coming home for Thanksgiving, his father unbothered by both his absence and the new book. Only Trish had told him she was going to read it and Lance? That little brother was as lost to Kell as Frank had been to his clan. Marthe was the only one who loved him. No matter how many times Kell jumped off that bridge, she was there searching, waiting.

"Baby, I love you always."

He sat up, pulling her to him. A giant teddy bear Marthe said he was, yet instead of placing her body on his as he sometimes did, he clung to her as if she had once again hauled him from the bay, fished his remains from the depths. Kell let Marthe's hands and voice ease into him while the rest of his body took in hers. Together they removed all others, enthralled only with who rested in their midst.

Chapter 14 - 2001

A coffee klatch occurred in the cafeteria, more Souzas than one could count. Rick had been on a call, popping into Marthe's ward where she stood chatting with Lynn. As they made their way to the basement, Jan met them at the elevator, the top tier of Souza siblings crowding a small table in the back corner of what for them was a second home.

But not for all. This hospital and Frank's demise both stood in distinction, silently separating a family. Yet after initial conversation, those younger Souzas entered the realm; Chris's wife Abigail was pregnant again, their adopted eldest daughter brokering fertility for her parents. The older siblings laughed; wasn't that sometimes the way?

Also knocked up, in Marthe's words, was Annie, her first baby due in a few months. Marthe exuded happiness for all those nieces and nephews, children young but aging, Rick's daughter Marie almost fifteen years old. That girl was still Kell's favorite, taking after her mother, more blonde than brunette. Maybe that was why Kell loved her so, the only Souza to look at all like him.

Marthe observed her sisters and that brother; Lynn looked tired. Brett was cheating again, Marthe having seen him at the bookstore with a woman much younger. That he didn't seem to hide his affairs rocked Marthe as much as the way Lynn withstood them. Was it from years of their parents' loveless marriage? Marthe was glad Lynn's baby craving had passed, that sister's two children as old as Rick and Lauren's kids. The oldest Souza grandchildren were nearly the same ages at Kell's nieces and nephews.

That family in the Midwest had been in Marthe and Kell's thoughts, his father James in poor health. A lifelong smoker, James Vander Kellen had been diagnosed with lung cancer over the summer. Kell had wanted to see his parents, but James said a special trip wasn't necessary, which had grated on Kell. While he rarely stopped in Wisconsin on his visits back east, Kell didn't travel much at all anymore, didn't like to go alone. Marthe's schedule took precedence, but since Kell wouldn't fly without her and hadn't pressed her to take time off, they had remained on the West Coast, receiving updates from Kell's mother Laura. Laura and Trish both, and as the discussion veered back to Chris and Annie's impending babies, Marthe had to laugh.

"What?" Jan asked, finishing her coffee.

"Kell's sister's knocked up too." Then her smile dimmed. "Fred left her, the bastard."

Marthe filled in the gaps; while his youngest brother Lance had successfully avoided fatherhood, Kell's sister had produced offspring for all three Vander Kellen siblings, and was pregnant with her sixth at the age of thirty-eight. Which would be okay, except that Fred Smith, Trish's second husband, was gone.

The Souza siblings remained stilled as Marthe continued; Kell's parents had accepted his help, even more necessary since his father's illness. Kell had set up trust funds for Trish's children, something he'd offered to all Marthe's siblings. None of them had taken him up on it, although Rick and Lauren had joked that once their youngest was nearing college, perhaps they would knock on Uncle Kell's door. But that had been broached gingerly. Who knew how long Kell was going to be around?

Another topic that stayed under the table, but only around Marthe. Her siblings, all six of them, spoke of it. Hard not to, for it was the truth; Kell was sick. Not as sick as his father, but Kell wasn't the same as before. He and Marthe were together and their faithfulness over the last two years was also odd, no one quite used to that either, undercurrents of cheating, falsehoods, and heartache having vanished. Fred Smith may have left Kell's sister with a bun in the oven, but Kell and Marthe were solid.

That remained unstated as Marthe looked at her eldest sister, the talk of Fred's disappearance hitting Lynn with both barrels. As the pow-wow broke up, Marthe left with Lynn, their hands clutched tight.

"Well, at least Brett never left me pregnant," Lynn laughed, wiping a few tears.

"Honey, is it worth it? Is he worth it anymore?"

The elevator door opened and as others stepped on, Dr. Lynn Souza went to leave. Giving Marthe a telling glance, Lynn's words emerged as the doors closed. "I don't know Marthe. You tell me."

Her sister's thoughts hung with Marthe for the rest of her day. Lynn hadn't conceived and Brett still screwed around, now Marthe with the faithful partner. Lynn would never lower herself to Brett's antics, but she had softened, that most steely Souza changing over the last two years. Not the only one, not even the most noticeable. Others had altered since Annie got married, but only to Marthe were Lynn's long-held issues beginning to fade.

Marthe smiled as the bus approached her building. Since Annie's wedding Marthe and Kell were together. He'd been living with her since his diagnosis, but Robert Fuller was gone, that relationship ending a year after Kell's return. Marthe hadn't allowed Kell's presence any significance beyond friendship until her youngest sister got hitched, then Kell had returned to Marthe's bed, what remained of him. He had lost over forty pounds since 1997. Lynn had changed, so had Kell.

Kell and Marthe both; now it was only them, no others, not Devin, not anyone. A couple wholly devoted, time a notion which Marthe rarely considered, or at least it hadn't popped in her head until Kell's dad fell ill. James's cancer gnawed at Marthe, small cells invading her spirit, her brain. His lungs were full of it, but so was Marthe's heart. She urged Kell to quit his habit, but to her chagrin, he seemed to smoke more now than before.

Yet, not indoors. He'd stopped after Marie suffered a case of bronchitis. That had been after the wedding, another adjustment. After Annie wed, Kell moved his habit outdoors. Except for within their apartment, Kell's cigarettes were now only enjoyed in the wild blue yonder.

Marthe found him near the bus stop, a cigarette in hand. Occasionally he didn't smoke in their place; their house smelled better, but furniture and clothes were still inundated with the odor of tobacco. Lingering scents swirled around them; smoking and sex, but not infidelity. That whiff was gone and Marthe never missed it.

"Hi there." She kissed him, stroking his face. The beard was the same, if a lighter shade of blonde. Both were forty-three years old and while the elder Souza sisters' sported Miss Clairol in their hair, Marthe had refrained. Rick owned some gray, Kell did too, and Marthe ran fingers through Kell's blonde-white beard, then to his temples where the gray was thickest. His illness hadn't only reduced his girth, but also some of that lovely strawberry hue. Yet, he was here, standing on his own power. They were together and for all that had been, this was the world.

Kell was Marthe's world, but she saw anxiety as he lit another cigarette. He wasn't outside just waiting for her.

He took long, deep drags, drawing something as malevolent into his lungs as the virus that swam in his bloodstream. She couldn't battle both, allowing that no matter how close they were, parts of Kell would always lie beyond her. This man, like so many others, was out of her hands. "Honey, what is it?"

"I think we're gonna need to book a flight today."

Her heart sank; she knew their destination and it wasn't Hawaii as he had been teasing. August had been cool, foggy, July too. Kell had been grousing about the weather, having stood in it smoking so much. Hawaii had been on his mind, but Marthe saw a different location in his blue eyes, one not west, but east.

"Mom called yah know," his accent returned. Marthe then wrapped herself around him. If his mother had taken the time to dial their number, it was serious. Kell continued, his sing-song tone hitting her on all sides for what he said as well as how those words were spoken.

Two days later they sat on a plane, in first class, a straight flight to O'Hare. A layover would follow, landing them at the Appleton, Wisconsin airport that evening. Lance had offered to pick them up, but Marthe would drive, Kell aware how to get from that airfield to most places in town. They would see his parents in the morning, Laura Vander Kellen still residing in the house where Kell grew up. He paid most of their bills, having squared away the mortgage. He also covered his father's excess medical costs, but from what Laura had said, it wouldn't be for much longer.

Marthe held Kell's hand, his fingers warm. He had smoked two last cigarettes in the one area of their city airport still free for that task, near an open door, and she had worried about him. He didn't tolerate cool weather so well anymore, one of the reasons they had talked of getting to the Islands. Last year, he had thrived, kidding it was where they should retire. Marthe never thought about long term plans, Kell's health too precarious. Not that he was overly ill, but she only considered short goals, like this trip. Out of the blue they were heading to Wisconsin.

Marthe never went anywhere except work, her family's homes, or Napa. Flying to Hawaii had been an ordeal, the couple discovering Marthe wasn't fond of air travel, preferring her feet on the ground. Yet, in that comfortable section of the large Airbus, she caressed Kell's hands, letting him relax in her grasp.

He didn't speak, hadn't said much of anything since his mother's news. James had suffered a heart attack, but Kell and his dad weren't close. Long-held issues hovered, stemming from the family's Catholic faith, one with which Kell had reconnected since his diagnosis. His spiritual inclinations weren't on par with Marthe's, but a reawakening had occurred, Kell attending mass with the Souza family most Sundays, sometimes accompanying only Marthe on Saturday nights. He'd gained respite from it and Marthe had been thrilled with his presence. She still swore a blue streak, many of her personal beliefs clashing strongly with those of the Catholic hierarchy. Yet, in coming back together they had not only forsaken others but stepped up, hand in hand, to receive communion. Not matrimony, for which her mother still gave her grief. Marriage and children weren't for Marthe and marriage wasn't for Kell either.

He never referred to that one dividing issue, now a moot point. Jan had gone rounds with Marthe, all theoretical; if there was some way for Kell to father a child, would Marthe do it? No, Marthe always answered. She hadn't wanted kids when she was twenty-one years old, still didn't want any at forty-three. Not even Kell's, yet, something within Marthe wished he'd had a child. She couldn't put her finger on why, maybe only to satisfy that longing. If he'd had a baby with that redhead all those years before, maybe he wouldn't still be wishing for one now.

Not that it was important. Kell adored all the Souza offspring, sufficing for what he and Marthe hadn't made. He didn't know his sister's kids other than names, ages, images from pictures, five children from two dads, neither father anywhere near. Only their grandfather and now he was fleeting. Marthe didn't know what Kell was thinking, but as if they communicated telepathically, she realized in a squeeze, saw in a few tears that fell. She said nothing, wishing on that one subject she and Kell had felt the same.

The next morning, Kell woke early, rousing Marthe from sleep. Not by making love to her, only a simple push; he had showered, wanted to get started. They had driven straight to the hotel after the last flight, but he'd called his mother after checking into their room. His father was still in the hospital, would be there until the end. According to Laura Vander Kellen, perhaps another day, maybe two.

As Marthe went for the bathroom, Kell paced. If it wasn't raining, he would step out and smoke. Instead he turned on the TV, catching the local news, stories from around the Fox River Valley, accents of his youth reviving like a tonic. This was Kell's America, long languid tones that eased his heart, returning him to when he was a child. The crimes were modern; robberies and murders even in the innocence of his past where paper mills remained the chief source of employment, the Green Bay Packers the only team for which to cheer. The Milwaukee Brewers were okay, but this far north only the Pack mattered, quarterback Brett Favre having returned that team to the top of the rankings. Last year they had missed the playoffs, but were undefeated so far. Still early in the season, but Kell paid attention, only rooting against Marthe's 49ers when they happened to meet his team.

A place of easier times and for Kell, a demarcation; pre-epidemic, no fear in sex except for unwanted pregnancies. In this place, people didn't die from Kaposi's sarcoma or pneumocystis pneumonia. Here the uncertainties centered on the mills, pigskin, and snowfall amounts. Simple troubles, lung cancer caused by too much tobacco, which Kell otherwise ignored. He was positive, wasn't that enough? That was going to kill him, not cancer. It was killing his father, but Kell had bigger fish to fry.

Marthe announced she was out of the shower, but her voice sounded strange; now she was the foreigner. At the airport, getting their rental car, Kell noticed that Marthe sounded different, unfamiliar and he laughed, hearing her voice again. "You seen my hair dryer?"

"Oh no-ah," he drawled. "No-ah, I don't see it anywhere, yah know."

She smiled, then came close, her naked body unchanged. Her voice was altered, but he recognized the rest of her. "Well, you better help me find it."

Kell set his hands on her breasts. It was early, not even seven thirty. He wasn't sure when visiting hours began at the hospital; they had planned to see his mother at the house first. But before that, Kell needed someone familiar, a reminder of where he was from. Not this place for all its memories, but this woman.

"I have no idea where your hair dryer is but I know where other things are." As he played with her nipples, Kell considered the condoms in his suitcase. He was sure she had brought some too, her voice now changed to a more local sound.

"Yah well okay, but if I don't find my hair dryer, we're gonna be in trouble, you know-ah?"

"I have other things for you to blow." He reached into his bag, retrieving an essential piece of equipment. Before seeing his family, Kell would revisit one most loved.

By late afternoon they were in bed again, having spent all day at the Theda Clark Hospital. James had been unresponsive but Kell had spoken of the Packers, the mill, old friends. Laura had sat at her son's side, Marthe noting an uncanny resemblance. Equally, the siblings looked alike, Marthe bowled over by the brothers. Kell and Lance were like twins.

Same faces, heights, and builds, only their ages, voices, and Lance's lack of facial hair setting them apart. Kell's accent was back in force but diluted when compared with Lance and Trish, that sister a feminine version with softer features and redder hair. Their mother's was dyed auburn, a few white hairs springing from Trish's head.

More than a few, but having been immersed in this family, Marthe wasn't surprised. Trish had much on her mind what with another child coming, teenagers that for the most part were well behaved, all staring at their grandfather's stilled figure with dread. He was the only constant male figure in their lives and at the relatively young age of sixty-six, James Vander Kellen was only days away from death.

Marthe hadn't missed it, the nurse in her never absent. The care was excellent, this facility the best around, but James's cancer had been discovered too late, no considerable options. Kell's father would die here, as so many did every day, men and women perishing in Wisconsin just as easily, or as roughly, as they did on the West Coast. This death was of expectation, what happened when lungs absorbed tar year after year. Alone in the hotel bed, Marthe accepted that, Kell outside getting a smoke.

He wouldn't die from lung cancer, but his father was and soon. Marthe had spoken to one of the nurses, shop talk that accents couldn't refute. Only one language employed, that of meds and timelines, and Marthe had been correct. James had a few days, his heart near the end.

Laura said little, cracking her knuckles all day. Either she was bending her hands outwards or gripping a mug of coffee, endless cups that Marthe also downed, all but Trish sipping that black liquid. The older teens, Susan and Joey, flanked their mother, younger twin brothers Marc and Adam sitting in chairs in the hallway. Marthe hadn't met Trish's youngest, her child with Fred. Only three and a half, James was with a sitter.

The one Trish held within was months away and Marthe had watched Kell caress that small bump, intimacy between siblings apparent even for the time elapsed. Years since he'd been home and Trish mourned more than a missing husband and dying father. A faulty brother; Kell hadn't been around, but his health problems were ones his family bore.

Marthe took that in, waiting for Kell to return. It wasn't only her family that loved him, this family did too. They didn't really _know_ him, not who he was now. Or maybe they hadn't known who he'd been, the man between 1976 and 2001 in flux, a hell of a long time, Marthe allowed, but now he was acceptable. He loved a woman, still smoked, spoke of football and the local economy, his voice while not as deeply accented sounding familiar. Not like Marthe's, which Trish's kids had tried to copy, which had made Marthe smile. No one ever said _she_ had an accent!

Kell was sick, but with Marthe on his arm he didn't look like some peculiar, bisexual author. She had seen fingers point, heard whispers rattle; a local boy having returned, the hint of an unsavory past trailing. If Kell noticed, he hadn't said anything, and Marthe wouldn't either. His father had been sleeping, but Marthe considered if James had been alert, something might have been broached. The only one who might have made any squawk was silenced and Marthe sighed as Kell's worried face poked through the door. Maybe James's hushed nature was for the best.

The next morning offered no asides about missing hair dryers, nor any sex. Only a vigil, James's condition deteriorating during the night.

Issues flickered in his aching pupils. Marthe had prayed this man might not wake, would die quietly. How many death bed confrontations had she witnessed? In the past, parents seemed to inhabit three camps: accepting and present, disbelieving and present, or absent. The former and the latter were best, the middle ground the worst. As Marthe sat next to Laura, both with coffee in hand, it was like a trip back in time, one Marthe had hoped wouldn't find them here. Here in the Midwest, James's strained voice relayed a few last thoughts. Words to Kell, but language Marthe only wished had instead gone to the grave.

"Dad, I love you. I love you and I'm sorry." With every sentence, Kell's voice slowed, his accent deepening as a father's intolerance tapped into a son's subconscious, beating down the man Marthe loved, one she watched with tears in her eyes.

She couldn't hear James's sentiments, but Kell could. Everyone else knew the gist, nothing James hadn't already expressed about his eldest child. He was grateful that Kell's career paid the bills, but other parts of this son weren't acceptable, not even with Marthe at Kell's side.

She sat a few feet away, Laura between them. Only a few feet, but it might have been as far as Marthe's hometown, a place that to James stood as some Godless wasteland, fostering Kell's career but forever roasting his soul.

