 
BETTER EYES

By

Travis Barr

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Travis Barr on Smashwords

Better Eyes

Copyright 2013 by Travis Barr

Cover photo used by permission

Copyright Elizabeth Hills-Butler (Courtesy of Justphoto.co.uk)

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Prologue

"Can you see right now?" said a man named Jerry.

"No—well...sort of," said his bed-ridden wife, Sandy.

"Sort of, what do you see?"

"I see black, but...also bright colors exploding over and over again..."

"Weird..."

"Last night was better, though."

Tutting in frustration, Jerry said "I wasn't here for that. _Man..."_

"Actually, you kind of were. In a way, you were. I mean I could see you...standing in a field of extremely bright green grass, almost glowing. But that's not the weird part..."

"What was?" he asked with growing interest.

"...I felt like...I was seeing you not as myself...but like with the eyes of a whole bunch of people...you know, like I was all of them..."

"...Wow," he said and hissed a breath of brief, nervous laughter.

"But that's still not the part that was the freakiest."

"Uh oh, tell me."

"...You were standing there in that grass field, so serious like a statue...and you were the age you are now...but you had white hair."

Chapter One

What a killer night, twenty-one-year-old Russian immigrant Anton Karapov reflected as he sleeved an arm with his coat. And he did so with an ample measure of haste—clearly he was late for something pressing. Yet this did not rip him away from his mental replaying of last night's ass-first, head first (hell, one and the same in this case) plunge into substance abuse excess.

With the Stone brothers, Paul and Patrick. Stone, thought Anton. What a totally fitting name for those two ultimate highflyers. For the Stone's, as Anton and many in their circle well knew, were almost always stoned.

They were certainly lit last night, he noted to himself with a lecherous grin. Anton hadn't even shown up to their place until one in the morning. And upon arrival, was hit with the slow coagulate nebula of Brazilian hashish—a contact high to kick things off. He had fallen into the pillowy couch beside them and the night's glory truly began.

Screw the bar with the imported beer he had just ejected himself from twenty minutes earlier. This was the place for the real brain carnival to commence. Hey carney man, spin that carousel and rev up those spark-spitting bumper cars. Time to take that leathery mallet and slam it down with every thing you've got aaaaaannnd ding! We have a winner.

And while we're at it, screw the day time, the morning after!—Anton howled with fervent conviction in his mind's echoing halls. What good ever came of it? The daylight was muck, the sun hours nothing but long needles shoved deep into the brain straight through the eyes! Why did there have to be, you know, hours of it? Hours of how things really are, rather than how we would like them to be.

Oh well, peckerhead, it's morning now and there's no use in moaning like some St. Petersburg whore. Pick up the damn phone and do your act.

Heeding his older brother's phantom voice in his head, he jabbed a hand out to grip the phone, pressed speed dial number four, and pasted it to his ear and cheek. He waited. "...Edna? Hey, it's me. Sorry I'm running a little late here, I can't seem to locate my keys." That was a lie. "They're in here somewhere, I know it. Once I got 'em, I'm gone...Okay, see you there." He pressed "end" and shoved his phone in his jacket pocket. Yet as he reached forth to snatch up his keys from the dining room table, his phone rang in its lyrical loop. And back out came the device. "Hello?"

And out of the thing's sliver of a speaker came a tiny, mousy voice of a girl. Anton's girl. "Anton!"

"Natalie!" he mocked, "Listen, I'm late—"

"Where were you?!"

"When?"

"Last night!"

"I was with the Stone brothers. Getting stoned. And pissed, why?"

"I tried to call you four hundred fucking times last night—"

"Nat, I'm so past late here, what is it?"

"...Are you ready?" came her elated tone.

" _Whaaaat?"_

"...I won the lottery!"

Instinctively, Anton swung around and trotted a few steps, as if Natalie was standing in that direction and his movement was allowing her more of his attention. "The lot—what—how much?!"

"You won't believe how much—"

" _Try me."_

"Twenty-five thousand dollars!"

"Are you kidding me?!"

"I am not!"

He then became frozen. A dimensional snapshot in time of a frazzled, tousled-haired youth whose mind had possibly forgotten the simple task of mobility. But no, his being had only hit the pause button for a second before his mouth spat quite audibly, "We never have to work again!"

"I know!"

"Get dressed, baby, I-am-on-my-way-over!"

"See you soon, _sweeetie_."

Anton hung up, jammed the phone back in his coat while plowing towards the front door. He slammed it shut and was gone.

And the room was left to itself, a claustrophobic cube degraded by decades of disrepair and general laziness on the part of its current inhabitant. The dresser rested on it a multitude of various things—clothes, cologne, condoms, etc.—that seemed to have fallen on each other; like the remnants of some child's imaginary war. Two things, however, towered up from the carnaged battlefield like risen victors—one was a three-year-old, twenty-two inch, flat-screen TV (which Anton accepted in lieu of payment for a bag of cocaine), and the other was a black, leather, rectangular case. Had the lid been opened, one would clearly be able to see four professional photo lenses fitted inside, all snugly held in place by wells of felt lining.

And had Anton not received the call from Natalie a moment ago, he would have grabbed the case by its flip-up handle and carried it with him to his only legitimate gig: a part-time photographer's assistant to one Edna Kirby. This Edna would have, with Anton's silent aid, employed these lenses to guide her in creating photographic mastery, two-dimensional sheets of scenic nirvana. She would then proceed to sell the prints or negatives to whoever had the good sense to commission her talents: travel magazines, science journals, etc. Edna would conclude the transaction by taking in a sizeable chunk of change to supplement her family's income and, of course, siphon off an agreed amount to Anton for his efforts. And life, in its supposed smoothness of flow, would have circled on.

But, there again, Anton had received the call from his girl changing the game for everything, interrupting the often grating, repetitive loop of things. And now he was vigorously plodding down the apartment building hallways to obsessively find the front exit. Forgetting with abandon the pressing appointment he had with his employer. Filling to the brim in his mind the new reality that thousands of dollars would soon be his for the asking.

Granted, in his drug-addled consciousness, twenty-five thousand was interpreted as more like two hundred and fifty thousand—which he also looked at as a quarter of a million dollars. And thus rushed to his early nineties two-door thinking that he and his Natalia were rich and carefree. Certainly careless of now meeting up with Edna to carry out their latest assignment.

And the case of lenses he would have brought with him to act as focal windows for one of California's most gifted photographers to work her magic would now just be a case of lenses. Sitting on a cluttered dresser. Useless.

Chapter Two

Nestor Beach dazzled its spectators with a tantalizing molasses-dipping of the orange-soaked sun. The wind was chilled yet it refrained from whipping the scattered patrons who currently inhabited Nestor's scenic land and waterscapes. If asked, most of the varied souls would likely admit to having a fairly pleasant evening absorbing the beach's aural and visual delights. After all, this locale was designed to deliver much needed doses of enjoyment prescribed by the mind's consults to unwind and release tensions. One did not typically come here to wallow in the disparities of life's darker and more oppressive drudgeries. And certainly not on a night such as this, with the sun putting on an eyeful of a show, rippling its way into the sparkling slumber of the ocean.

Yet wallowing was exactly what two particular individuals were doing here on Nestor's wooden-built, quarter-mile stretch of pier. A couple, a man and a wife who were, sadly enough, nine-years-long bound to each other in legal name only.

The man was a celebrity talk show host by the name, William Dyson Kirby. His wife of thirty-two years was Edna Riley Kirby. She was, of course, the much revered photographer mentioned earlier. But neither of their professions mattered to them right now. Only that they had come here to talk over what both knew simply had to happen.

"You know," Bill started from their silence, "you look at all of this..." and he peered across the darkening array of sand and sea, "...and when you're deep into each other like we used to be, it all seems like...I don't know, like mystical and...meant to inspire magic in people's lives, their ambitions and all that. My grandmother used to say it was fuel for the soul...but now..."

"But now that we're talking about certain divorce, there's no mystery or magic to any of it," Edna concluded for him, "It's just a bunch of earth and water. It looks pretty but it's still just things." She shrugged as if to emphasize their point—a beautiful (yet cluttered) beach, a pretty ocean, what of it?

"You know what this place really is? Proof that things never stay as good as they used to be. Can't believe how dingy it's gotten." And he shook his head but continued to stare out at the scenery. Though the night's majesty was lost on them, they continued to look forward avoiding direct addressing of one another. It was not so much in an attempt to avoid gazing upon each other; more in hopes of trying to eke out a small scrap of comfort from the evening's artistry. Though both of them knew it was virtually impossible.

"So," Edna soldiered on, "this is really it."

Bill breathed. "Don't see any way around it. Counseling proved that."

A small flat laugh escaped Edna. "Counseling. Never again."

Bill rotated his head slightly. "Ain't gonna argue with that."