Marthe joined Kell, who trembled, absorbing his father's words into every vein. Holding Kell close, Marthe viewed narrow eyes that knew nothing of this man she adored.

"I'll pray for you son," James mumbled.

"My God Dad, I love you. Please, I love you! This's all I can be!"

Marthe's heart broke, a loss not recalled since the day Frank died. She had accepted that, but in this room, a different hospital in another city, agony pervaded. Even with Kell in her arms, here, as before, only pain remained.

Kell spent the rest of the evening in the hallway seated next to Marthe. His siblings took their turns with James, but at eight o'clock Kell needed to leave. Laura promised she would call if anything changed.

Marthe drove them to the hotel where they made love, then went to sleep. When the phone rang, she woke first. As Kell stirred, Marthe took the message. It was Lance; James was at the end.

They dressed in the same clothes worn the previous day and Marthe drove as Kell offered directions. Due to exhaustion, he missed some roads, and while backtracking, swore a blue streak. "That goddamned sonovabitch's never gonna let me forget a single fucking thing, DAMN HIM!"

Marthe said nothing.

"Motherfucker," Kell hissed. "Take all my handouts, but better make sure all I bring home is money, nobody with me." He continued rambling, offering Marthe an occasional _right here_ , _go left_ , until they reached the Theda Clark facility.

She dropped him off, then parked, running into the building. It was deserted except for staff in uniforms similar to what she wore at work. Quiet voices carried a Midwestern hum, but Marthe felt at home. She understood this place, offering a tongue she spoke as easily as anyone here, even if their accents were different.

Reaching James's room, she heard tears, saw a priest standing near the nurses' station. Had they been too late? She stepped in; Kell's father was dead. Scanning the room, she saw his wife, their children. No grandchildren, nor the Son of God.

Kell was seated on his father's right, nearly hysterical. Marthe moved to him, noting Laura across, Lance and Trish around their weeping mother.

"Oh God, please," Kell cried. "Please please!"

"Baby, I love you," Marthe whispered.

"Marthe, you see him? Is he here?"

Kell's family stared at their long lost member as if he'd taken leave from his senses. Marthe knew of whom he spoke, but all she could do was shake her head.

"Shit no, NO!" Kell's fists banged into his legs and he fell back against Marthe's body. "I have to know, damnit! I have to know!"

Marthe ran her hands over his chest, then her arms were gripped, Kell wrapping her close. His family cried, but not for the dead man. For this one, also in the throes of that final stage. It was funny to Marthe; only a matter of time for everyone in that room, but for all intents and purposes, Kell was next. He was next and was also the most broken.

One more outburst surfaced, then Marthe led him to the hall where they sat, Kell unable to stand. Marthe held him, finding anguish, confusion, and fear, all she had known when Frank died.

Where were those two men? For all the ones Marthe had seen leave with Jesus, she owned no notion with her brother and Kell's father. No idea as Kell's sobs lingered, trying to call them back, return their beings. No matter how earnest his appeals, Marthe knew they would do no good.

Kell skipped the funeral, which surprised his family, but not his girlfriend. The last time Marthe saw his mother was at Kell's childhood home, Kell offering Laura a brief embrace. As Laura Vander Kellen held Marthe close, loving words emerged, ones of thanks that Marthe was there for Laura's son.

"Call when you get home," Laura said as Marthe reached the rental. Kell was already seated, arms crossed over his body.

"I will," Marthe nodded, getting into the small car.

Driving toward the Appleton airport, Marthe said nothing, only holding Kell's hand. As they checked in, she remained hushed, not wanting to reveal her accent. She wasn't sure why, but didn't want eyes on her, gazes that might know where her brother dwelled, where Kell's father was. Maybe others knew, but she didn't, Kell didn't. They went to their gate, waited for the plane, and boarded in silence.

Arriving in Chicago, it was the same wordless travel, only taking in other sounds. In that huge terminal voices swirled, some like Kell's, some like Marthe's. From other places too, and upon reaching their gate, Kell squeezed her hand.

She kissed his cheek, but her voice remained stilled.

Once on board, they were served drinks and during the flight Marthe had two glasses of wine. Jan was picking them up and Marthe wouldn't have to drive, wouldn't have to think of how she sounded, an interloper. How she felt around a family not hers, not really Kell's either, although once they had been his clan. Crossing the Rocky Mountains, Marthe's breaths eased, Kell's fingers relaxing in hers. Then words emerged.

"I love you." She took his hand and kissed it. "How are you?"

He sighed, running his other hand through his hair, something Lance did all the time. Kell had never done it before this trip, yet all that day, as they moved further from his youth, he must have made the motion a dozen times, strawberry blonde hair not as bright as his siblings, more gray, white actually. "I'm okay. I wanna talk when we get home."

She nodded, thought that was it. A few minutes later, he turned her way. "Marthe, I never understood it, I mean, why you lost it when Frank died."

He didn't meet her eyes, only drinking his beer.

Marthe wanted to tell him many things, but in the first class cabin, words were halted. She leaned over, kissing his face.

He didn't smile, but something in his blue eyes conveyed acceptance. Now Kell seemed to realize the depth of Marthe's heart, and her uncertainty.

The ambiguity of their departed loved ones, those souls' whereabouts unknown.

Chapter 15 - 1981

Kell was so hard and if Marthe wasn't due at home in half an hour, this would certainly be their first time.

Marthe ached too, more than she ever had for anyone else. How they'd waited this long, she had no idea. She'd slept with a good number of men, some even on the first date. Stewart Campbell had been all over her, then surprised she was as eager for him. Surprised but pleased, but with Kell Vander Kellen it had been a long, slow burn. If they had to wait much longer, Marthe was sure she'd just explode.

"Oh God Kell, I can't, I mean, I gotta be home in twenty minutes!"

"It's only gonna take one, I assure you."

"Yeah, but honey, I want it to be longer."

He sat up and Marthe wondered; did he have a cramp? He only looked incredibly horny, frustrated. But willing to wait. What was it with this guy?

Marthe knew Kell leaned both ways. However, since summer, it was their friendship to sway, swinging toward that sexual notion, yet, vacillating. When she was ready, he wasn't, and vice versa and here they were again, all worked up with time the enemy. Time, her family, it was always something!

"Shit!" Marthe rearranged her blouse. "Kell, you're a sweetie, but if I'm not home for this dinner, Mom'll scalp me!"

"What? Thanksgiving's just another holiday."

"Honey, it's not just another holiday. To my parents it's America all wrapped up in a turkey and the Dallas Cowboys. Listen, I really gotta go."

He sulked, which made her giggle. "Hey, you're expected too."

"Me?" His face showed shock, then worry.

Marthe laughed. "Yes you," she pointed. "They all wanna see _my_ _friend_."

"Shit," Kell grumbled.

"And," she continued, "it's better if you lay off the profanity. I mean, they expect it outta me, hate it too. I try to be good when I'm home, so you gotta fall in line."

"Shoot," Kell teased.

Marthe smiled, then stood, tucking long curls behind her ears, smoothing her skirt. Today she wore typical holiday attire, what her father would expect. Then she thought of Frank and her mood shifted.

"What?" Kell asked.

"Oh nothing," she sighed, stepping into shoes.

He stood to meet her and Marthe clung to him. He was still erect, but not pronounced even as his bulk surrounded her.

"It'll be okay," Kell whispered. "It'll all be okay."

Introductions weren't formal; they all knew Kell. Not as well as they knew Lynn's absent fiancé Brett Davidson, but Kell was far preferred over Jan's boyfriend Philip Winters, who hid in the study, reading. Kell made an attempt which was met with approval from Marthe's dad, a small thrill from her mother. Aurora was busy with the turkey, Marthe right away put to work.

As Kell watched the game, he counted heads; seven siblings, two companions. Annie, the youngest, was on the phone with her boyfriend, but other than Brett, it seemed all expected had arrived. Kell noted Frank's absence, but only through Marthe's parents.

They rarely looked at the other, barely shared a word, not their usual affectionate natures. He'd known them since 1979, after reconnecting with Marthe at the bookstore. Kell had been in and out of this home as her pal. Far from what had almost occurred earlier that afternoon and Kell needed to consider other things or would embarrass himself.

He moved through the house, the kids' rooms on the second floor, but only the youngest two still lived at home. Annie and Chris were in high school, siblings Marthe loved, but not quite as much as the older ones. Not as much as Frank, whose nonappearance seemed anticipated. No one expected him to show up.

Poking his head into the study, Kell remembered it had been her oldest sister's bedroom. Marthe had mentioned that after kissing him in there the last time he was over, for a family barbecue on Labor Day. Marthe's parents had been far more affectionate with each other than now. Winter was officially a few weeks' away, but it felt like a deep freeze. Did others notice?

Others, like Philip, who gave Kell an icy stare, just like Louis and Aurora shared. Kell only smiled. That bastard wasn't sociable because Kell was a published novelist. Jan's boyfriend wrote poetry, always bragging how his latest piece was going to be in this or that anthology, yet Kell possessed an agent, had just sold the film rights to _1955 Rainbow Chessboard_. Only pocket money; he still worked at the restaurant, also part time at a bookstore to keep his hand in the industry, what he told people. Really it was to pay the rent, but now with a savings account, he might have a girlfriend to go with it.

Marthe poked her head in the study. "Hey, we're about ready to eat." She stared at Jan's boyfriend. "Phil, time for grub."

Philip grimaced at the nickname and Kell bit his lip. Leaving the study, he gave Marthe a kiss. "You're naughty."

"Wait until tonight, then you'll see how wicked I can be."

Kell's erection returned. "Oh shit, don't say things like that!"

She laughed, leading him to the dining room. Kell was directed to a chair toward the back where he sat down, hiding that bulge. Several of Marthe's spiritual views differed with those he suspected her parents held. He wasn't sure about the rest of the family, but while Marthe might chafe at some of the Pope's decrees, a huge part of her was all that upbringing. Nearly done with nursing school, all she wanted was to work at the city hospital, assume her position in a line of Souzas devoted to the medical field. Her father and oldest sister were already in place, her brother a fireman. Jan studied business and the rest were undecided. Then, as Kell watched Marthe remove a place setting, there was Frank.

Her face appeared thwarted as she set the plate, utensils, and cloth napkin to the side of a large hutch, Louis demanding those items' exclusion. Kell had never seen Frank around his family, not all of them together. A few here and there, but usually it was Frank alone, in parts of this city people shouldn't go. Places Kell went, where drugs and easy sex were heady, where good Catholics would never venture.

Kell wasn't a good Catholic, was Marthe? She was certainly good, undoubtedly Catholic. Never missed mass, prayed all the time, lit candles, but avoided rosaries. Even for her brother; Kell had never heard her recite that prayer, not even for Frank. Maybe she thought it a waste of time, maybe it was hopeless. As the rest of the family entered the room, Kell saw faces content, ignoring the one not falling into line. Frank's chair was also removed, Rick handing that seat over heads, Lynn offering assistance. As all took their places, another was missing.

"Martha!" Louis sat at the head, his wife and youngest daughter at his sides. Kell looked at each, and except for Philip, they were similar, related. Most took after Aurora, large eyes, a few like Louis, his smaller. Suddenly Kell forgot who Frank looked like; was it his mother or father?

"Just a minute Daddy!" Marthe's voice cut into Kell, how he wanted to make love to her. They had been so close, but now her tone pleaded from somewhere new. Aching not from pleasure, but anxiety, imagined pain.

"Martha, dinner's getting cold!" Louis's holler prompted giggles from his children, his voice more like a family joke. Was Marthe always late for holiday meals?

Kell chuckled, gazing at his plate. Gold leaf decorated the edge, small circles intertwining, and he couldn't help notice the quiet. Gazing up, he saw the reason.

Next to Marthe, looking like he'd just fallen off a ten-story building, stood Frank.

"Good Lord!" Aurora gasped.

"Hey Mom, Dad. I uh, I made it."

Not by much, Kell thought, staring at the bruised and battered young man so dissimilar from everyone, yet comparable. Exactly like one, the woman who supported him. Except for the contusions and needle tracks, Marthe and Frank were each other's doubles and Kell's heart realized her sounds, that tone. She'd gone after a stray and would see where the chips landed.

Louis rose, leading his two middle children from the room. Marthe was twenty-three, Frank twenty-two, and Kell watched other faces, Chris and Annie pleased. Di was too, but her face was tempered by the reactions from her older siblings. Lynn, Rick, and Jan were horrified.

Aurora slouched, her entire demeanor that of failure. She'd had eight children, but one had fallen away, nothing she could do but listen to the heated argument between two men, Marthe strangely silent.

What Kell noted as loud as the shouts between father and son, but Marthe was never quiet. He'd heard her all afternoon, making him ache, causing him turmoil, wishing to take her away, lay her down, and _finally_ make love to her! It had been months, but then, who was he kidding? Kell had wanted Marthe since the first time he met her, four years before.

Four years, it had been four years and while they had drifted in and out of each other's lives, he was now sure, damned certain she was it! The last man he'd screwed hadn't done much for him; all Kell wanted was Marthe. Martha Catherine Souza, but for all her chatty, sometimes profane vocabulary, right then, nothing. She uttered not one single word.

Instead Kell heard someone being disowned, Francis William Souza defrocked as Louis exploded. "Get the HELL out of my HOUSE!"

"No, Daddy, no!" Marthe's voice emerging small, like a child.

"No! I'm tired of this WASTE that tramps in whenever money's needed, whenever YOU feel it's time to grace us with your presence. I mean it Frank, no more. GET OUT!"

"Oh God Daddy no! You can't do this to him, not today, please Daddy please!"

No one else moved as Kell squeezed through chairs and the hutch, then around Rick, brushing against Aurora, offering a quick _excuse me_.

Reaching the kitchen, it was a sight to make Kell weep; Frank on one side of Marthe, her father on the other. As Louis shoved his son out the back door, Marthe gripped her brother, attempting to bridge a wide, unending chasm. Frozen, Kell only observed this family losing a member, like a body removing a diseased limb. So painful, excruciating, but necessary. Kell saw it, felt awful, but allowed it was fundamental.

Marthe's protests fell on her father's deaf ears, but Frank said nothing, tripping down the back steps, sprawling to the cold, windswept patio. Marthe called after him, but Louis slammed the door, stalking to the dining room, saying nothing to his daughter or to Kell. Marthe clung to Kell's arm, peering out the window, her brother's wounded and scrawny frame straggling from the concrete. Frank turned, aching clouded eyes Kell would never forget, as Marthe whispered Frank's name.

Marthe had never experienced such pain. She had heaved tears once Kell took her to his apartment, not falling apart until she was away from her family. She had chewed the inside of her lower lip to a raw mess, then in Kell's room, on his bed, she began to feel, recalling her father's blistering anger, her brother's deep hopelessness, Frank's despair as well as acceptance.

As Kell held her, Marthe tried to comprehend her family's demise. Frank would never come home, never be permitted. Her father had seen to that and while a tiny part of her knew it had to be this way, the rest of Marthe shuddered from loss, memory, a life once containing seven siblings. Now it would only be six.

Only six would return, Marthe making it seven, but never eight, not anymore. Not in a few weeks at Christmas and she began to wail, a holiday that meant so much to them all. "Oh God, oh my God! It's over, all over!"

"Honey, it's okay, I'm sure it'll settle. Just let your dad calm down, maybe Frank'll come round."

"You think that's true?" Marthe stared at Kell, but he wouldn't look at her.

"It's not, you know. That was it for Frank, just it! Mom'll try and talk Daddy out of it, but Kell, it's over."

Saying those words felt funny, like a premonition. Was it really over or was Marthe sparing herself from further disappointment? Wanting all her relations present for that day, she had arranged Frank's arrival. Spilling that to Kell eased her, but she hadn't informed her family. They still assumed Frank's entrance was his own idea.

"Oh and now it's just a fucking mess, Jesus Christ!" Marthe sat up, wiping her face. "God Kell, I had no idea my dad would do that!"

His hand found her face, brushing aside her curls. "I'm so sorry Marthe, I'm just so sorry."

She couldn't help her smile, his accent still thick. At times he sounded as when she had met him, young, innocent, but he'd learned much since those days, about himself, about her. Still more she wanted to teach him, but that night Marthe only wanted to sleep in her own bed, across town, alone. "Kell, you mind taking me home?"

He smiled. "Not at all."

He stood, took her hand, helping her from the mattress. He gathered her coat, holding it for her as she put arms through the sleeves. They walked to his door and as if only friends, he gave her a peck on the cheek. Then onto his car, where he opened her door. The short drive was in silence; as they walked to her apartment, he made no moves, only offering another quick peck. Then he was gone.

Two days later, Marthe was nearly naked, Kell already in the buff. With Marthe's roommate away, the couple had decided it was time. Fellow nursing student Marcy Redman had traveled home to San Diego for the Thanksgiving break, wasn't returning until late the next night. If Kell wanted to stay over, Marthe wouldn't argue.

She wasn't in much position to do any more than let him have her, only her underwear in the way. She hadn't worn a bra, what was the use? He'd been pleased when she peeled off her turtleneck, exposing those tiny breasts, no more than her nipples really. Stroking his erection, now it was only a matter of dropping her panties, then slipping him in.