Edna turned to eye the layout of the beach itself, with its almost infinite, snaking walkway, the plant-encrusted cliffs that were lined with strips of steep stairs or diagonal ramps. And, of course, the people who made use of them. A weird nostalgia hit her mind. "It really is tragically funny us coming here of all places to talk about ending our marriage...so many fun, romantic times on the beach...walking along this same pier..."

Finally, he faced her. "We'll go somewhere else, then. I didn't want to make this harder—"

Grimacing, Edna said, "Nooo...whatever, were here already."

"...All right."

The grimace remained as she asked, "Do you think we...failed each other?"

" _No_. Hell, thirty-two years for God's sake, name one of our friends' marriages who lasted even half that."

"We are the record holders in our circle, aren't we?"

"And I'm not going to stand here and blame you for this—"

" _Oh,_ whose to blame, it's just over, that's all. At least we're being adults about it. Which is more than I can say for any of the other divorces we witnessed over the years."

"And Janine's out on her own now, so maybe this won't hit her too hard."

A sense of pride now soothed her mind serving to dampen the sense of loss. "And that's one thing you and I surely didn't fail on. You and I raised a hell of a daughter."

Bill nodded with a small but satisfied smile. "She is quite something, isn't she? I mean _our child_ is now a graphic artist working for a big company...just amazing..."

Edna turned back to look at the sunset, actually taking some pleasure in the act. "I even like her guy now, believe it or not."

"Well, that's a surprising one-eighty."

"Wellll...he _does_ genuinely seem to care about her."

Bill cocked an eyebrow at her. "We are still talking about forty-five-year-old Charlie Baker dating our twenty-six-year-old daughter, right?"

"We are."

"Okay. Just checking."

"All right, I'm still a little freaked out by the age gap. But I guess, who are we to question a slightly unusual relationship?"

"True. Hey, they're still coming to the thing tomorrow night, right?"

"Far as I know. Damn, Bill, _three hundredth show..."_

"I know. I didn't even think I'd last a season...speaking of our daughter...how are we planning on breaking this to her? Should I tell her, should you, both of us?"

"I say both— _but,_ we should wait until after the celebration tomorrow. There's no point in spoiling her fun."

Nodding slowly, Bill said, "I agree."

And both of them were silent for a moment, watching the last of the shimmering slivers of the drowsy sun succumb to the vast unconsciousness of the ocean.

"Well..." Edna began with a flat tone and a blank expression, "...it's down. Let's go."

****

Bill drove their four-door sedan with Edna in the passenger seat. He had received the plush vehicle as a birthday gift for his fiftieth birthday from the producers of his talk show. It was a pitch black-colored car—which Bill had good-naturedly ribbed his staff about at the time of receiving: "Oh I see now, I'm a black man so I should automatically get a black car, is that how it is here?" To which Edna, still a year away from fifty herself at the time, retorted above the laughter, "Well, you married a white women, you might as well have a black car and not piss off the racists too much." After a few more chuckles were issued, Bill ended the particular subject with, "But hey! Where's the leopard skin interior? Aren't I worth the full nine here?" And once the laughter from that comment died down, Bill, being the ultra polite man that he'd always been, thanked everyone profusely for the generous gift and promised not to get too soused and wreck it.

That was three years ago. And the car, naturally, was yet a smooth running machine, doing exactly what it was expertly designed to do. Provide a comfortable driving experience for its owners. With decent gas mileage no less.

Bill wished he could say the same for his corpse of a marriage. A jarring loop of a horrid thought raced around in his mind: when did it all sputter and give out so completely to have brought them to this point. As he drove wordlessly through the night's traffic towards home (Edna as silent as he beside him), the thought played on him in its repetitiveness. Of course, he knew it was roughly nine years ago, that was clear. But the better phrasing of the question would have been "what" not "when." What had effectively closed the door on their love for each other. Time? A million tedious frustrations? Their emerging revelations about themselves? Some evolution of their individual characters that diverged their passions to paths too far apart? Perhaps all of these, he mused morosely. Perhaps none. Truthfully, he didn't know for certain what had happened. Maybe things just have a way of dying for no real reason, he sobered his mind with.

Then another stark thought pushed its way to the forefront of his conscious thoughts. One he'd been considering for quite some time. He broke the silence with, "After tomorrow night, I'm going to go ahead and get a hotel room for myself."

Edna immediately faced him. "What? Are you sure? That's been your house too. You know I can find a place, I can stay with someone—"

"Listen, I want you to stay there. At least until we can get things sorted out on the legal end."

Edna made a breath of unease. "...Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"...All right...we don't have to get separate lawyers, do we?"

Instantly, he replied, _"No_ , no, no."

"Okay."

Then silence returned to the two.

****

It was time for bed. The Kirby bedroom was bathed in darkness save for the illuminate of the bedside table's night lamp. Bill lay in their bed, a few blankets covering his lower half, and stared pensively at the ceiling. Frustratingly, an obsessive part of his mind couldn't face the "things just die sometimes" concept and forced him to keep wheedling away at the cause (or causes) of the breakdown. At this point, however, Bill wished that he could just close off thinking altogether.

After a moment, Edna came from the adjoining bathroom and climbed into bed next to Bill. She mirrored his nervous gaze to the ceiling.

"Well..." he started, "I suppose being cursed with impotency won't make much of a difference now."

"You don't plan on getting back out there?"

"Me? Date at fifty-three? You can't be serious."

"Well...it's not unheard of."

_Most certainly not for you, you shady little sneak_ , Edna's grandmother, Christine's reproachful and accusatory voice rang through her mind. _You used to tease those boys in your carefree teen years—the evil years as I like to called them—keeping at least two or three of those desperate manchildren on the hook. All for the satisfaction of your selfish, adolescent whims. Dirty child. It will come back on you one day._

Of course, that's all it was, really—a voice that existed only within Edna's burrowing conscience. Gammy Christine had been dead for thirty-eight years last October. Brain aneurism while she slept. But that didn't mean the old self-righteous prig's words were any less effective in bludgeoning Edna with a hammer of guilt and shame.

Eight years ago, Edna had met Pang Choi while arranging the funeral for her old high school friend, Patricia Dodd. She and Pat had been the tightest of best pals back in those hazy days of grade school. Yet as soon as both them got married, moved to different states, and had children, their busy lives afforded them few chances to meet, shop, and dish. Though they had grown apart, they always kept a certain love for each other. So when Patty died of a sudden and tragic heart attack (at only forty-three!), Edna felt compelled to be the one to arrange the funeral, as well as the after party.

Pang was the owner of the "With Honor" funeral home and burial services establishment. And had been for most of his adult life. An unwritten policy of his was to never mix business with personal interests, but when he met Edna for the initial arrangements, it was clear to his mind that the policy, in reality, was more of a guideline.

"I don't really work here," he said to her as she approached his desk. "I'm just filling in for another Pang Choi who's away."

She had laughed, not because the joke was particularly side-splitting in and of itself, but because Pang had delivered it with such comic pinash. A few weeks after the funeral, Edna made a fairly innocent lunch date with the middle-aged Hanoi native. And Mr. Choi was like a diabetic kid in a candy shop—knowing that it was bad for his health to potentially involve himself with a married woman—one whose husband was publicly famous. But he simply had to have her sweetness, that undeniable honey that dripped from her eyes and her smile.

And besides, all throughout the lunch he continued to make her laugh in all the right ways.

Three weeks later they went to bed together in a cabin loaned to Pang by his old college roommate. The passion was abrupt and intense, bordering on violent. Pang hadn't dated in two years. And Edna hadn't been to bed with Bill since his arousal issues surfaced a year earlier. The two were hungry. And by the end of the cabin visit, their proverbial libidinous bellies were full.

And so it became a regular thing—as regular as it could be with two lives as busied as Edna's and Pang's. She was a mother and still a wife with all the financial and familial obligations heaped upon those societal roles. And Pang had a dying father to attend to (as well as oversee the probate details after being named executor of the will).

For the last eight years, the two shady sneaks, as Gammy Chris liked to say, saw their get-togethers as balms for their wounds of reality, the things that ate at their minds and souls but had no control over changing. The secret getaways were what they looked forward to the most in life. And not just for the predominantly amazing sexual releases, but in the soothing realization that they had no real responsibility to one another. There was friendship and genuine affection, but no deep and unabiding love that spoke of a new future together. With marriage, kids, and the mortgage whole nine yards. It was an out, a convenience. What Edna had needed even more than Pang—particularly in the last two years now that he had come to terms with his father's passing.

So it was with a good measure of irony that, one week ago, Edna had met with Pang at the same restaurant of their first lunch together to end their affair. And at a time when she was contemplating divorce—a move which would have freed up the two shadies to cavort at will.

"Everybody is leaving me," Pang had complained between bites of his shrimp curry. My secretary, my make-up artist...I mean, I might as well close up shop, turn off the lights, and wait to die in one of my custom-made coffins."

Edna had not heard a word he said as she sat across from her lover in a secluded booth of the "Golden Chopstik" restaurant. Nor had Pang, while he was ranting of business woes, noticed Edna's blank stare as she twisted a long noodle with her fork. But now that he completed his complaint and was hoping for an inspirational retort, Pang flicked his eyes to focus on Edna's. "Hey," he began with an earnest enough smile, "is this livelihood stuff boring the piss out of you?"