He had supplied the condom. She knew why and didn't argue for both their sakes, his penis in far murkier places than anyone she had bedded. Was that a fair assessment? Kell was bi, but Marthe didn't care. At that minute he could be a Martian and she wouldn't complain.

"Oh God Marthe, I want you so much!"

She nodded, then smiled. Just as she went to remove her underwear, the telephone rang. Marthe glanced to the Princess phone on her bedside table. "Shit!"

"Do you have to get it?"

Rings pestered. Maybe it was Marcy. Maybe she was there in town, at the bus station or the airport. Marthe realized she had no idea how Marcy had gotten home, they hadn't discussed it. Only that she was going to be gone until Sunday, _late_ on Sunday.

Marthe writhed, Kell right over her, just as on Thursday, so close. They were so fucking close! "Shit," she repeated, leaning over, Kell still waiting.

Picking it up, she smiled, for he didn't move. "Hello? What? WHAT? Rick, what'd you say? Oh Christ! Where? Yeah okay, we'll be right there."

Marthe hung up the phone, then slipped from Kell's still poised body. She sat at the end of the bed, scrambling to dress.

Then slammed her fists into the tops of her thighs. "No, no, NO!"

On auto pilot Kell drove through the Saturday afternoon traffic, reaching the city hospital. Unsure of where to park, he let Marthe out, frantic steps into the building he only watched for seconds.

Saying a silent prayer, he whipped around. As if the Red Sea had parted, a space stood vacant. Seeing no obvious limitations, he parked, then ran to the emergency room.

Rick had called; Frank had overdosed. Nothing new, it happened a few times a year. Frank was so damn lucky to be found in time, but that thought vanished as Kell reached the double doors leading to the cubicles. A priest loitered in the hall as Marthe's horrific shriek hit Kell's ears, the sounds of soft sobs underneath.

"OH MY GOD NO!"

Kell couldn't move fast enough, reaching the entire Souza family, from Louis to Annie, but Marthe lay in the middle, draped over her brother's stilled body.

"No, oh my God, Frank, FRANK!! Come back, oh baby, please, PLEASE!" Marthe's voice trembled. "Frank please! Please?"

In the midst of weeping relatives, Kell watched Marthe grip her brother's forearms. Then she gazed around the room, staring at all faces as if looking for something or someone. She didn't meet Kell's eyes, but he saw hers, wide and terrified.

She returned to her brother as Kell moved forward, a bluish-white pallor extending from Frank's stiff left hand. Now Marthe shook him by the shoulders. "Damnit Frank, FRANK! Goddamnit wake up, I mean it now Frank, WAKE UP!"

Something churned within the pit of Kell's stomach, not for this dead body, the first he'd ever seen, but for the woman struggling to resurrect it. Restore a man she loved, one so close, her flesh and blood, body and bone, but all her pleading, all her screaming, did no good.

She was screaming now, frantic cries hurled from her throat. No one else, not even her parents, displayed that level of emotion. "Frank, I mean it, knock this shit off, I MEAN IT!"

That call emerged at the top of her lungs. The rest stood frozen as Kell joined her. "Marthe honey, he's gone."

"NO! Can't you see? He can't be gone, he can't be!"

Those last three words were separated by great gulps of air. As oxygen hit her brain, so did realization, the worst possible news. Her brother was gone. Frank was dead.

"Oh my fucking God NO!!"

"Martha," Louis pleaded, weak in comparison.

Kell pulled her away, but she fought him, then wriggled free, scrambling to her mother. Seizing Frank's left hand, Marthe grasped Aurora's trembling digits as if transferring life back into a body from where it originated. It was no use. Frank Souza didn't stir.

Marthe's frightened eyes searched each person in the cubicle, begging them to do something, beseeching her siblings, even the youngest ones. She remained a conduit between her brother and mother, but nothing changed, no one came to her aid. Frank didn't move, didn't breathe, and Marthe fell to her knees, still clutching his hand, sobbing his name.

In Kell's car outside his apartment Marthe sat motionless. They had been out there for half an hour, night having fallen. If she was cold, she didn't say, but Kell was chilled. She had stopped crying after he'd killed the engine, but afraid of restarting her tears, Kell hadn't tried to exit.

"Marthe, baby it's late. Why don't we go in?"

She didn't stir, was mute. He was scared to death, but had promised Rick he would look after her. She hadn't wanted to go to her apartment, nor to her father's house. Kell didn't know where else to take her, but Rick hadn't complained, following them here. He'd held her hand, squatting beside her on the cement. As Rick stood, Kell had waved to him, in charge of Marthe as soon as her eldest brother closed her door.

"Honey, let's go in now."

Kell's voice was direct and she responded. "Okay."

He jumped from the seat, not wanting this moment to slip. If she was coming out of whatever in the _hell_ she'd fallen into at the emergency room, he needed to take this minute for what it was. Maybe just a window, maybe more.

He helped her out, walking her to his door. The place was dark and Kell led her to the couch.

"I need to pee," she said, stepping toward the bathroom.

Kell had to take a leak, needed a beer. A beer, about a thousand cigarettes, and some sleep. He had no idea what she needed. A beer wouldn't hurt, but no smokes. Only rest; both needed to end this day.

She emerged, then went to his room. When she didn't return, he followed, but she didn't acknowledge him. Maybe she would fall asleep right there.

He used the bathroom, then chugged a beer. A quick smoke followed and he grabbed another can, taking it to his room. She lay under the covers, bathed by a soft glow from the bedside lamp.

"Marthe, baby, you wanna sleep here tonight?"

She nodded and Kell turned to leave.

"Kell?"

He moved to her side, saw clothes on the floor, her underwear on top of the pile. Kell sat down and opened the beer. Taking a long drink, then he handed it to her.

Marthe sat up, drank some, placing the can on the bedside table. Then she took down the sheet. "Make love to me, please?"

"Oh honey, I uh..." She needed to sleep, just sleep off this nightmare that would remain in the morning. Sex would help, but Kell's heart ached for her immense loss.

Never before had he witnessed such agony. Within those few minutes, Marthe Souza had imploded, all he previously knew of her forever altered. Begging, she had begged her brother to come back, entreated and wailed and not in Kell's memory had he wished for some way to alter time, change events, make this not real. Unreal, only an illusion; even her naked in his bed, even this had to be an untruth. If she wasn't here, her brother might still be alive.

She scooted over and Kell slipped off his shoes, then joined her. She didn't cry, burrowing into him. Clothes covered his skin, but it was of no consequence; Marthe became one with Kell, and they didn't even need sex to do it.

Then she spoke. "I don't know where he is."

Kell smoothed her hair, kissing the top of her head. "Baby, he's at peace."

"No Kell, I mean, I know where they go, but I don't know where _he_ is."

She pulled from him and Kell cringed as if skin was peeled away. He moved toward her, but Marthe shook her head, staring into his eyes. "Kell, I see Jesus, I see him when people die. With my grandma first, then at the hospital. Four times Kell. I've seen him four times!"

"Oh my God!"

She gazed at the ceiling, then to his face. "When I was fifteen, my grandma died right in front of me. I was saying a rosary for her, just the two of us, and then suddenly Christ was there, and he took her, just took her away. She was so happy, I mean, she'd been sick for so long, and then suddenly she was young, beautiful, looked just like my mother. Kell, when I got to the ER, Frank had just died. The priest had already said the Last Rites, but Jesus wasn't anywhere. I missed it Kell, I missed it!"

"Oh baby, oh Marthe, it's okay. I'm sure he's in heaven, I'm sure of it."

Kell wasn't sure of anything, not her visions, nor her brother's whereabouts, but if it was possible to _will_ someone to the afterlife, he was certain that's where Frank Souza had landed.

"No Kell, I mean, I don't know, not for sure. I looked all over, but Jesus wasn't there. I didn't see him, didn't feel him, and Frank, oh my God, he was cold!"

Her voice was desperate, pleading. She was so hesitant, one word Kell had never associated with Marthe. Then it all clicked; her brother had died, but _where_ was he?

"Baby, I'm sure he's in heaven, I'm sure of it. You just missed him, that's all it is."

He repeated that phrase as she settled against him, her head thrown from side to side. She wasn't convinced, not in the slightest.

"All it is," Kell said again, kissing the side of her face, but Marthe found his lips. Maybe she didn't want to hear him anymore, or maybe...

Kell grew hard as they lay there, only their mouths joined. Kissing her was marvelous; he liked a little tongue, but she used hers differently than the men Kell had frenched. Marthe's drew him in, then her arms slipped around him like cords, binding him close. Her legs, coiled like springs, rendered Kell immobile.

Within his head beat those words: _All it is_. As she reached down, undoing his jeans, it became louder, more in line with rapid breaths: _All it is. All it is._

Removing her lips from his, Marthe spoke. "Kell, now. Now!"

"Yah," he muttered. "Oh yes!"

As he undressed, still it beat: _All it is. All it is._ Putting on a condom, he felt her near, so close. They had been close twice before, but with her secret revealed, Kell admitted what he'd wondered for two years. His sexuality wasn't questioned as he moved into her, Marthe calling his name like no other. Pleasure and joy replaced anguish and pain as Kell accepted Marthe right along his skin.

All it is. All it is.

Chapter 16 - 2007

In the semi-private room, Marthe was cold. Kell slept, undisturbed by the nurse that checked his pulse every fifteen minutes, the rest of his vitals monitored by the patch on his chest, feeding information to a screen suspended from the ceiling. Blood pressure, oxygen rate in his bloodstream, heart beat; all were fairly normal, Marthe noting those numbers as easily as 1, 2, 3.

It was two in the morning, Kell having been admitted earlier that evening. Or yesterday evening, Marthe yawned, more like late-afternoon. Only a slight case of pneumonia, but now every small cough, each lingering aliment was observed, and Marthe thought perhaps it was time for a break from work. She hadn't taken a significant amount of days since spring when they went to Hawaii for two weeks. Lynn and her boyfriend had joined them, the foursome enjoying a wonderful time doing very little. Some sunning, much eating, not quite as much drinking. Kell slept a lot during that fortnight, but some days he and Marthe walked along the beach or made love, falling asleep in each other's arms. Much the same as Lynn and Elliot, that couple quite serious. Marthe had been glad for her sister, as well as Kell's, both women obtaining divorces from unfaithful spouses.

Marthe wished for a blanket, then went to retrieve one. She wasn't in uniform, but no one said a thing. She knew them, they knew her, and everyone knew Kell. They knew he was turning a corner there in November and while in spring flying to Hawaii hadn't been easy on Marthe, it had been fine for her lover. Fine, yet that seemed like ages ago, ages and ages of time elapsed.

Returning to her chair, Marthe set the blanket over herself, easing the chill. Kell hadn't noticed she was gone, tubes in his nostrils supplying oxygen to his body. She didn't bother to check him, not her job. Not that night, but soon. Maybe it was time to leave work, an open-ended pass, for she'd been seeing it, not admitting it. Kell had been weakening, slowing down. Now he was muted and she smiled. Later that day, Marthe would give her notice.

The next thing she knew was a sister tapping her shoulder. Lynn held a large manila envelope, her voice gentle. Kell was still asleep but daylight peeked through closed curtains. Marthe nodded, stood, and followed Lynn's steps.

"Are you here today?" Marthe asked as they reached the nurses' station.

Lynn nodded. "Yeah, just wanted to check on him first. He sleep okay?"

"He must have, 'cause I did."

Both smiled, but again Marthe felt that draft. She'd left the blanket on the chair and her neck ached. Cold and weary, but it was her age, forty-nine years old, and trying to sleep in a rigid seat wasn't any help. Lynn headed to the back of the area, one of which Marthe knew every inch. Every single cupboard and file, computer terminal and outlet. Marthe Souza knew it all.

The sisters stood in front of a small light board affixed to the wall. Lynn pulled out Kell's X-rays, tacked them up, and Marthe saw outlines of lungs, looking like what she had expected. Cloudy, but it wasn't PCP, only a mild case of regular, ordinary pneumonia. He would be on the ward for a week, nothing over which to worry.

Lynn pointed to a dark mass near the bottom. "Marthe, there's a tumor in his right lung."

Marthe had left her glasses back in the room. Stepping close, she could make out what Lynn noted, a mass the size of a silver dollar.

"Honey, they took lymph samples." Lynn tacked up another X-ray, this one of Kell's pancreas, also sporting a dark stain. "We'll get the conclusive results later today."

With her sister's arm over her shoulder, Marthe only stared at Kell's X-rays, those splotches muddy, undefined. Lynn's words beat in Marthe's ears as suddenly Marthe's eyes saw through the wall to the next room; an old lady in restless slumber, her worried husband asleep in a chair alongside. As when Kell had been diagnosed, once again the barriers were permeable, ethereal, Marthe noting other patients, different lives waiting for release. Yet Kell's films spoke of something unexpected, nothing Marthe could begin to reckon.

After she knew, then her parents and siblings were informed, all those Souzas aware before Kell, Marthe unsure how to tell him.

He was groggy but conscious, aware of his location. Wasn't happy about it, but then he didn't like hospitals. As Marthe avoided air travel, Kell had grown leery of medical facilities. It began after his father's death and since Kell's near-deadly bout with pneumocystis pneumonia three years before had only grown more ingrained. Pulling teeth to get him in for check-ups; was that how they'd missed this? It was all Marthe could think. Lung cancer; Kell was really dying now.

After the last family member was told, Marthe gave her notice. Nothing open-ended, she was through. No one argued; all felt after an appropriate interval she would return, needing this in her life. But Marthe was certain. Kell would be her last patient.

Now it was a matter of how to tell him. Kell's regular doctor was only a phone call away, but Marthe asked her eldest sister to break the news. Marthe couldn't, wasn't even sure if she'd be in the room. Rick promised to hold her hand and Marthe said that would be all right.

By two that afternoon, Kell had managed some Jell-O, was chatty. With drugs in his system, he'd improved, was already planning his escape. Marie Souza and her cousin Lindsay Davidson would hoist him down with sheets, their younger siblings and cousins waiting on the ground with the getaway car, spiriting their Uncle Kell far from this place.

Listening to his banter, Marthe said nothing. Gripping Rick's hand, she moved just out of Kell's sight. All Marthe's immediate family was present, those who'd known Kell the longest, all his Souza brothers and sisters.

Lynn sat near the bed, giving Kell a kiss. Then silence, except for her tone, one of a doctor, also a friend. A friend, sister-in-law, conduit. As Marthe tried to breathe, she found it difficult, Kell's voice curious, Lynn providing the best answers she had. The best they could give him was six months if Kell wanted to undergo treatment. Only to prolong his life; based in his lung, cancer was rife, radiation and chemotherapy only to offer time.

"Marthe?" Kell called.

She stepped forward. "Yeah?"

Kell's face showed shock, then exhaustion. Within Marthe were reams of tears, ones she would shed later, not there in front of him. Well, maybe a few, for they were falling down her face, she couldn't stop them.

"Oh baby," he said, motioning for her.

"Oh Kell!" Marthe answered, going to his bedside, falling in beside him.

Once he was home, family was a constant. The older cousins were joined by those younger, but it was Marie and Lindsay, both twenty years old, that Kell asked to see.

They were different girls, Marie studying nursing, Lindsay a clotheshorse who worked in the city for a designer. Kell talked their ears off as Marthe adjusted to a life without work, a life with Kell, but limited. Limited and changed, time now a foe.

As Kell gabbed, his laptop and two nieces nearby, the family celebrated Thanksgiving there at Marthe's, one of an open house. Food was prepared and delivered, but others gathered at Lynn's only a few minutes away, people drifting between the two homes at their leisure. By evening, football and pie were the staples at Dr. Souza's, but at the nurse's residence quieter conversation ruled. Those two eldest grandchildren had been offered an edict, one that Marthe stumbled into as she brought Kell some juice.

"They have your Facebook password?" she exclaimed.

Marie gave her aunt a kiss. "He says there's lots for him to do."

"Like what?" Marthe sniffed, full from a day of grazing.

A copy of her mother and aunt, Lindsay grinned. "C'mon Marie. Let's get outta here."

"What'n the hell?" Walking her nieces to the door, Marthe then locked the house.

As she returned to their room, Kell moved his laptop to the floor. "C'mere you," his voice holding an announcement.

"What?" Kell loved Facebook, spent too much time on it in Marthe's opinion. She was the only Souza holdout, refusing to participate. For Kell, it was a mix of business and pleasure, a way to stay in touch not only with the Souza offspring, but Trish's too. Then there was his career, which had gone nowhere after 1997's _The Monkey Retrieval System_. Not the novel's fault; Kell simply hadn't published anything since that bestseller. Samuel had pestered him for years, but as far as Kell's agent was aware, nothing more was forthcoming.

Kell and Marthe knew that to be a falsehood, but Marthe hadn't wanted that sequel to _Emily Dickinson_ to emerge, never spoke of what Kell had proposed in 2004 after he'd been so sick, had quit smoking. Too damn late for that to matter, and she lay next to him, noting these precious minutes for what they were; time with him as he breathed.

"Baby, I need them to take over my Facebook, at least until I finish the book."

"What book?"

Kell sighed. "Marthe, you know what book."

"Oh for God's sake!" she cried, trying to move from him.

She didn't try hard and he held her, then tickled her. Then he let her go.

Marthe sat on her side, but wouldn't look at him. She could hear his breaths, not arduous but treasures, so beautiful in their sound, as if even by inhaling his accent was audible. Small bits of him from long ago and she turned his way. Too little time remained not to see him.

He smiled, his hair thin, and he ran a hand through it. That arm had worn a PIC line not too many days previous, still sported a bandage. She reached for that dressing, fingering it.

"Baby, there's no way in hell I'm dying with that book hanging over my head. The girls will take care of Facebook and I'll deal with Emily."

"Patsy too?" Marthe whined.

He moved to her, also touching that wrapping. "Patsy too."

For three weeks Kell wrote, sometimes at his table, more often in their bed. He hadn't taken up Lynn's offer of radiation and chemo, giving up the rest of his cocktail. He wouldn't ingest any more drugs, not until it got painful, to which Marthe stayed mute. A waste of money and meds, he said. Now he could just see what happened, see where his body led him.

Marthe had wanted to protest, but kept her mouth shut. His body had led him to... where they stood with each other. It wasn't turning out pretty or lasting, but it had been thirty years, three decades since they'd met, since he had turned up at her clinic. And since he was going to die at home, at least she wouldn't have to go back to the hospital. Neither would he.

They discussed that, Kell asking if Marthe would care for him at the apartment. That while in the past he hadn't wanted to burden her, now all he desired was to die in their home. Marthe had smiled.

"Well yeah, you're dying here. I'm not getting my butt outta bed, traipsing down the stairs every day."

He chuckled. "So I'll be a prisoner against my will?"

"Baby, you ain't got no more say in the matter."

She had kissed him, which led to something else, the first time since his cancer diagnosis they'd made love. Marthe hadn't been in the mood, neither had Kell, yet, as how a kiss brought them to the other after Frank's death, again tongues played games. Soon Marthe felt Kell inside her, underneath her, but still, it was him.

Afterwards they cried, that precious action so fleeting. For how many years had they been in and out of each other and it was Kell to bring it up, that he'd never felt only her.

Again Marthe stayed silent as he expelled a litany of pain, how many others had intruded. He confessed his, also speaking of hers, Devin Henderson and other men Marthe had bedded. Kell seemed to need this exorcism and once finished, he nodded off to sleep.

Leaving their bed, Marthe dressed, then called her sister. Jan answered and was in Marthe's living room within the hour. Having closed Kell's door, Marthe wept for that man, and all the rest. For ones that had hurt, ones who had made her laugh; Ash and Greg, Dave Kedayis, even Nate Green. Even that little fucker, Marthe sighed.

The sisters drank tea, curled into each other on Marthe's sofa where she slept sometimes because Kell needed room. He sweated now at night, sometimes soaking their bed. Marthe admitted their afternoon activities and Jan giggled. "You two, horny as ever."

"He can still get it up," Marthe laughed.

"And get you off." Jan sipped her tea, then set the cup on the coffee table. "He'll be waiting for you up there. It'll piss Nate off to no end."

A smile broke over Marthe's face, then a cloud. "Jan, you ever think about Frank?"

"Sure."

"No, I mean, like where is he? I've never known where he is."

"Honey, whether it was intentional or accidental, I gotta think he's there. I know you've always worried about him, but sweetie, I know he is. I just know it."

Marthe trembled, Kell still on her skin. She hadn't showered, could smell him lingering. He was lingering, and having reached that point, she wanted him to remain a long time. Forever, but that was impossible. She shed a few tears, but as Jan traced the wetness along Marthe's face, it stirred a memory, one of Kell doing the same in December of 1990. She had told she didn't want children, but Kell had seen more in Marthe's eyes, one more infidelity revealed in silence, Kell broken in the process.

She cried quietly as not to wake him, but having never shared this with Jan, once again Marthe Souza faced her greatest failing. Hearing his soft snores only accentuated her pain, what might have been if she hadn't betrayed Kell two weeks before their last HIV test was due.

For three days Marthe moped. It was all she could think of as Kell wrote, slept, coughed, and complained. He bitched about her attitude; the last thing he needed were her misgivings.

"We've got more goddamned regrets than Richard Nixon ever owned." Resting on the sofa, Kell put his laptop on the coffee table, then stared at her.

Marthe poked at a view of the sunset over Jerusalem, a huge tapestry she'd started a decade before when Kell was first diagnosed. She was two-thirds finished, but a chunk remained. "I don't think Nixon ever regretted a goddamned thing he ever did."

"And I'm sure he slept very well at night," Kell sniffed. "Reagan too. Talk about someone who never regretted a thing! Shit, at the end he didn't even know his own name."

Marthe giggled. While that one president remained Kell's nemesis, the epidemic as a whole rarely crossed his lips. Yet remorse ran thick through her body. She wanted to sit next to him. Instead, she threaded her needle, attempting a few stitches.

"Damnit Marthe, get your fat ass over here!"

She stopped. "My ass is not fat."

"Okay then those big wide hips, pronto!"

As she snuggled into his side, they were joined by his laptop. "What the hell is this?"

"Gotta get some work done. Time's a' wasting."

"You goddamned bastard," she yelled, trying to flee.

Kell wouldn't let her go. "I am not gonna spend the rest of my short life watching you fling guilt all over this house."

"Move this fucking laptop or it's gonna be all over the floor!"

He chuckled, placing it at their feet. Then he gripped her with as much force as Marthe imagined he could muster.

They held the other, Kell sometimes calling her name. Marthe let him slip into her bones with that lovely voice, so Midwestern. _Marthe_ was only one syllable, but somehow he alluded to his past in that sing-song way only he could manage.

"Kell, I told you I'm not gonna read it and I'm not, but why? Why Patsy?"

"'Cause she could whoop Emily Dickinson's ass in a hot minute."

"Kell, I mean it." Detailing the conflict Marthe endured alongside Frank, Ash Denton, and Greg Shepherd, _The War on Emily Dickinson_ also recounted Marthe's battles with her silent parents, Nate Green, and Stewart Campbell. And against Kell Vander Kellen. So many men she had loved, people to whom she offered care and attention, but veiled, not as Emily had been sequestered by poetry and autism, but by wonder and worry, fear and loathing. The epidemic had begun as Frank had died, Marthe's whole world turned on those two incidents. Who might she have been had those not occurred, but then, who could offer anything else?

All Marthe was hinged on those events, and on this man. Kell had been there before Frank died, before the plague arrived. Before, during, and after, but what followed Kell?

"Baby, Patsy's nothing like Emily Dickinson. Kick her ass? Patsy'd eat her for breakfast! Marthe, Patsy lived through one accident, then died in another, but she loved, oh Christ, you hear her voice, you listen to it nearly every damned day! Not all those songs were for her husband, but shit Marthe, she loved Charlie. Adored him, had two kids with him and maybe we didn't but..."

Marthe began to cry.

"Honey listen. It's bad enough seeing Marie, Lindsay and all the rest. I gave them my Facebook not only so I could write, but oh Jesus, 'cause I can't SEE them anymore."

He wiped a few tears. "Baby, if I'd had a child with you, I'd have killed myself already knowing it wasn't just you I was leaving, but your baby, our baby. Marthe, out of all the things I've ever done to you, that would've been the very worst."

In his words, Martha Catherine Souza was offered absolution, more than communion, holy water or even Jesus could have bestowed. The laptop stirred at her feet, warm with a lively hum. Turning to Kell, she kissed his tears as he'd kissed hers upon her confession in 1990. Then they fell asleep, not waking till the morning.

Chapter 17 - 1996

Heels went _click click_ on the floor, Marthe's feet in new shoes, a gift from her boyfriend Robert Fuller. She wasn't fond of her footwear; uncomfortable, noisy, and in Marthe's silent opinion, ugly. She wore them, but didn't say a thing.

Many doctors wore loud shoes. Lynn did, her three-inch spikes, as Marthe teased, bringing that sister's height to a respectable five foot seven. She towered over Marthe in those heels, but these were just some unattractive flats Robert had picked up for Marthe while in Italy. An investor, Robert was always jetting here and there, but returning faithful and devoted. He couldn't buy a pair of shoes to save his life, but at least he never screwed around.

He also didn't look anything like Marthe's usual big-boned blondes. Marthe hadn't slept with Devin Henderson since 1993, but saw him often, a somewhat awkward friendship that due to her brother's occupation still threw them together. Devin was now married, a child due in a few months, Rick had noted, Marthe glad for the heads-up.

Robert hadn't met Devin, hadn't met any of Marthe's former lovers. Some were hanging around, one was dead. She rarely thought of Stewart Campbell, but with Nate in the ward, it was difficult to purge that spiky nugget from her brain. The past nipped at those clacking heels and all Marthe wanted to do was run.

Fleeing in a speedy manner was impossible, Marthe's pace a slow, unhurried trod due to her footwear and the patient. Nate was sleeping, but it wasn't peaceful. Adjusting his IV, Marthe then checked his chart, meds in another thirty minutes. As he thrashed about, she tapped her heels. The noise was more than she'd wanted to make and he stirred.

"You want some painkiller?" She hated being his nurse. He didn't seem to like it either and they stared at each other.

Nate's brown hair was gone, as was much of the rest of him. He weighed one hundred pounds, nothing like his previous, sometimes tubby demeanor. His wit was still sharp, memory too. As Marthe loathed Nate, he still detested her.

"Why don't you just give me an overdose and we'll call it good?" his raspy tone no more than a whisper.

All Marthe's charity disappeared when next to this man. "If I could, you asshole, I'd just rip this IV right outta your goddamned arm!"

He smiled. "Baby, I dare you."

Her insides felt raw. In desperate need of a break, Marthe turned away, handing his chart to Aggie standing outside Nate's door.

In the nurses' lounge, Marthe pondered her feet, which now ached, then Ash. She was due to spend a few days with him over the weekend. He wasn't on the ward and she was relieved, too difficult with Nate, Marthe's mood not a cheerful one. If only that bastard would just die!

She sighed with that notion; Marthe had wished for many of her patients to leave this world, even if she wasn't sure of their destination. Nearly all the ones she'd expected to meet Christ did, but some hadn't. A few had surprised her and she shared those revelations with her mother, Aurora coming round when Robert was gone.

Her mother liked Robert, of course not as much as she had liked Kell, but that was different. Marthe's mother had no idea why Kell and Marthe had split, other than incompatibility. While Marthe was straightforward with her siblings and Ash, she really couldn't say to her mom it was because they'd both fucked about anything that asked. Instead Marthe only alluded to Kell's propensity toward his own gender and that certain appetites had led her astray. Marthe smiled, recalling the horrified look on her mother's face, but Marthe was tired of lying. Tired of seeing Kell as a ghost, his wan, fatigued face sometimes finding hers at the bookstore or on her way home. He'd be standing outside a bus stop smoking another goddamned cigarette, would probably die of lung cancer or...

Between work, Ash, and stupid shoes, Marthe was ready to call it quits, throw in the towel. However one wanted to say it, Marthe Souza was nearing the end of her rope.

For Kell Vander Kellen, it was too many one night stands, too many days feeling like crap. Too many times he'd seen Marthe and while he wanted to visit Nate, Kell refused. Not because Nate was that much of a thorn, but because of Nate's proximity to Marthe.

Nate hadn't gotten it from Kell, who'd been negative as far back as 1993, the last time he was tested. The last time Kell was tested was while living with Marthe.

A cigarette sat in the ashtray, half smoked. He lit it, pulling nicotine into his body. As though remnants from a gravedigger's shovel, the tar settled into his lungs, deep, trapped. Where Marthe remained and if he could just smoke her out, he would. Smoke all the goddamned cigarettes in the whole fucking world to get that woman out of his system, yet he never could.

Couldn't smoke her out, couldn't screw her out either. He'd gone as far to sit outside her apartment, their house. His gift to her, but she lived there, Marthe and that boyfriend, some skinny, dark-haired, well-dressed asshole who wore Italian suits, toting paper bags full of groceries, always with cilantro and celery sticking out the top. Marthe hated celery, did that idiot know it? Aware of all her likes and dislikes, Kell assumed he still topped both lists.

He looked around, his small one-bedroom apartment more like a hovel. He could afford a mansion, but this place suited him. The bed was miserable, the view limited. The kitchen was tiny, had ants, but the bathroom was worse. The only positive to emerge from this hole was a manuscript, one he'd just finished, was preparing to send to Samuel, _The Monkey Retrieval System_ an anthem to the epidemic but not like _The War On_ _Emily Dickinson_. The new novel was scathing, Kell's indictment on all past and present administrations. Set in the future with an obvious nod to the movie of the moment, _12 Monkeys_ , he'd written it right after turning thirty-eight earlier that year, having already seen the film a dozen times, with a dozen different men.

It captivated him, this idea of juxtaposing their plague with one based in fantasy, merging the two notions into an effort Kell recognized as one of his best books ever. Even better than _Emily Dickinson_ , but that was for love. Much easier to write from anger, condemnation, theories accusatory and biting, convictions spilling from every page. Having thrown in gratuitous references to a particular film as to not get sued, Kell allowed that once this book hit the shelves, it was all over but the shouting.

All over. All his life was, having left Marthe's side, was over.

"Hey Souza, off your knees, now!"

Marthe emerged from Ash's bathroom with a mop in tow. "How in the hell did you miss the toilet?"

"You don't wanna know." He considered she might want to wash her hands, but Ash was too nauseous to hold the bowl.

"If what you've got doesn't kill you, the gunk under my fingernails will." Marthe wiped her palms on the sheet, then balanced the small tub from the bottom.

He threw up, then fell back into the bed. "Shit, by now just shoot me."

She took the bowl and all Ash felt was relief. For her presence, for purging what had been churning in his stomach since she went to clean his bathroom, for something over which to laugh; he used to tell her to stop praying. Now it was over his toilet which she knelt.

His toilet, shower, sometimes his bedside. Ash Denton's days at home were numbered, yet, he was adamant. He wasn't going back to the hospital until Nate Green was dead.

Around that little SOB, Ash didn't trust himself. If he and Nate were in the same ward, a PIC line might be disconnected, something slipped into a bag of saline. Or Ash might just punch that bastard's nose into what remained of his wasted little face. He'd seen Nate a month before, when Ash was leaving, Nate checking in. Vermin pop in but they don't crawl away, and Ash yelled for Marthe, wanting to share his joke before he forgot it.

He laughed as she was out of breath reaching his bed. "What?"

"Oh, uh..." He looked up, puzzled.

"A-sh..."

"Shit!"

She joined him, a wet rag set to his forehead. "Honey, I love you."

"Christ Souz, I can't remember. It was funny, I think it was funny. Hell, might have been my last will and testament. Baby, you know it's all yours."

"Yup and I'm donating every single one of your possessions to the Catholic Church."

He laughed. "Oh you just do that. I'm sure Jesus is gonna love all my fetish magazines."

"Nothing he ain't already seen."

Ash squeezed Marthe's fingers. "So where do you think Sister Agnes is right now?"

"Probably right here in this room, shaking a finger at you."

"Probably. Hey Marthe, I did have something to tell you."

"I know honey. I know."

Silence was admission, for this was a pattern. His good looks were gone, much of his bulk, and now his wits. It scared him, but there was little Ash could do. "You know, she's probably the one that made me forget. I'm sure it was obscene."

Marthe stroked his hands. "Yeah, but she was always up for a laugh."

He nodded. "Souz, as soon as he's gone, okay? I mean it. You have your own life."

She gazed to the floor. "Ash, I love you."

"Baby, I love you too, but I'm serious. As soon as that sonovabitch's outta there, I'm taking his place."

She smiled. "Now what would Sister Agnes say?"

"Probably agree with me one hundred percent. Okay, break time's over. Get down on those knees."

"What now? That floor's so clean you could eat off it!"

"Get praying for me sister. A mind is a terrible thing to lose."

Marthe's giggles led to wild laughter. Ash joined in, never remembering what he'd wanted to share.

A week later, Marthe had lunch with her mother and older sisters. Most of the talk focused on babies, how Chris and Abigail weren't making any, to which Lynn offered little comment. Then to Di, whose hands were full with a first grader and a two-year-old.

Marthe tuned out of that portion, watching her eldest sister's face. Their mother didn't know Lynn was trying to get pregnant, attempts as unsuccessful as Chris and his wife. Lynn did have two daughters, Chris and Abigail with no children. The rumor held it was Chris's problem, but Aurora didn't infer her son might be sterile. Only that they were still trying, adoption having been mentioned.

The talk continued, Marthe half in and out, picking up more from her mother than concern for Chris's sperm count. Aurora Souza owned a look, one Marthe understood; the end. Marthe glanced to her sisters, both consumed with their own interpretations, Lynn to a baby she wasn't able to conceive, Jan's appreciation she and Julian hadn't waited longer than they did. Then back to their mother; finality, as if Aurora's hands stood in the air, awaiting the last bell.