Edna's form jolted slightly as she blurted, "Hm—? Oh, sorry..." She shook her head once while blinking. "...I'm sorry..."

"You know, I am well aware of my ability to suck people in with my riveting conversational skills, Edna, but please, girl, try and _contain_ yourself."

She smiled embarrassingly, saying, "Sorry...it's nothing to do with you, really."

"Well it has to do with something so come on, talk." Then he gave a recoiled, sly look. "If you can't talk to your longtime lover, who can you talk to?"

Edna looked down and braced herself with a deep, tensed breath. "Okay, Bill and I are calling it quits."

Literally and comically like out of a movie, Pang had stopped a fork-stabbed shrimp from reaching his mouth (which was currently frozen open).

"No way, for real?" he said in reaction.

"For real. No more counseling."

Pang lowered his shrimp to his plate once more and sat back, looking off in mental shock. "Wow...I know you guys were having some problems. Hell, you wouldn't be with me if you didn't, but..." and he faced her, brow crinkled, "...what about your daughter?"

"She's moved out now."

"Oh...still, that's probably going to be pretty tough for her—"

"Pang, do you really need to concern yourself with this?"

With a tight shake of his head, he spouted, "Of course I do, I care about you and everyone you care about—hey! If you're finally going to be out of the marriage game, maybe it's time you and I stop sneaking around—"

"I'm ending this too."

For the second time in the last minute, Pang was mentally thrown for a loop. "Well, don't candy-coat it, Edna, come right out and tell it like it is."

Edna grimaced slightly then said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to come out like that. But if we continued after the divorce it would only be to escape loneliness and this..." her eyes bugged briefly, "...this crushing feeling of failure that I have with me all the time now."

"Fine, let me be your shoulder. I want to help."

"And you could...for a while. But you and I both know that we don't love each other."

"No, but I do care, I mean that."

"I know. I just...I feel like now I have to find some new...place for myself, for who I am...if that makes any sense...and though I've never shown it before, I do feel guilt for what we've done."

"Why?" Bill's voice cut in jarringly to Edna's mental reminiscence of last week's final rendezvous with Pang. "Do you plan on dating?" her husband finished.

After a brief moment of continued gazing at the malaise-inducing, textured ceiling, Edna answered in monotone, "God, no."

Chapter Three

"Oh God, no," Janine Kirby announced in pure disgust. The twenty-six-year-old employee of Dynamek Dezigns Incorporated screwed up her face as she elaborated, "the last thing I wanna see is a movie with Jean Jacques St. Jean in it. I even hated that one everyone thought was so hot—that, uh, that 'Time Militia' flick..." She said this into her cell phone as she sat back in a lounging manor at her desk. A desk that, like most of the employees of Dynamek, was partitioned off by three edge-connected, five foot terminating walls. The proverbial cubicle. Were she on the clock, her current activities would be highly frowned upon. But as she was on her fifteen minute break, she was free to talk to her beau if she so desired. Which she was doing right now with a sudden smile on her caramel cream-colored, smooth, and rounded face. "...Yes, I now you're messing with me...Yeah and you'll pay dearly for it too, I promise you..." The smile broadened and, as it did, she gingerly bit her lower lip to the point where it disappeared behind her upper teeth. "...I better pay...Not for the movies, you creepo...I love you...Okay, I'll see you then, baby, my fifteen's just about up...Bye."

With a smile of warmth still lingering on her lips, she pressed "end" on the phone, hanging up the call, and lightly shoved the thing in her nearly packed purse. No sooner was that done then her company phone beeped. She picked up the line. "Yes, Mr. Boss?"

"I need to see you," said a male voice filtered by the phone receiver.

"Be right there." And she hung up.

Nick Boss had been one of the youngest up-and-comers at Dynamek to reach the coveted position of Regional Director of Graphics and Advertising in the history of the company. He achieved this feat by unequivocally saying goodbye to all of his trusted and longtime companions—the ones that had survived the high school social attrition with him.

Back in those simpler (yet no less troubling and anxious) days of grade school, Nick had exuded a more impressionable and malleable personality. Going along with whatever his pals did to escape the horrors of boredom and teen isolation. He was also akin to "yucking it up" as they say, coming up with some classic one-liners or zingers of his own. Often this occurred as they would all bask in the sparkling fantasy land of inebriation.

But then college mack-trucked its way through the thin plaster of his mental defenses and he almost folded into a complete nervous breakdown. The workload was overwhelming to his senses when conjuncted with part-time work and the pressing desire to stay connected with his friends.

It was a chance encounter with a book at a public library (where he'd taken a breather from oppressive school assignments to stretch his legs) that served to supremely convert him from the "victim" (as he would later label himself of those early painful days) into the rocket-at-full-thrust (also his own personalized label) soul that he was today.

And the author of that book? To be revealed in a moment.

But the mystery author's influence could clearly be witnessed in the busied décor of Boss' spacious office walls. Framed print ads from their most successful accounts shared the wall spaces with Nick's equally-cherished (and also framed) business excellence awards. There was an award for every year that he held his current position, ten in all. And now that he was thirty-six and satisfyingly excelling in his job, he occasionally reflected on those he used to "hang" with.

Through certain channels, he found out that none of them had achieved anything near a career of notable or stellar proportions. Not as he had. None of them had decided on the level of dedication and ambition in reaching the business heights as Nick had endeavored every day since "the book" entered his life.

Shiftless losers, Nick would muse in the ego-built fortress of his mind. I'm glad I said sianara to that bunch of cowards. Lord knows I tried to convince 'em, show 'em a better way, the wisdom of the book I discovered.

Cowards, losers, or worse—married with kids and four mortgages!

Currently, however, Nick wasn't indulging in that particular area of his ego-fueled, self-grandeuring. He was entrenched in another avenue of it.

Leaning leisurely back in his leather-cushioned, easily reclining chair in his aforementioned vast office, Nick was speaking on the phone with an associate. Putting on the charm hat that fit him so well these days. "...Naaahh, we can't get him right now, John-John, he's in India shooting for Kubric...I mean Bertolucci, right—hell, one of those eccentrics...Aw, there's always a way, Jon- _ath_. Besides, you know how they love to dick with the asking price..."

Janine appeared at the glass door of his office and opened it to enter. A slight air of hesitation and unease dictated her movements and general demeanor. Part of it was because Nick was still on the phone; the other was simply general nervousness in being called in for reasons unknown to her. And he _was_ an authority figure after all.

He motioned for her to sit and she sped up her pace a bit, wanting to be a good employee, compliant. She sat in the chair on the opposite end of his desk, opposite and facing him. He talked on to "John-John."

"I know, I know—hey, why don't we get Jason Sparrow, I love his movies..."

A flicker of familiar disgust hit Janine's eyes at the mention of Sparrow. St. Jean, Sparrow—both the same kind of interminable gruff stars of the same type of B-film, action-oriented drivel that graced the silver screen year after year. Or more frequently, the straight-to-video market. She detested it all.

Nick jokingly offered to the phone, "Sure, give him a can of Roony beer to hold up, some computerized jowl removal, and we got our spot..." and Nick laughed a bit. "...Right, right..." and he laughed some more. "...All right, Johnny boy, let's contact his people and see what pops...All right, back at you in twenty." He hung up the phone and immediately focused on Janine.

" _Okay_ , Janine..." he began, "...as you know, you're not up for review for another month. Which is why I wanted to talk to you about a few things at this point."

"D-did I do something wrong?" Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit—

" _Oh_ , nothing specific really, but the thing is—well if you don't mind me asking, you don't have any major personal problems right now, do you?"

"No, nothing." Whew...?

"Well, here's the thing..." He sat up straighter now, a move loaded with purpose. "See, I notice more than people think around here. And when I see you, I see you doing your work and that's _good_ ...but when I look into your eyes, I don't see a spark, I don't see a palpable drive."

"A palpable drive?"

"A deep desire to excel beyond words."

Janine drew in a breath as she said, "Oh."

"But that's not all I see." Oh no, my sweeet piece of chocolate cream pie, Nick salivated in his head. My baby-faced delight! Your piercing hazel eyes are not the only thing I see...not by a long shot. If you only knew how many times in the last two years since you started working here that I've locked my eyes on your curving perfection. How many times I've wanted to come up behind you and let my hands roam, caress, and massage every inch of your upper body. First, over your blouse, and then ripping the buttons off it and pulling apart the damn thing to expose your firm, excited breasts. You wouldn't be wearing a bra because secretly you would be hoping for me to do this to you. You wouldn't be wearing any underwear either which would allow me to pull up your skirt— "I also see that you have serious potential. You could be...well, an industry giant. You do want that, don't you?"

"O-oh yes. Very much, Mr. Boss."