Marthe had nowhere to be, Robert again out of town. This time to LA, and while she missed him in bed, she had stashed those shoes, wearing her usual loafers. Marthe's feet were happier, her mind without that boyfriend less full. More room to acknowledge what sat in front of her, not the normal scraps left by siblings. After so many years of looking through her parents, Marthe could only stare at the shell of a woman beside her.

Lynn and Jan left, their portion of the bill Aurora's treat. Marthe would leave the tip, but her mother bandied a credit card, swiping all their lunches upon it, the wife of a prominent heart surgeon, the mother of seven living children, one dead. Of that child no one spoke, but those on two feet were, even with personal troubles, successful and happy. Mostly content; Lynn was fairly miserable, but hid it under scrubs.

Chris seemed distracted the last time Marthe saw him, but if it was his fault they weren't conceiving, his mood was explained. Rick had been edgy for over a year, his captain's promotion finally announced last month. Annie had been through how many losers, but Marthe liked her new boyfriend, Dan Tanner. Di's hands balanced husband Keith, work and kids, Jan the same with Julian and their daughters. Then there was Marthe.

Her boyfriend was a successful businessman who brought her expensive Italian shoes right from the source. She had a fulfilling career, no offspring to consider, only her best friend dying, a miserable patient, and Kell. Marthe didn't try to sweep him under the rug.

What did her mother possess? Most of her offspring, a credit card with a generous limit, grandchildren, a husband. Probably not in that order, the grandchildren well ahead of the VISA, maybe edging the offspring for top billing. Louis Souza was bottom of the list, no matter what.

"Mom, how are you?" Marthe's voice was one she employed with Ash or patients she did like. She had even used it a few times with Dave Kedayis, who until Nate's arrival had been her all-time pain in the ass. Now Marthe had softened that stance, what with Nate's presence and having reread _The War On Emily Dickinson_. A stunning novel for which she had to give Kell props, and Dave his own for forcing her to read it in the first place.

But she never got to tell him what she thought, for he had died. Like so many others, Dave Kedayis was dead. Marthe didn't use his beach house, left it for Kell. It was half hers and maybe she would trek down there once Ash was safe on the ward. Maybe she'd take her mother, a gals' only vacation. Allow her mom a weekend near the ocean where she could breathe the salty air, let so many things off her chest; a dead son, broken marriage, and whatever else lingered in Aurora Souza's head.

What was in there, Marthe wondered. As usual, her mother was noncommittal. "I'm doing just fine Marthe. How's that friend of yours, Ash?"

Marthe offered a long sigh, both for the answer and the question. Ash was losing his faculties and as Marthe explained, Sister Agnes made her way into the conversation.

"Oh goodness, I haven't thought of her in a long time." Staring into the restaurant, Aurora wouldn't look at her daughter.

"Mom, what?" Like Louis's affection for Mother Teresa, in Aurora's voice Marthe heard veneration, love, but had never noted any previous fondness for the sisters at St. Anne's.

"I used to want to be a nun. I wonder what my life would have been like if I had."

Aurora followed those words with a small laugh, then finished her water. In astonished awe, Marthe couldn't speak, only sitting slumped as her mother grabbed her Louis Vuitton bag, signaling it was time to leave.

Two weeks later, within less than one day, several occurrences in Marthe Souza's sphere left her questioning that which she had earlier accepted as truth.

First was Ash, unconscious when Marthe found him at five that morning. On her way to work she stopped at his apartment and instead of taking a bus to the hospital, she rode in the back of an ambulance. Marthe remained in the ER until he was moved upstairs, Ash Denton a timely patient. As Marthe relieved the previous shift, Ash was wheeled into a room one door down from Nate Green.

An hour later Ash woke to his new surroundings while Marthe spoke to Jan. Only family news; Chris and Abigail were going to proceed with adopting a baby from China. A matter of which Marthe had just learned, yet it seemed right. As she told Jan to pass along her love, a small spring emerged in Marthe's step, even with the weight of Ash's presence.

By eleven that man was settling, but displeased with his proximity to Nate Green. Marthe alerted Ash to Nate's worsening condition. Ash took the news with a trace of sadness followed by a smile. If he had to lose his part of the bargain, at least it wasn't by much.

After lunch, Marthe caught sight of who she believed to be Kell heading to Nate's room. Leaving for her break, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a second look. Loitering longer than normal, Marthe enjoyed her coffee, returning with long, slow steps. Those previously clacking heels weren't an issue and she slipped to where Nate rested, alone.

Then, with one more peek, he wasn't. Marthe held her breath as Jesus prayed at Nate's bedside.

She didn't move, but Christ smiled, then stood, calling her his way with the crook of his finger. Dressed as usual in tan trousers, a white button-up shirt, and brown loafers, he said nothing but motioned to Nate, who was stirring. Jesus then stepped aside, leaving Marthe and her long-time nemesis to chat.

She swallowed, then moved to Nate's ear. In a half conscious state, he didn't seem near death. Then she breathed, her lungs filled with freesia and lavender, what she sometimes noted when Jesus was this close. She had never witnessed more of her savior than his leading away another body, another loved one, and was this for real? Was Nate Green one of Christ's? "Nate, can you hear me?"

He nodded, but didn't open his eyes.

"Nate, it's almost time. Honey, he's here, waiting for you."

Recognition took over the dying man's face, followed by sorrow. Nate opened his eyes, looked Christ's way, then shook his head, his voice only a whisper. "Marthe first, first I gotta tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"Tell you I'm sorry about Kell, for fucking Kell."

Jesus made no motions, but Marthe couldn't help her snicker. Fucking Kell Vander Kellen; it always came back to him.

"About what happened in 1987. Marthe, I, I'm sorry."

He was sincere, Marthe observing how he shook. Nate could barely move, but he trembled; was it awareness of with whom they stood? Was it honest repentance, was he _truly_ sorry?

"It's okay Nate, I forgive you. It's really okay."

As Marthe took his hands, bony and frigid, her heart warmed. Then she hoped it had been Kell earlier, maybe Nate had said the same to him.

"Marthe please, tell Kell for me. Tell him I'm sorry and that I loved him. I really did love him."

She nodded, grasping Nate's fingers. "I will, I'll tell him. Don't worry."

Rare tears fell from Nate's eyes as the deity approached, then silence as Marthe let go of Nate's hands. They were taken by another and Marthe stepped away.

She couldn't stop her tears watching a man rise from bed, his surprise as great as her own. Nate seemed disbelieving and for a moment Christ paused.

"Go on, he loves you. Nate honey, he loves you."

Marthe wrapped arms around herself, noting the tentative nature Nate displayed. As he'd always been and then she began to bawl as he followed God in steps no longer slow or wary. As the two men slipped from the room, Marthe stared at a corpse battered by illness and mayhem now at such peace.

By four, Marthe was home, having heard from Robert, who missed her. She had already called Kell; a machine had picked up, Marthe relaying Nate's words and the manner in which he left. She rarely spilled those encounters, now only to her mother. Previously Kell had heard his share and some that hadn't occurred, but this was important and for Nate, Marthe had been forthcoming, things she needed to tell him, things Kell needed to know.

Pouring herself a glass of wine, she heard a knock, her heart racing. She'd called Kell right when she got in at three twenty. As Marthe moved to the door, something within her lurched. "Oh Mom, hi."

Marthe backed away, her mother looking grim. "Oh honey, I didn't mean to surprise you."

"Oh uh, no. Come on in."

As Aurora stepped over the threshold, Marthe noticed a small satchel being pulled behind, not even big enough to be deemed a carry-on. More of a large purse, but Aurora's Louis Vuitton hung over her shoulder, a claim to all she'd ever been, a doctor's wife and mother to his children. Yet with two bags, something was set to change, a break with tradition, and what a day for it. As her mother propped the carry-on next to the bookshelf, Marthe took her mother's purse. She set it alongside the sofa, then poured another glass of wine, topping up her own.

They sat on the couch, and yes, Aurora Lynnette Garcia Souza was indeed leaving her husband. A marriage of over forty-three years, but now she was through, prepared to walk away.

"Mom, oh God you can't!"

It was the last answer Aurora was expecting, especially from this daughter, outwardly the most un-Catholic of her children. Marthe gripped her mother's hands, needing to share her day, from Ash's admittance to the ward to Chris's news, which Aurora hadn't yet heard. Then to a possible sighting of Kell and finally to Nate Green.

Nate Green _and_ Jesus Christ; as Marthe spilled that encounter, her mother pulled away. Was it a reminder of Frank, that Marthe had again seen the Son of God, or just the sheer miracle of someone meeting their savior? Marthe wasn't sure, but needed to press her point.

"Mom, when I asked you last week, was that last week? Maybe it was two weeks ago, hell I can't remember, but I could tell, I saw it all over you. Just what you came here today to tell me, that you were gonna leave Daddy. And Mom, I know, I know and I understand."

Aurora Souza took those words as Marthe expected, with a long sigh, then tears. But Marthe wasn't done.

"Mom, today I saw Jesus. I see him all the time, Christ, ALL THE TIME! I better see him with Ash, but Mom, today with Nate Green, with that little bastard!"

Marthe crossed herself. "Forgive me Father, but Mom, if God could take Nate home, anything can happen. I know things with Daddy have been screwed for ages, Mom we all know. We know and look the other way, just like we did with Frank. But Mom, for God's sake, don't give up on this, on Daddy. Don't give up on the man you love, not like I did with Kell!"

Allowing that truth, Marthe was glad Robert wouldn't be home for another few days. By then it would have found an escape. Maybe she'd have to open windows, but Marthe felt certain of it there with her mother; if Nate Green could walk away with Jesus, anything might happen.

Maybe Kell would come back, maybe he would get her message and call her. Maybe... Marthe let that be as her mother broke into tears. "Oh Martha, it's too late!"

"What Mom, what? Is he cheating, are you?"

Aurora wiped her eyes, then stared at her daughter. "Good heavens no!"

"Then Mom, it's not too late. Frank died and I don't know where he is. Nate Green's in heaven, where in the hell's my brother? But Mom, I know this; I lost Kell, I did that. I screwed it up, yet, you and Daddy, it's something I know can be righted. I just know it!"

Marthe was convinced of that notion as when she was fifteen, watching Aurora's mother whisked in the arms of Christ. After that, Marthe never felt it necessary to say another rosary, but it had spurred to her to nursing school, prepared her for an onslaught waiting. Not an easy task to nurse the dying, but redeeming moments occurred, like the one that afternoon, watching Nate find liberation, love. Love in another plane, but perhaps for some, it was still possible here.

"Honey, it's not that simple."

Agony long concealed was stirred, and Marthe sat forward, setting down her glass. Aurora brushed back a few tears, then sipped her wine.

"Mom, can you tell me, do you still love Daddy?"

She reached for her mother's hands, felt cool fingers, frosty, like Nate's weak grip. As Aurora drank her wine, Marthe studied her mother's eyes, some penance having been demanded, still being exacted. "Mom, what?"

"Marthe, when I met your father, I was studying to be a nun. I wasn't one yet, but I was close. I met him and..."

"Oh my God! Mom, why didn't you ever tell us?"

Aurora stepped to the painting of the crucifixion, staring at the body of the tortured deity. "Before we married, I slept with your father. I, I had to know, had to see if being with him was the right thing to do." The words were forced from Aurora's throat. "I loved him, both of them, and I... I chose to leave my studies. I left my vocation for Louis."

Marthe was cold, then warm, a mix of wine and truth. She stood, walking to her mother.

"My parents, at first they weren't pleased. Once they met him, found out Louis was in medical school, they changed their minds. To them I'd do better to marry a surgeon than be a bride to Christ." Aurora gave a long sigh. "I never regretted my decision..."

"Until Frank died," Marthe said as Aurora turned. Tears ran down her face, a loving mother producing eight offspring, but one had been lost, reclaimed as if reparation was due.

"Mom, my God! Frank didn't die because you didn't become a nun! Shit Mom, it doesn't work like that."

"You don't know that Martha."

Realization slapped Marthe, but she was unsure which parent had pulled away first, even before Frank's actual death. Yet whoever made the initial move hadn't done so due to hatred for the other, but only of self.

Taking her mother's hand, Marthe used her other to wipe tears from both their faces. "Mom, I can't imagine the Jesus I see leading these men home would exact such a price for you and Daddy falling in love. If you were supposed to be a nun, Dad wouldn't have come your way in the first place."

Aurora stood in stunned silence and Marthe continued. "Mom, if you'd come to me three or four hours earlier, I'd have said go for it, do what you gotta do. But now, oh God, now it's all different. Mom, if nothing else, go home. You pray, I'll pray. See how you feel in the morning. If you still want to leave, my guest bed's all yours. But Mom, please give it one night. One little night for me, for me and Nate." And for Frank, Marthe wanted to add, but didn't.

She waited, wondered, then felt some peace as her mother's head moved up and down in the slightest way. Marthe jumped at this moment, falling into Aurora's arms, her own tears pouring. Mother and child clung to each other, Marthe offering intercessions for her parents, for Frank, Ash, and Nate. As her mother wept, words mumbled of her living children, Marthe next prayed for Chris and some small baby in China destined to be Marthe's next niece.

Then some last words for Kell. Easing the sobs from her mother, Marthe released her own for that man. As she did, a scent of freesia poured over the women, sending both to their knees.

Chapter 18 - 1987

In the well-lit office, Bryce Ashley Denton held Martha Catherine Souza's hands. His doctor sat across from the couple who weren't there to learn of a pregnancy or anything expected from a man and woman brought together. Watching his physician fidget, Ash knew. He'd known since the lesion appeared two weeks before, but with no immediate eye contact, it was announced without sound, only in the spatial awareness of sorrow passed with nary a glance.

Ash and Marthe stepped into magnificent August sunshine, a spectacular contrast to the previous cloudy week. As Ash waited for the results, each day offered thick gray cold fog. Under bright, cheery rays, Ash wiped tears from Marthe's face, then kissed her cheek.

They said nothing, words to emerge later at Marthe and Kell's when all three possessed plenty of wine under their belts. Enough imbibed to take this news, what it meant. Ash knew, Marthe did too. Even Kell was aware. It meant the next day would arrive, maybe sunny, maybe with fog. Maybe with rain even, but it would come. Then the next. And the next. Then Bryce Ashley Denton, thirty years old that August afternoon, would be dead.

Ash dropped Marthe at home and she found Kell trying to work. Before he saw her, she noticed that. Rewrites for _The War On Emily Dickinson_ ; he wasn't going to show her the novel until he'd made it through this round. Nothing heavy, just a few suggestions the publisher had passed through Kell's agent. Nothing taxing or grueling, not like what Marthe had just endured. In those few seconds before Kell heard her steps, life was as yesterday, when Ash wasn't ill and all was fine.

"Kell?" Her voice was small but heavy, and she didn't move. Could barely lift her feet and as soon as she spoke he was beside her, carrying her to their bed, then placed within her body. As they made love, she cried for many reasons. For Ash, for losing yet another one, but not just anyone. One of the best ones, one of the few she truly adored.

Then finding Kell's eyes, one more thing. Marthe wept due to some man whom Kell had recently loved.

She let Kell hold her, pushing that knowledge far away. It didn't matter because it wasn't about her or Ash or even Kell. It was about the work, how Kell couldn't work near her, and when he couldn't work, he would smoke. Then he'd run out of cigarettes and take a walk, running into someone he knew. Kell knew so many people in this city and it wasn't even his! It was hers, but Marthe was sequestered in the hospital and he had freedom to roam. And roam he did, Kell James Vander Kellen. He would wander, bumping into someone, then Kell would be inaccessible for maybe an hour, maybe half the day. Maybe only a few minutes, however long it took to reach another house, a different apartment. Marthe accepted it as she did Ash's fate. She played around too, but hadn't lately, so consumed with work, Ash, Dave Kedayis, and one more. One more poked Marthe's heart, one she had yet to share with Kell.

Twenty-nine-year-old Stewart Campbell was dying and in denial, both. He was suffering from the usual suspects; Kaposi, PCP, herpes, thrush. How many ailments could one body hold? While Stewart covered many bases, Dave Kedayis was still the record keeper, but Marthe had never slept with Dave.

She had bedded Stewart ages ago, long before he'd been infected. Marthe knew this because she was tested every six months, Kell too. Both had subjected their blood as soon as the means became available and even when Kell did fuck around, it was always protected, always safe. A few years back he'd been in the minority, insisting all his outings use rubbers. Some had refused, some had agreed. Some of those men were dead, some were dying. Kell had slept with Stewart, something he'd told Marthe years before. Only now did she think about it because Stewart lay in her ward, ready to die.

Yet Kell was fine. Kell was fine but Ash, Dave, and Stewart weren't. Marthe considered those names, purging that which couldn't fit. Kell's latest escapade couldn't squeeze into her brain and she left it at the door.

"GODDAMNIT!" she wailed, scrunching herself into Kell. "I cannot fucking believe this!"

Kell crooned her name, which soothed her. It eased, but didn't take the pain, always more pain, Marthe up to her eyeballs in agony, discomfort, injury, and worse. Death; that was the worst. It had stolen Greg, was suffocating Stewart, had its claws in Dave and had now tracked Ash. Fucking death had found Ash Denton!

"Marthe, I love you. I love you and I'm, I'm..."