"A little hesitation. I notice these things, hm? But I believe you. Hell, success can be a scary thing, but most definitely a worthy thing, hm?"

Quickly nodding, she said, "M-hm."

"Which is why I want to help. Have you ever heard of a man named Chase Curall?"

Janine's eyes darted around near her upper lids as her mind attempted to access any mention of this man's name in her past...nothing came. "N—n—"

"Chase Curall is my idol. He's an author but more than that he's a visionary. A genius in navigating through the..." He laughed a touch, "...the shark infested waters of corporate business practice...do I sound like a giddy school boy? Forgive me." And he sat back again settling into his mental comfort zone, a sheepish grin formed his lips. "But his books have revolutionized the corporate landscape and he is the chief reason why I am where I am today. And I know he can help you over your...hick up, whatever it is. Are you game?"

She nodded quickly, hoping that he didn't notice any of the constricting panic that was growing inside her.

He handed her a trade paperback book that he'd just taken out of a desk drawer. She took it from him and read the title out loud. "'Effective Business Through Busy Effectiveness'?"

"His first book. Has now sold over ten million copies worldwide. There are more of his books but I wanted you to get introduced to him from the beginning."

She looked the book over back and front, feigning genuine interest. But then quickly refocused on Nick as he pointed his index finger up in the air and said, _"But,_ there _is_ something from his second book that I think you should know right away. It's his 'Perfect Ten' that he lists at the beginning and then goes into detail throughout the book."

"'Perfect Ten'?"

"'Perfect Ten Rules of Ascension.' And believe me, it really _is_ the perfect list, it makes good on its promise. Believe it or not, I have them memorized." Nick sat back up again and looked skyward, his eyes swiveled as if accessing his memory. "Number one: whatever the supervisor asks you to do, always do it with more effort that is asked of you. Number two: always create and keep a record (either at home or at work) of several innovative business related ideas. That way, if a business meeting occurs and you are asked for new ideas, you are not caught off guard."

Janine could not help but allow a measure of fear to tighten the lids around her eyes. She hoped that he would interpret this as rapt attention...

"Number three," Nick went on, "Always exercise in the morning. This instills you with energy and a go-getter attitude that coffee simply doesn't afford. Number..."

****

"...Four," Janine continued reciting to a man in her apartment the "Perfect Ten" rules as she sat lounging on her couch. A hint of mocking intoned her voice. "Always treat your superiors with the proper respect. Arguing is never a healthy business practice. If you feel there is a business related problem, address it to the supervisor with the utmost courtesy."

The man she was reiterating to stood fifteen away from her in the kitchen area of Janine's apartment. He had his back to her as he was preparing two mugs of smoke-billowing hot tea. The drinks rested on the counter while he gingerly dunked the tea bags in and out of the searing liquid.

"Number five," Janine read on from the book, "try not to bring too many personal items—or none at all—to your work station. It invariably clutters your work area and shows clients and superiors alike that your main focus is not on work."

This one made the man turn his head to the side allowing a glimpse of his face, his slightly hooked nose and disarming, thick eyebrows. In mild shock, he said, "What?"

"Wait, wait, it gets better. Number six: always be thinking of the forward and upward movement of the business profit margin..." As Janine said this, the man left the kitchen area with both hands holding a mug of tea. He moved with careful momentum so as not to spill the brews. He made it to the living room incident free and placed one mug down on the table before Janine. "Thanks," she said, and then he trotted a few steps to ease his middle-aged, semi-stocky form into a recliner fairly close to the couch. When he settled in, the man, who was, in fact, Charlie Baker, took a tentative sip from his still uncomfortably hot tea. He stared at Janine as she continued. "Always do better than last year's margin. Seven: only minimal, necessary contact with your co-workers. Chit chat is invariably the downfall of the business profit margin." And from her laidback position on the cushioned couch, she sat upright, imitating Nick's finger-pointing upward. "Eight: always be thinking of promotion. Every move you make in business should be gearing yourself for the CEO position. Nine: always work over to finish the job but do not concern yourself with overtime pay. The completion of the job should be satisfaction enough."

"You gotta be fucking kidding me," Charlie said in disturbing disbelief, his brow crinkling.

"I told you it gets better. And finally, number ten: always hold off marriage and family until you've at least reached vice-president of your company." She slap-closed the book by Nick's all-time favorite author and tossed it to the table with abandon. "The Perfect Ten Rules of Ascension."

"So..." and he took another sip of his smoke-rising drink, "...you have to read this book and another, huh?"

"Only if I want to keep my job which I spent six years to get. Damn it, Charlie, I just want to do my work, the stuff I'm good at, and not have to worry about bullshit like this."