"Don't say it Kell, don't say it." He was sorry, but she didn't need to hear the words. Then Marthe inhaled. "Ash's coming over tonight." She sat up, tucking hair behind her ears. It curled past her shoulders, the first time since Frank's death she had let it grow. "I better make sure there's something to eat."

Leaving their bed, Marthe dressed but didn't look back. What she missed, Kell's broken face, would have only made her cry.

The threesome drank over a bottle of wine each, then Ash fell asleep on their couch. Marthe and Kell spent a short time making out, but were too drunk to go further. They crashed not long after their guest, all three sleeping until late the next morning.

Ash left once Marthe was awake and after she cleared the mess, Kell appeared. "Oh hey, is he gone?"

"Yeah." She had a hangover, her body, heart, and mind all colluding. As Marthe headed for the shower, Kell grabbed her, pressing his body close.

His erection prodded, but she wasn't enticed. Not only due to her headache, but what she had seen in his eyes. What hurt the most was that he knew. He _knew_ where she and Ash were yesterday, but had gone out and...

"Kell, I'm gonna get a shower."

He pulled away, Marthe not having to elaborate.

Under the water she cried, not caring if he heard her. She loved Kell but sometimes he was the biggest bastard, a bigger pain in the ass than Dave Kedayis. That man drove Marthe round the bend, a whiny, childish, primping queen. She hated using those terms, but even Ash called him a flaming shithead. Kissing up to Kell, insisting he use the beach house, but not because Dave had wanted to get Marthe's lover into bed. Dave wanted to be _in_ with an author, wanted to say he _knew_ Kell Vander Kellen, wanted to prance Kell's name around like they were former lovers or at least old, close friends. Wanted to insinuate himself between them, but not in order to bust them up like that prick Nate Green. All Dave Kedayis wanted to be was Kell's best friend, then reveal every single detail of Marthe and Kell's lives. Just a gossipy prick, but even Marthe wouldn't wish on Dave what had befallen him since finding his way onto Ward 5B.

If one person could acquire every single infection known to humans and animals, Dave and his bloodstream had managed that feat. A thirty-nine-year-old former florist, David Harrison Kedayis had attracted every ailment Marthe had witnessed during her tenure, more illness and malady than Marthe imagined possible. He'd been jabbed so often no vein was untouched, not a single square inch of skin on that man's body not poked, unpricked, unpunctured. Yet Dave lingered; weak, bitchy, ever a complaint on his lips until Marthe stepped through his door.

Then he was charming, sweet, oozy. It made Ash want to puke. Marthe took it as part of her job. Dave hadn't asked to get sick, hadn't reserved a room on that ward, but there he was and just across the hall lay Stewart.

Stepping from the shower, Marthe heard Kell banging round, stupid Bruce Springsteen blaring through the speakers. She should have cracked those records when Kell left in 1984, but there was The Boss harping on this cause and that, always something stuck in his craw. Just like Dave Kedayis and all she wanted was Patsy, smooth, soaring Patsy Cline. Marthe felt better, her head not so fuzzy, her stomach not so woozy. A little internal venting wasn't a bad thing and she exited the shower naked as usual, not giving it another thought.

She hadn't even wrapped a towel around herself and headed to the bedroom for clothes. She didn't have to work, was going to do some shopping, then maybe meet with one of her sisters. Gathering underwear, Marthe decided she really didn't need a bra, only wanted to put in her contacts. View the world through clearer eyes and as she turned, there stood Kell.

For what she could see, he looked sorry, very sorry. He should, she huffed to herself. From the doorway, he didn't approach her. She turned her back, heard him sigh, the same groan every time he was in trouble.

Half Wisconsin, half California, and Marthe stepped into panties, then pulled a shirt over her head. She sat on the bed, putting on her jeans, only with them halfway up when he reached her, going to his knees, kissing the tops of her thighs.

Which ached in a good way. Pleasurable, licentious, and Marthe tried not to show it. Tried to hold inside all he brought out of her, every time.

It was useless and she tipped back her head. "You goddamned bastard!"

He spoke as lips caressed her skin. "Marthe, I love you. I am so sorry!"

"Uh-huh," she moaned.

It was too much; Ash, Dave, Stewart, and again Kell. Always Kell, always. He was always cheating on her, then loving her, better than anyone ever had. Loving her, and within a few minutes, as soon as he had the condom on, fucking the brains right out of her head.

They spent the day together, then stopped at Ash's that evening. After one drink he sent them on their way, then back into bed they tumbled, turning into an all night purge, screwing Ash's positive result from their minds, anyone Kell might need to discard as well. By morning, both were asleep, and at noon, they still snored.

That Saturday night, Marthe went to mass, family surrounding her. Sharing Ash's news, she saw horrified looks on faces previously immune to this epidemic. Now it had hit them too.

"God, not Ash!" Lynn sighed.

"Man, are you sure?" Rick asked.

"Is he okay, I mean, right now?" Jan inquired.

The younger siblings stood stunned, unable to speak. All knew Ash, he and his friend Greg having attended a Thanksgiving meal years previous. "Yeah, I mean, we knew this was possible, been in the back of our minds after Greg died, but God, I just, oh Jesus!"

Marthe wasn't in the mood for euphemisms, Greg and Ash no different than Kell and Marthe. Not married but together and as Kell screwed around, so had Greg. Greg had been unlucky, Kell blessed. It made no sense, only how it was and Marthe made sure all there, and anyone close enough to eavesdrop, knew the scoop.

Her parents showed no emotion, but that didn't surprise Marthe. Her older siblings were muted, the youngest ones curious. Leaving the church, Marthe crossed herself, giving straight answers to their questions.

_Unless you've both been tested, use condoms, then test again in six months if no one's been cheating. Otherwise never have sex without a rubber._ Marthe's language was as colorless as her mother and father communicated with each other. It was about protection, staying alive. The plague hovered and while they were all straight, a virus didn't care about whom you loved, only the manner in which you fucked.

"Martha!" Aurora Souza spat. "That is enough of that."

"Mom, it's the truth. You wanna lose another child because they're out screwing around without a prophylactic on somebody's..."

"That's fine Marthe," Lynn offered, but silence had fallen, more for what Marthe said about another dead Souza than her treatise on safe sex.

Marthe caught a ride home with that eldest sister and family. Nine-month-old Lindsay Davidson was sleeping and Marthe sat in the back with her niece, holding the infant's hand, caressing smooth, velvety skin. How Kell felt, the sides of his body this hairless. Only the sides, about all to him that was only flesh except his penis, which Marthe had yet to know without a rubber. She practiced what she preached and while it was a pain, premeditated, not the most sensual way to make love, it was the safest way. Marthe had more condoms than sense, she sometimes thought. If she had any real sense she'd tell Kell to...

"Hey, I'm so sorry about Ash," Lynn said softly.

Marthe was entranced with Lindsay's small hand. "Oh uh, thanks."

"Listen, I think what you said tonight about Frank..."

"Yeah?" Marthe snapped.

"I thought it was good, okay? I thought it was good."

Marthe looked up, Kell's building straight ahead. "Thanks."

"Listen, when do you go back on?"

Kell stood outside, something in his hand. "Tomorrow actually." As Brett pulled over, Marthe gave the infant's small fingers a gentle squeeze.

"Well, listen, if you need to talk, you know where I am."

Marthe smiled. "Yeah, tucked under scrubs. Thanks for the ride." She exited the car, noting the flowers Kell held. "Those for me?"

He nodded.

She looked in his face. He'd been good, not out getting screwed. Maybe it would be okay for a while, or just long enough to set Ash's news somewhere where it wouldn't hurt. Not so goddamned much like Frank and Greg. And, Marthe sighed, like the man in front of her.

Before they went to bed, Marthe put the flowers in water, then studied the calendar. A four-day shift approached, but on Thursday she'd be free. If Kell was done, maybe they could take the weekend, use Dave's beach house. He was forever offering it, where Kell had written _An Opaque Ocean_ and _The War On_ _Emily Dickinson_. Maybe they could just take in the sea, the sand, each other. Accept each other for what they were, sometimes faithful, sometimes not, but in love. She did love him and knew he loved her.

The cheating was never about not loving the other. It sprung from boredom, hormones, revenge, so many lousy reasons. Marthe got into bed with that thought, again forgiving Kell as he had to, at times, exonerate her. "Listen, I'm off all next weekend. Let me see what I can get for Wednesday. Maybe someone will want a day and we can have a really long break."

"Oh, that'd be great!"

They kissed, Marthe passing a key as if Kell was Houdini. Presenting him the key to her heart, one he owned but would give away to a passing fancy, a key finding its way back in Marthe's pocket and as usual, again to Kell it would return.

He took it, unlocked her body, and they fell asleep with spent condoms at the foot of the bed.

Returning from a break sometimes brought a shock. Patients died, admissions occurred, but nothing had prepared Marthe for what she found waiting at work that Sunday morning.

Running a temperature of nearly one hundred seven degrees, Stewart was delirious, nearly dead. Last week Ash had been in the clear but now he was dying and so was this man Marthe had slept with for over a year. Long ago, in the late 1970s, but now Stewart Campbell was as close to gone without stepping over.

Nothing reduced his fever, not cool blankets or intravenous meds. Marthe hated it, not only due to Stewart's suffering, but a greater weight; Stewart was in denial.

He was gay, or at least bisexual. He wasn't straight, not when sleeping with Marthe. When she'd bumped into Kell at the bookstore in 1978, Stewart's delay had been prompted by Matt Cooper. Matt had died last year, who knew from where he'd picked it up, and while Marthe had no idea who gave it to Stewart, it didn't matter. Whoever it had been, they were probably dead or dying too.

Stewart was holding on, not by much, and Marthe offered an appeal, praying he would stir long enough to admit who he was. Let go of the lies and fabrications; he was deluding himself, as if accepting his sexuality was going to brand him some kind of leper. Didn't he realize this plague had already done that? If you were sick but straight, everyone thought you were gay, only old women and young children escaping the label. Even young women were looked upon with contempt. Not that they were lesbians but addicts, as clean, upstanding heterosexuals didn't contract this unspeakable, impolite complaint. It seemed to Marthe that anyone caught in the epidemic's sticky, inescapable web were damned by association, why she wanted Stewart to stop lying to himself. No family waited in his room or outside his door for they had all accepted it. Accepted it, then shunned him. No one left to lose, nothing but Stewart's own soul.

By Monday Stewart's fever had broken and Marthe was overjoyed. She'd spent all Sunday afternoon with Ash while Kell worked. Only work and now with Stewart having made some headway, Marthe's heart started to recover. She bounced back quickly, a necessary trait to survive this ward. It was courageous, touching, and deadly, death that arrived daily, just about every day somebody died. Some young man, too young no matter the age, turned into a number, a statistic. A name for someone to recall with fondness, but at the end of the day another life snuffed out too early and Marthe had a difficult reckoning ahead of her. Ash was returning to work on Tuesday and with Stewart so ill and Dave so cranky, she felt bad, hoping to sneak off one extra day.

There were no takers and she didn't ask twice, everyone with some life crisis, Ash's results hitting them all. Marthe was his closest friend, but Aggie Walsh's mother was down with a bout of arthritis, Jennifer Reynolds' aunt battling breast cancer. There was always something.

Right before Marthe left on Monday afternoon, she popped into Stewart's room, finding him awake. He wasn't her patient, didn't seem eager for her company. Marthe wouldn't press, only wishing to depart assured he was comfortable. "You okay?"

"Fine," he croaked. "I'm fine."

"Okay, well good. I'm glad."

As Marthe went to leave, he cleared his throat. "Hey Marthe?"

She turned. "Yeah?"

"I'm not gay, you know."

It was how he spoke that made her want to cry. Not laugh at him, stomp her feet, demand he be honest. If he was or wasn't, what did it have to do with her? That she had slept with him for a year could discount her beliefs, but he wouldn't even cop to being bi. Had plead a blood transfusion, yet that was bullshit. His records sat at the end of his bed; Stewart Jacob Campbell hadn't been admitted to any of the area hospitals except this one, only for what illnesses he'd contracted over the last two years.

What killed Marthe, his lies. Lying to her, to himself. What killed her and scared the hell out of her. Just who was he trying to fool?

His gray eyes were cold and false. Marthe nodded. "I love you Stewart. See you tomorrow."

That night she stopped at Ash's, then had a short visit with Jan. Then home, where Kell worked, again only work. Work and laundry, and that night Marthe made love to him with abandon.

They would leave Wednesday afternoon, reaching the beach by six, depending on traffic. Kell seemed eager to depart, explained it was the book. He needed to get away and Marthe suggested perhaps he might require more than a weekend. "Maybe take a few weeks, get the editing done. Then come home and Kell, it'll all be over."

He sighed, nodded, then made love to her again. They had done this before, voluntarily parted so he could work. He'd told her she was everything to him, honest, loyal, rebellious, a lover of truth and mysticism, all those traits voiced with reverence. Kell's faith was lapsed, but he accepted hers with appreciation, those visions of Christ, her need for God. Her desire for the Eucharist, symbols of their faith running so deep in Marthe, why Kell loved her, why he needed her. Why he couldn't write around her, much less stay faithful to her, were other mysteries.

On Tuesday, Ash returned for a half day. Marthe left him alone unless he requested her opinion and she didn't even see him leave. Stewart, however, had worsened. Marthe spent time at his bedside, for he wanted to talk.

Again assuring her he wasn't gay, it was all a mistake. He'd had a blood transfusion after a car accident. Just a mix-up and he shouldn't be here with all these, you know...

"Fags?" Marthe glanced around the room. She smelled something, but it wasn't pleasant.

"Exactly," he whispered.

He was still a tall man, but his blonde hair was gone. His face resembled many others she had seen, gaunt, hollow, afraid. Some were so frightened, why Marthe spent as much time caring for their hearts as well as their bodies. Some had support up the wazoo, more lovers and family than Marthe could direct. Some were like Stewart, alone and terrified.

"Stewart, what if I told you that Jesus loves homosexuals just as much as he loves heterosexuals?"

He looked aghast and Marthe bit her inside cheek.

She glanced at her watch; two forty-five. Needing to brief the next shift, she gave Stewart a kiss on his forehead. He shrank from her touch and leaving the room, Marthe spilled a few tears.

That night Marthe's orgasm made her cry. Was it only the way Kell loved her? She knew it was more.

She woke on Wednesday at a quarter after five, packing her bag for the weekend. Kissing Kell, she reminded him she'd be home by three thirty. He mumbled that he loved her and Marthe clutched those words, steeled for her last day of the week.

It was to be a short one, for that morning she found someone was coming in early. Only for her and Marthe had to smile, Jason Needleman a prince. Now working opposite shifts, she rarely saw him unless he was picking up some extra hours, and he would be there at eleven. Marthe didn't call Kell, would surprise him. They'd still hit the beach that afternoon, but missing the rush hour traffic would make the drive smoother, less friction to start the break.

At nine that morning, Marthe visited Stewart. He was unconscious, only a matter of time. Half an hour later, Ash took her aside. "Souza, go home."

"Why?"

He sighed, then cupped her jaw. "Souz, let him go. You can't do any more for him and baby, he's not for you to save."

She looked to the floor, but Ash's warm hand tipped her head forward. "Marthe, go on. Fuck Kell, and I don't care how, but fuck him, then leave this city. You need to get away."

She smiled, but her heart ached. Ash caressed her face as Marthe nodded and she went to gather her things.

A code blue was announced as she reached the elevator, Ash, Aggie, and Jennifer rushing to Stewart's room. Marthe beat them, saying a prayer.

Then another, repeating the litany. As Stewart breathed his last, settling into the bed, Marthe said another. Then one more. Another was muttered and still only those medical personnel occupied the room.

No freesia, no lavender. Marthe started to shake; what she had worried about, why she'd implored him to listen to her. Why there had been such urgency to her visits; no Christ stood in that room!

As Ash led her away, Marthe took one last look. Aggie noted the time of death as Jennifer closed Stewart Campbell's gray eyes.

Marthe cried while waiting for the bus, Ash having walked her from the ward. She brushed away tears, then caught her ride.

Again another man over whom she could only wonder. Maybe Marthe didn't see them all. Maybe the ones for whom Jesus didn't come were in his care, who was she to say? Then she thought of Ash; what if God didn't show up for him?

She laughed. He would if for no other reason than Ash having to admit there was a God! Suddenly Ash's impending death held promise. If nothing else, that fucker was gonna see Jesus Christ with his own two eyes!

Smiling, Marthe stepped off the bus. What would Ash say? What would he do? She hummed a tune reaching the apartment, hearing nothing, not Bruce Springsteen, not a vacuum. Maybe Kell had run out for groceries.

Letting herself in, familiar noises emerged; the sounds of sex and she didn't close the door. Walking toward her room, her room and Kell's room, Marthe viewed Nate Green's flabby backside over her boyfriend. Once again it was Nate's room too.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Marthe shouted.

"Oh my God no!" Kell cried.

Nate clucked. "Shit. I thought you said she wasn't gonna be back until three."

Marthe stood another few seconds. Kell lay on his stomach, both men stripped to their skin. Trembling, Marthe bit her lip, so wanting to beat the crap out of Nate, feel his blood drip down her fist, Kell's too.

Right before she turned to leave, Kell's haunted eyes peered Marthe's direction. The couple exchanged gazes, then Marthe fled the room.

She sat on the couch, head in her hands. She still hadn't shut the door, but as he sauntered out, Nate slammed it. That took maybe five minutes from the time she had found them, but it felt like years.

Like the last five years since that ménage à trois, since Nate Green's chunky, naked ass had been in Marthe's sights. Five years since that moment and now she'd known Kell for twice that long. Ten years, a decade since Frank had introduced them outside her old workplace. That clinic was where she had first set eyes on a man who now knelt before her, where he'd thrown a cigarette butt on the ground, tried covering it with his shoe.

No room for hiding now. Kell reached for her and Marthe only pulled away.

She wanted to scream at him as she had her brother: _No no, come back! Come back Frank! Come back Kell!_ She wanted to shake Kell, resurrect their relationship, but it was as dead as the sibling Marthe used to have.

She wanted to ask him why, why now, why here? Why in the bed that Nate had once shared with them, but again, what was the point? There was no point. Ash was dying, Stewart was dead, gone, and again to where? Where were they all going?

"Marthe, I don't even have the words to begin to apologize."

She looked at him, detecting sounds. Didn't make out his speech, only heard a noise. "What? Whatdya say?"

Kell didn't look Marthe's way. "I said I was sorry."

"Uh-huh." She still hadn't heard him. "Kell, Stewart died today."

"Oh shit baby, oh I'm..."

"Don't say you're sorry, because you're not! People who fuck around in their own bed with someone the other can't stand aren't really sorry. Kell, Stewart died this morning and Jesus never showed up."

She crawled off the couch, then went into the kitchen. Food was packed; he had gone shopping, picking up a fuck on the way home.

He didn't follow, but turned her way. Marthe had poured herself some water, watching his every move. "So Stewart's dead and I guess we are too."

Kell didn't answer.

Marthe finished the water, then walked toward the bedroom, stopping short of the doorway. Turning back, she didn't see Kell, but couldn't move forward to retrieve her bag. All she wanted was her bag.

It was packed, as though aware of this result, but she wouldn't go to the beach. Somewhere else instead, somewhere in this city Kell couldn't find her, not unless he got really crazy and landed in her ward. He might at the rate he was going. "Kell?"

Within seconds he stood in front of her. Tears marked his face, but Marthe felt cold. "Can you uh, can you get my suitcase?"

"Marthe please, I love you and I'm so..."

"Just get my bag please."

He didn't move; was he hoping she would change her mind? Marthe only wished to not see him anymore, never again. Never see this man that had taken her heart and, and, and...

Killed it, killed her. At the age of twenty-nine, Marthe was just like Stewart.

She gathered unpacked toiletries from their bathroom and her Patsy Cline records. Whatever else would either be collected by a sister or left behind. Marthe had called Marian Williams, but hadn't revealed that name over the phone. She didn't want Kell to know where she was going, didn't want him to know any more about her.

He offered to carry her belongings, but Marthe refused, hoisting in her small hands a bulging weekend duffel along with paper grocery sacks containing her records. A purse hung from her shoulder and she stood in work clothes, still in uniform.

She wore the remnants of patients on her, but Marthe would have walked ten miles through the snow covered in blood to get away from this man. This man she loved and swallowing that hurt. That fucking sonovabitch; she still loved him!

They said nothing as she opened the door, then Marthe Souza departed alone, as how Stewart had, only hours before. Like that man, Marthe was unaware of her destination, except for a place to sleep that night. All she knew for sure was it would never, ever again be with Kell Vander Kellen.

Chapter 19 - 1999

Standing at the front desk, Marthe sensed her mother's discomfort. They were spending the night here, all but the actual bride and groom. Annie and Dan would be somewhere else in this city, a secret location. The rest, parents, six siblings and their partners, would sleep under one roof, scattered in rooms over several floors of this luxury hotel.

Kell and Marthe hadn't planned to share a room until Kell's questionable health had intervened. Since last month's hospitalization, arrangements had been shuffled, yet now an issue arose. Aurora had requested two beds, instead receiving a suite with one queen. Only with Marthe could she be honest and now mother and daughter hoped for assistance.

Marthe didn't mind, leaving Kell in good hands, those of his nieces and nephews, so many that he was never bored. Marthe wondered if it was difficult for her mother to see children happy, in lives she and her husband didn't share. Why they waited at the reception desk, to ease the evening for Louis and Aurora.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but we're fully booked. I just have no other rooms to offer you."

As Aurora twisted a long string of pearls, Marthe sighed. "Thanks anyways."

They returned to a crowded ballroom, the Souza-Tanner wedding a large affair. Dan had four brothers and one sister and with all Marthe's clan, family alone had constituted most of the guests. Among all those people, it would be even harder for Aurora to face Louis; did Marthe's father know of the botched arrangement?

"Mom listen, Kell and I have two beds. Why don't you just take ours? If Daddy asks, just say this's what you could get."

"Oh Marthe, are you sure?"

"Does yours have a couch?"

"It does. Oh honey..."

"Mom, don't worry about a thing." The women embraced, then left to make the switch.

Rejoining her group, Marthe found Kell surrounded by children, Jan and Julian also at their table. Marthe slipped into her seat, the meal not yet served.

"Everything settled?" Kell whispered.

She squeezed his hand. "Yeah. We traded rooms with them."

He smiled. "I knew you were just trying to get me into bed."

She hit him with her napkin. "You wish! God, are we ever gonna get fed?"

Jan and Julian added their agreement, their daughters starting to whine. The full mass with communion was a long time for youngsters to behave and as music played, Kell stood, pulling both girls to the floor.

"Take them please!" Jan laughed.

Kell was inundated with other Souza grandchildren and Julian left to offer assistance. Marthe leaned over the table. "That'll keep them out of trouble."

Jan smiled. "Yeah. He was getting antsy waiting for you to come back. Where'd you go?"

Motioning to their parents, Marthe told her tale. Jan sighed, then took a drink. "Well, at least you had the beds."

"Yeah. I can sleep on the couch tonight."

Jan said nothing, Marthe a mother hen when it came to Kell.

"He's finally back on his feet," Marthe said, watching Kell with Marie and Lindsay.

"Kinda scary," Jan whispered.

Marthe nodded. "Fucking brought me to my knees. What in the hell am I gonna..."

She was stopped by Kell's broad laughter. The song ended, but kids clamored for more. As the DJ obliged, Marthe observed a man toward whom her feelings were turning.

After plates were cleared, toasts were struck. The family had been somewhat out of touch, but a wedding had tacked siblings back to one another, Annie the last Souza to wed.

It was an elaborate affair, one for which the bride's father had opened his wallet. Both thirty-one years old, Annie and Dan had many friends as well as relatives, Annie with six attendants plus a bevy of nieces as flower girls. Unsure of the final cost, Marthe allowed it wasn't a small sum, one last big party for Dr. Louis Souza to host, then no more.

No more; her parents' marriage was nearly that, but Marthe still prayed for them, hoping something would change. She wanted to assume a small thaw as wedding plans had unfolded, or was it Kell's two-week stint in the hospital? He was as much their son as Rick or Chris, Louis and Aurora visiting Kell, sometimes together which Marthe had chalked up to providence.

Sitting close, Louis and Aurora seemed if not cordial, at least not peeved. Maybe it was only those two beds, not having to share one. They didn't even use the same room at home, Louis upstairs while Aurora slept in the master. The grandchildren were told it was because Grandpa snored. The rest knew the truth.

For over ten years they had been physically apart; after Marthe left Kell in 1987, she'd helped her mother clean house, finding her parents had partially separated. When Marthe sent her mother home in 1996, nothing had altered, but that night the couple laughed together with an easiness Marthe hadn't witnessed in years. They held hands as toasts were offered; was it only due to their youngest daughter's happiness?

Hearing a cough, Marthe squeezed Kell's hand. She didn't miss his joy, fueled by Annie's big day and all the ordinary ones too. Having stuck around for so long, Kell was one of them. Marthe squeezed again, but he didn't feel warm. Felt fine actually; really, really nice.

She smiled, then chuckled. They'd been talking about... things. About each other, about how being roommates was starting to get... difficult. Not due to disagreements or problems sharing the space, not from his illness or the presence of anyone else. There was no one else, Robert Fuller lasting less than a year once Kell returned. No one for Marthe, no one for Kell, only what invariably happened. Just them, only for each other.

She held his hand, the movements smooth, light, sensuous. They had noticed that even before he got pneumonia. Outlooks were changing, then a separation occurred, forcing Marthe to admit what she felt, and how it was qualified. She did care for him, that bastard. And he was dying.

She had never loved him in that manner. She'd loved him in plenty of other ways, destinies always within their reach. If they wanted to screw it up, it had been within their right, but now he stood beyond her, even sitting at her side.

What they had discussed with candor in his semi-private hospital room; Marthe and Kell had always been blunt, even when unfaithful. Now an unforeseen element existed, one that spoke of someone leaving first, but not from infidelity. Only due to illness, infection; Kell was infected and eventually he would die.

Marthe had loved him for how many years, through so many injuries. He'd accepted things too, her cheating with Devin in 1990, no children between them. Nate Green was never revisited, although they had spoken of him in context of Kell's situation. After Kell returned, they recalled that day in 1987, such an awful one, but in the bigger picture it had faded into the background, as had Devin Henderson. That was the past and here was their future. A future that now Marthe had to question, one shared again as lovers?

Kell was petrified at that idea; now that he was positive, it was about life and death, not just love and sex. Before he'd been so careful, never going without protection. With what they knew, what they accepted, now it was different. It just was.

Marthe gazed to her mother, then her father. With Kell's hand in hers, Marthe allowed joy, ease and desire. Did her parents know that? Did they lust after each other? They had at one point, enough for Aurora to give up her calling and to have made eight children. Her mother had been horrified when Marthe asked if either had cheated; apparently her mother hadn't. Probably not Louis, not in their nature. It was in Kell's, Marthe's too, yet not between a couple whose forty-sixth anniversary was months away. But what did that mean when the last eighteen years had been spent apart? Since Frank, and Marthe leaned into Kell, not realizing how near she was to him. Maybe that was indicative of things; for all the condoms used, all the others brought in, Marthe had never recognized just how close she and Kell had truly been.

Holding Marthe against him, Kell closed his eyes. They'd never danced before and he had no idea she was so good at it. Just not something they'd managed to do and he relished her in his arms, even though she was small, more of him enveloping her, but that was fine too.

Laughter rang all around, a beautiful, lasting sound for a night many of the siblings had worried might be unpleasant. Not that Annie and Dan would be troubled, only Louis and Aurora on most minds.

Most that knew, all their seven children and partners. Only Kell and Marthe weren't married, or even together, but Kell had to smile. In that moment he stood with her as never before, yet it felt like they'd been dancing all their lives. Dancing around many things, but never like this. Still, it felt like they had, like he'd been holding her this close since meeting her.

For over twenty years Kell had been aware of Marthe Souza. They were forty-one now, but as though from the moment Frank ran her way at the back of the clinic, Kell swept that instance into the whole timeline. He hadn't found her for another twelve months, then one glimpse followed by long, aching days in which Kell attempted to discern who he was and why he was that way.

Then Marthe had claimed him, but still he'd vacillated. At least she remained, this stunning woman, and one point stuck firm. Together or apart, friends or lovers, even enemies, there was always Marthe.

She nestled into him and while he had lost weight, she fit as before. That they were vertical, not horizontal, made him laugh.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing." Kell gripped her, but not in an embrace old friends shared. They were edging to something beyond friendship, just as they did the entire autumn of 1981. Then Frank died.

Frank's death had led to countless others, but it was after Frank that Kell had loved her. Loved Marthe in an apartment in which he then killed her; he had killed her. Kell had loved her, then killed her, and he would be damned if he would do it again!

She felt so good, holding him not as dancing partner, but as one for life. Her arms encircled his torso, her hands crawling along his back. Kell ached, an erection not far away. But what then? What if?

What if they slept together and she got it? What if they made love, leading to her death? She'd been vocal about loving a dying man, but he had said nothing about loving a living woman. Loving her, then maybe killing her; he'd done that in 1987 with Nate and if not for how she'd forgiven him when they reconciled three years later, Kell wouldn't have understood Christ's compassion. Marthe had forgiven him; maybe God really did pardon people too.

She forgave him, took him back, and then... Kell sighed. Infidelities had continued until they split. Finally, the end. Really, I mean it. I'm not returning to someone who has hurt me time and again. Nope, I won't do it.

He smiled, her hands moving toward the small of his back. She probably wouldn't reach for his butt; well she might, but maybe not. Maybe she would only caress that indentation right above his tailbone, her hands settling there, a gentle back and forth motion, like a massage. A rub-down he wished to continue in their room on that one, queen-sized bed.

Kell had packed his meds, more goddamned pills than he knew what to do with! Packed those, but left his shaver. His toothbrush sat in the bag, toothpaste, painkiller, and some condoms. He had added those on a whim. On a wing and a prayer, yet, would they be enough? Would that keep her safe, healthy, uninfected? She said they would, said it was fine. Safe sex, all they had ever known.

Her hands moved again, one to his side, the other heading for the top of his thigh. Movements were slow, discreet, and his erection emerged. Kell couldn't hide it, but kept his feelings quiet. Marthe didn't, speaking in colorful language or with hands skilled, fingers so deft. Soon her small, easy motions put her within inches of all he wished to give her.

"Kell, I'm so glad you're here with me."

If they'd been alone, he would have roared as a man possessed. He was possessed, once again she owned him. On that crowded dance floor, he set her hand on his penis, polite and unobtrusive. How he did that, he wouldn't later recall. She caressed him with both of her hands as he kissed the top of her head, calling her name in an aching, accented whisper.

Later that night, after children had departed, the siblings pulled two tables together, observing the proceedings. More to the point, they watched their parents.

Heads were close, words exchanged, but no one dismissed what Annie's wedding had accomplished. Louis and Aurora had been dancing all night, only with each other.

There were mixed opinions as to why; Annie's ceremony, Kell's health, the wine, celebrating the spirit of love, of matrimony, but marriage wasn't essential. After the parents were discussed, then words emerged concerning Marthe and Kell.

They too seemed to have rejoined, were the first to leave. Lynn and Jan gave hugs as Rick offered his hand, Chris too. Di jumped up, embracing her sister and Kell with her usual off the cuff enthusiasm as in-laws offered smiles and good nights.

Then the rest stared at another pair suddenly as inseparable, a couple bittersweet, ages lost between people now so enamored with the other. Kell and Marthe were at times hard to watch, groping and unashamed. Far more subtle were Louis and Aurora, subdued yet hopeful. Kell's positive status overshadowed what he and Marthe might recapture. At least with the parents, neither was dying.

The remaining siblings took to the floor; Lynn and Brett, Rick and Lauren, Jan and Julian, Di and Keith, Chris and Abigail, none of those marriages spared heartache or loss. At end of the evening, most of a family stood together. Maybe small miracles were possible.

Kell lay on his back, Marthe atop him, a life preserver to which he clung. She moved slowly, having tapped some wild release from within his soul that he hadn't considered ever again knowing. Their first time had been so rushed, but both were desperate, and it was only now, in their third encounter, he could enjoy her, feel that which he'd only ever considered with her. And for the first time it wasn't what the condom denied, but what it provided.

It offered to Kell this woman, this beautiful, spritely woman and her life. He would never love her without a rubber, but with it he would love her for as long as they both should live. As that beat in his head, she began to wail, tears of immense joy and liberation. Kell held her, then as she removed herself, he wrapped them in the sheet, tight and secure, never to be parted.

On the top floor of the hotel, two people stepped into the largest suite in the entire building. A collection of rooms for newlyweds, and while three receptions took place that evening, none of those couples had chosen to consummate their unions where so many others rested. Instead Dr. and Mrs. Louis Souza took possession of these quarters, huge and airy with a king-sized bed, living room, two bathrooms, wet bar, Jacuzzi, even a pool table. After tipping the bell boy who'd moved their small pieces of luggage, Louis then closed the door.

In the middle of the lounge, Aurora looked misplaced. Louis joined her, then pulled her against him where she had been held all night as if recovered from a storm, the hurricane which had been their son. That evening the air had cleared, their way made plain. Louis touched Aurora's face and found tears of joy, like his own.

They had spoken only of their existing children when they did speak. That night it was all about Frank. Not Annie, not Marthe, only a bit about Kell. Not realizing how that surrogate son's precarious health had tripped their hearts, Louis and Aurora hadn't noted more of him than giving thanks for his life. Then they had recalled the one offered as some forfeiture to what had been abandoned. Since November of 1981, Louis had blamed himself for stealing Aurora from Christ. After Kell's release from the hospital, maybe Frank was an unnecessary sacrifice over which to grieve. Looking at his wife, Louis Souza's appreciation was finally for more than only his living offspring.

Louis honored their marriage, a sacrament holy and sanctified, and still within his sight, within his grasp. Kell and Marthe together had triggered Louis and Aurora's emotions, watching that man and woman grab hold of what was left. Much had been lost between them, was still to lose, yet they had reclaimed one another. In quiet whispers, Louis told his wife he still loved her. In a tearful voice, Aurora had offered the same.

Returning to that room, one with two small beds, it seemed incongruous. Why would they wish to sleep apart when all they wanted was to be together? So many years had been lost; was it that easy? Only in witnessing what could be, had it been so simple all along?

Louis had marched to the front desk, seeking a change. Other than the honeymoon suite, the entire hotel was full. Aware how much money this man had paid between the ballroom, dinner, and rooms already occupied, the night manager offered the only option available. That had taken a few minutes to arrange. Then Louis grasped his wife's hand, leading her to a place where they could sleep in one bed, a suite that while spacious, was essential for only one purpose.

He led her to that space where both undressed as in days of old. It had been ages, times so long past, but she was still radiant as when he'd adored her before. Without guilt, shame, or the assumption anything else was fated, Louis pulled back the bedding, laid Aurora down, then made love to his wife. It happened with such ease and grace, it was as if they had never stopped.

Chapter 20 - 2008

For Christmas, Kell's sister had traveled to the West Coast, a trip arranged by Marthe, paid for by Kell. Most of Trish's kids had accompanied her, along with Trish's boyfriend Stan. Laura Vander Kellen didn't join them, neither did Lance, both waiting for the funeral.

Trish had given Kell the latest Bruce Springsteen's CD, and it was growing on Marthe. Just like that jerk, she sighed aloud, that with Kell dying, she actually appreciated Bruce.

Jerk was used for both the musician and the one nearing the end. Marthe had eased her language around Trish's kids who laughed at her tone and the few blue words that couldn't be contained. The Vander Kellens exchanged Facebook pages with various Souza grandkids and by the time New Year's fell, Kell's absence from that activity was hardly missed.

Not because Marie and Lindsay were so proficient at updating his page, although Kell's status often noted that Marthe loved The Boss, that Kell wasn't cold. A joke over the holiday as scarves, sweaters, and gloves appeared. He had complained of being chilled and what other gifts remained for a dying man except scarves, sweaters, some gloves?

Trish had already purchased the CD and other than warm pieces of outerwear, Kell received kisses and hugs. Marthe had wished his mother and brother had traveled, wished they could have seen him. In December he still looked okay, Trish's kids unbothered. To them, Kell would always be thin and balding, but his smile shone, photos displayed both on Facebook and Marthe's refrigerator. Kell thought one picture exceptional, wanting it for the book jacket, a novel that while finished, bore no title. January had led to February, but still that sequel stood nameless.

It had no name, but Kell had made Marthe swear his obituary would present the facts. Lung cancer would be first, but Kell wanted one small word, only four letters, included.

She knew why he was worried. When _Needle Tip_ was published, some wondered if he was into drugs. After _The Monkey Retrieval System_ speculation flew, especially once he admitted his positive status. He was positive, all due to fucking around.

That hadn't been broached with his sister and her family. Still a sticky subject, but now as Kell was nearing the end, it was open, his Facebook status the same: _Kell Vander Kellen is dying due to smoking and unsafe sex._

"Baby, you seen my hair dryer?"

"I got other things for you to blow."

Only a joke; he never left their room and her hair no longer needed that appliance. Speckled with gray, Marthe's curls stopped at her ears. Kell had turned fifty, but she was still forty-nine, a fact she lorded over him, always bringing a smile. He smiled as they listened to melancholy Bruce Springsteen and rain that fell, listening to Kell's breaths turning labored, heavy. She slept with him every night, wanting to be as close as possible.

He was on a PIC line for pain, morphine easing through the tube set into his upper arm, snaking its way through his thoracic cavity. For much of the day he napped. When he was alert they bantered, mostly how she was turning into such a Springsteen fan and what in the hell were they going to title that book?

She stepped from the bathroom. "You mean that stupid-assed novel?"

"Hey, that's not bad. _Stupid-Assed Novel_ by Kell Vander Kellen."

She smiled, toothpaste all over her lips. "Yeah, now that I might actually read."

"C'mere with that sexy mouth."

She spat the remnants in the sink, then joined him. It was early for bed, only eight o'clock. Kell hadn't felt well the previous days, but as Marthe lay beside him, he kissed her with passion.

"Man, all these years, if only I'd known, just toothpaste. Such a kinky guy."

"Something about a minty woman."

There were things besides music and books of which they spoke, also tears spilled, that Kell had killed her in 1987, was killing her again twenty-one years later. Marthe had argued she was quite alive and that Kell could fuck off.

Her language grew more foul as if she could lift him by her words, and sometimes it worked. Sometimes he only fell asleep and Marthe hoped that when he woke, he wouldn't remember.

Ash hadn't, not at the end. Ash had lost his mind, and it had drained Marthe's soul, unable to share with him all he meant, how much she loved him. Then Kell had arrived in the ER with pneumonia, a bad case, except it was more. Much more, but Kell didn't seem to be losing his wits. He was losing heart, and Marthe didn't want him to go out teary and sad. Maybe it was all the Bruce Springsteen they were listening to.

When Kell stirred, other tunes played, music from the disco era, new wave, and punk. That seemed to lift him and Marthe wouldn't gauge it, wonder how long it would last. As long as Kell remembered her, Marthe would move ahead.

Most days Jan came by after work. Kell was usually asleep, giving the sisters a moment, which that day including cleaning the kitchen. A few dirty dishes, only what one person needed, Marthe laughed. "Soon it'll be me, myself, and I. God what a concept!"

"I'll come pester you."

"Gonna make sure I haven't hung myself?"

"Something like that."

Tea was brewed and the women took it to the living room. Kell's writing table had been cleared; he'd done that the last time he was on his feet. Marthe hadn't wanted to use it for anything else, but Jan set her cup there, pulling up a chair.

Marthe frowned, then grabbed coasters from the coffee table. "God, this is awful," she sighed.

"Honey, what can we do?"

Marthe stared at a gray, dismal day. "Jan, I figured out why I wished he'd had a kid."

"Why?"

Stepping to the window, Marthe placed her hands along the glass. She pressed, then lifted, two visible handprints in her wake. "'Cause then, besides me, there'd be somebody who loves him like I do. I mean, you guys are great and if there was something you could do, believe me, I'd hand it right over."

"But?"

Marthe smiled. "Honey, you love him because I love him. When Trish was here, God that was so good!" Marthe gazed back to the city. "Why his mother and brother didn't get their asses on that plane..."

"Marthe, people do what they can."

"I know." Her back remained to her sister. "You love him due to me, not because of some intrinsic connection to him. God, all the people who loved him are dead, Jaime, Dave, Nate."

She sniffed after that last name. "But if Kell'd had a kid, that child would love him because he was his father. Not exactly how I love him, but you know, because of who _he_ is."

Marthe looked at her sister, her eyes clouded. "Like you love your kids and they love you. It's something, oh, maybe I can't explain it."

Sipping her tea, Marthe returned to the window. Jan joined her, holding Marthe from behind.

Marthe gripped her sister's arms. "Jan, if he'd had his own kid, then I wouldn't be the only one, you know? The only one left who loves him like this."

In March, Kell suffered seizures, none of which required hospitalization. His motor skills weren't affected, but his gloomy mood remained. Even with family near, Marthe saw the end approaching. He wouldn't last for her fiftieth birthday, although he'd threatened. Samuel called, loved the new manuscript, but again, there was this need for a title. That afternoon, Kell threw up his hands, said he didn't care.

"What do you mean you don't care?" Marthe asked.

"I don't give a shit. You're not gonna read it, so what the fuck difference does it make?"

She looked to her shoes, then remembered those awful, ugly flats Robert Fuller had given her so many years before. She'd thrown them out after Annie's wedding, when Kell returned to Marthe's bed. As her parents had altered their living arrangements, Marthe also employed that event to reorganize the apartment, sorting old clothes; those shoes, uncomfortable and ridiculous, had landed in the trash.

As how she wanted this book. Soon Kell would be out of her vision, that book all to remain. And it didn't even have a title!

Marthe got into bed, snuggling next to him. With his remaining strength, Kell put an arm over her, the one with the PIC line inserted, his long-term IV. She stared at that limb, the incision in his upper arm. A scar remained from last November when the cancer had been discovered. Might he have lived longer, but she set that from her mind. "Kell, do you really want me to read it?"

"Well yah."

She smiled at his accent. "Why?"

"Because I wrote it for you."

"You wrote them all for me."

"Okay, yah, but this one, this one especially."

"Why?"

His sigh was tired. Not many days left, hitting her as it had countless other times. Kell's death loomed as Ash's had, as Greg, Jaime, Dave, Nate, and Stewart had gone, so many men, so many names.

So many babies born; now those monikers lived in memories, maybe carved into rock, sewn onto quilt blocks, or only rolled through heads. Soon Kell's name, that long, lovely name, would only exist within Marthe's brain.

"Marthe, Patsy won. Patsy kicked Emily's butt all over the OK Corral."

"Oh Christ, you didn't really use that did you?"

"Read it and see."

She turned to him, found a smile. He hadn't smiled in days. He hadn't smiled and she didn't want to read his book, but if it would give him peace, ease his awful, wretched mood, Marthe would do it. For Kell, she would read his stupid book.

"Okay, but that means no more blow jobs or me prancing around here naked."

"I suppose I'll get by."

His tone was pleased. Marthe sighed, very quietly to herself, as she fetched his laptop.

Two days later she finished the book, marching into the bedroom where Kell rested. "So, what'd you think?"

"I really hate you, you lousy bastard!"

Glee ran through what remained of his body. Her eyes were sharp but thrilled, beautiful brown irises that spoke of knowledge, of her for him and of course how much he knew her. If nothing ever happened to that novel, Marthe had read it, knew how he felt. Kell would even let her bury it with him if she wished.

"You miserable sonovabitch! How in the fuck did you write this?"

"With two hands on the keyboard."

He'd pierced her heart, had that been his goal? He'd wanted to leave her with something, but not a child. She hadn't desired that and after he got sick, he hadn't wanted it either. But his books, his words, so many words he wished to give her and from the tears that fell down her face, it looked like he'd hit the jackpot.

"I really fucking hate you Kell Vander Kellen!"

"I know, but you love me too. C'mere."

She moved slowly and he knew why. All had been said between a country music star and an autistic poet, all which needed to be versed. As Marthe edged next to him, not ready to fully submit herself, Kell nodded. She wouldn't surrender all she felt about him, good and pissed, for a while.

"Marthe, I love you. What're you gonna call it?"

"The biggest fucking heartache of my whole goddamned life!"

He smiled. "Well, I think I like _Stupid-Assed Novel_ better, but honey, whatever you want."

She took his hand, running fingers along the bones, not difficult for they protruded. "Kell, I'll call it _How Patsy Cline Fought The War On Emily Dickinson_."

He found her eyes, saw she understood. Understood why he'd had to finish it and why he was sorry. He would never be able to tell her enough that he was sorry, but there in her eyes, maybe she understood.

"That's fine. Samuel'll bitch, say it's too long, but it's yours to name Marthe. All yours."

That led her to his side, where she always felt so good. Her head rested against his sunken chest and he knew why she liked it there; she could hear his heart, feel him breathing. That was fine with Kell. Knowing she had read his book, he fell asleep with no trouble.

Two days later, Kell woke to many faces, Marthe's not among them. The Doctors Souza stood closest, surrounded by all the kids and grandkids, but Marthe and her mother were absent.

"Hey, you having a party without me?" Kell murmured.

"You ass," Lynn sighed. "She thought you were dead."

"Lynn, where is she?" He heard Marthe summoned, Rick calling for her.

Jan took his hand. "Kell, you've been unconscious for two days."

"Oh shit!"

As Lynn checked his pulse, he adjusted his eyes to the light; it did seem bright. Kell had no control over his limbs, couldn't lift more than his eyelids. That he could talk and think struck him as odd. And blessed. "Lynn, I can't move."

"So noted."

She owned a weary smile, time a commodity which he knew was prized, as precious as the woman who, on her mother's arm, looked so broken. Marthe sat next to him, a few tears on her face, but more had fallen. Kell could see that.

"You asshole," was all she said.

"I know. All on my own goddamned time." He gazed to Aurora. She seemed not to have heard him.

The room emptied, all but Lynn and her father. And Marthe, but as Kell was immobile she was too. Neither of them was going anywhere, not until he left first, that instance approaching. From the corner of Kell's right eye a man appeared dressed in casual clothes; white shirt, tan trousers and, Kell glimpsed, loafers. "Hey Marthe, does Jesus wear loafers?"

"Oh you fucking bastard!"

"I'll take that as a yes." Kell didn't notice his voice had slowed or that he spoke in only a whisper. He felt better, or did with that man there, a man who was God. "Marthe honey, I think it's about time."

She leaned over him as though to prevent what was coming.

"Baby, I love you. Marthe, give me a kiss."

Was this how death arrived? Kell didn't feel at all ill, only itching to move, to go with this God, one who gave Marthe loving, understanding looks. This God whom she had seen so many times, but in this instance she cringed.

Kell felt all her muscles clenched tight. "Baby it's time," he murmured. "Gimme that kiss Marthe."

As fingers left his face, he recognized lips warm and soothing, what always ushered them into the next phase. From Frank's death to sex, from, from... Kell couldn't remember.

All he knew was a hand extended. Then stepping away, Marthe wept over his body lying on their bed.

"Just a minute. Can I have just a minute?" Kell knelt at her side. "Marthe, I'll be waiting for you."

He kissed her cheek, but didn't look at her eyes. Then Kell squeezed her hand, one more time noting that great power, her touch taking him to where he belonged. He winked, then stood and was gone.

Marthe watched them leave, Jesus taking Kell from her and from a thin, wasted body which had lain comatose for two days. For two days he'd been on the brink, but Kell had returned long enough to tell her goodbye. Tell her goodbye and to kiss him, that bastard!

Louis closed Kell's eyes, Lynn noting the time. A family's sorrow emerged as a familiar hand gripped Marthe's.

Reaching for a limb silent and empty, a daughter clutched the fingers of mother and son. Then Marthe Souza took a deep breath and howled.

_How Patsy Cline Fought The War On Emily Dickinson_ was published in February, 2009, on what would have been Kell Vander Kellen's fifty-first birthday. It was dedicated to Frank, Ash, and Greg, Jaime Richard Schuler, David Harrison Kedayis, and Nathaniel Alexander Green, with special thanks to Patsy Cline, Supertramp, and Bruce Springsteen.

_______________

### Liner Notes

According to an African proverb, it takes a village to raise a child. A similar notion is what goes into a novel. I wrote the words, but so many wonderful people contributed to this story, and I would be remiss not to note those who have given of their inspiration, time, and ideas.

But not only to this particular manuscript; _The War On Emily Dickinson_ is my first independently published novel, and for that I need to mention Julie K. Rose, Amy Rose Davis and Cassie Hart. My best wishes to those three authors in their future endeavors. Also a shout-out to Doug Hilsinger and Caroleen Beatty for their rerecording of Brian Eno's Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy).

This novel was born in August 2009, but this path had been afoot since November 2006, courtesy of Rebecca D. W. sharing NaNoWriMo with my eldest daughter, who passed that nugget to me. In the spring of 2009, during Thursday afternoons spent with the Barefoot Coffee writing group, Kate Thomas told a story about her dad and monkeys. Around that time, Chibi Douchet's blog post regarding women childless by choice made an impression, as did Kath Oltsher's photo of determined feminine hands.

At that same time I was reading Randy Shilts's _And The Band Played On_ and Harper Lee's _To Kill A Mockingbird_. My gratitude to Ms. Lee and the late Mr. Shilts is immeasurable.

My Last.fm pal Jenn Sandoval termed these acknowledgments as liner notes, which is so apropos for what music means in my writing. Thanks to Bruce Springsteen for his album _Magic_ , Supertramp for _Even In The Quietest Moments_ , and the incomparable Miss Patsy Cline.

After the writing and initial revisions, Karla Kay, Jenn Sandoval, and Julie K. Rose offered their views. I can't thank them enough for their supportive feedback.

Then fell the harder task of intense editing and rewriting. Again Julie K. Rose was indispensible, as was Barefoot Coffee cohort Lisa Eckstein, and NANO buddy Kate Krake. More than crit partners or beta readers, I consider them friends, and my appreciation for their time, patience, and assistance is incalculable.

I conclude these notes with _The Usual Suspects_ ; my devoted and understanding husband and our children. To the great folks at The Offices of Letters and Light, specifically NaNoWriMo, for starting me on this fictional road. Lastly, but certainly not least, I give thanks to my Saviour. Writing is a gift, nothing I manage alone. It requires all these people and their contributions, brought my way by a God wise and mysterious. To Him I give all honor and glory as I am graced to do.

### Sources

Shilts, Randy. _And The Band Played On_. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1987.

Ward, Geoffrey C., Ric Burns, and Ken Burns. _The Civil War, An Illustrated History_. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1990.

### About the author

Anna Scott Graham was born in 1966 in Northern California. A mother to several, she lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and numerous hummingbirds.

Other ebooks by Anna Scott Graham are available on  Smashwords.

The print version of this novel can be found at Lulu.com.