With a grimace, Charlie leaned forward to glance over the book. "Chase...Cur—Curall? Never heard of him."

"He's supposed to be some kind of super guru of the corporate world. Owns two major businesses worldwide. My boss— _Mr. Boss_ —" Charlie snorted a small laugh then took another sip of tea. "—swears by him. 'He's a genius in navigating the shark-infested waters of business practice. Do I sound like a school boy? Forgive me?'" Then her tone and expression turned malignant. "No! I don't forgive you. What I _would_ like to do is follow you home to your bachelor pad—because you haven't reached vice president of your company just yet, although I'm sure you're working on it—and blow your damn head off!" She had been looking off as she ranted, but now she faced Charlie again. "I can do that, can't I?"

"Well sure," he quipped, playing along.

"You know, with one of those giant shotguns that they use in all those ultra bloody action movies; I could handle one of those, couldn't I?"

"Absolutely, they're a snap."

She laughed as she fell back into the couch again. "Now I know you're messing with me." And she laughed a bit more, but quickly her face turned to a sag of distress. A whimpering sigh escaped her mouth. "Then a handgun—or whatever does the job. Or maybe I should just use it on myself." She lulled her head back and brought her hands to her eyes to proceed in rubbing her closed lids.

Charlie pursed his lips until they disappeared; his eyes switched to fatherly concern. "Come on now..." He rose and crouched over to put his half-empty mug on the table. Once done, he moved around the thing to sit close to Janine. He placed a loving arm around her shoulders. "...hey, it's the end of the week. I wouldn't worry myself about Nick Boss or Chase whatever until...at _least_ Sunday night."

She laughed a touch again and kept a smile as she gazed into his oceanic blue eyes.

"Besides," he added, "We've got a party to go to tonight, young lady."

"Friday...yaaaaay," she said with minimal enthusiasm. Right at the moment it was about all she was capable of.

Chapter Four

Bill Kirby's early career began with an earnest yet modest local TV talk show broadcasted from Kaplann Community College. Those days had been frenetic and quite nerve-shattering for the young Bill, an African-American boy fresh out of Janes High School in Janes, Illinois. And just newly married to a white girl from Phoenix, Arizona—the formerly Edna Hirsch. With a marriage, a mountain of school assignments, and prep for the show, Bill wondered if eating and sleeping were now much coveted luxuries, and not life sustaining necessities.

But Bill slugged through the craziness to graduate with a bachelors in journalism—and a cult following, no less, of his work on the talk show. The boy simply had the wit to attract. "God bless community cable access," Bill would often say to Edna. The notoriety afforded him his first real job in broadcasting—a countywide broadcast company hired him as co-host for interviewing local celebrities or political figures. One job lead to another (celebrity reporter to red carpet correspondent to his first solo gig—hosting public reviews for major motion pictures) and Bill's notoriety expanded to worldwide status. Some now considered him a legend in the entertainment field; thirty years of survival in a high attrition business will do that occasionally.

Finally, eleven years ago, Bill had fully arrived in his career trajectory with "The Bill Kirby Show." A primetime, one hour, weekly interview show with top celebrities of the sports, entertainment, and political arenas. And throughout these eleven years, the show had garnered awards, new fans all over the world, and—most importantly to the producers—predominantly high ratings.

The latest airing of the show, which had played just last week, marked a new milestone in the episode counting. Hence, a celebration was deemed by Bill and the producers to be in high order.

So tonight, Friday night, was the agreed date on the official invite to hold this perceived momentous occasion. The party was set to start at eight p.m.

That was two hours ago and now the Kirby household was alive and buzzing with several show staffers and their invites. They talked to each other, laughed (some quite loudly), and, of course, drank various alcoholic concoctions (some to euphoric inebriation by this point). The aural array of conversations were indistinct, overlapping, creating a constant babbling brook of sound.

But this soon died down as a rotund, ebony-haired man in his late fifties named Jack Marsh took a fork to his half-emptied champagne glass and dinged it three times. The cacophony sounds caught everyone's attention on the last hit. Being the executive producer of Bill's show, Jack, of course, felt it was apropos to make some sort of official announcement. "Everyone! I would like to formally welcome you to the unbelievable miracle—I—I mean Three Hundredth Show Celebration of 'The Bill Kirby Show.'" Everyone laughed along with the joke, Bill the hardest. Jack continued, "A show that features always intriguing interviews with show business top personalities, trailblazers, up and coming talent, and _other_ emotional train-wrecks." And another round of laughter boomed the room. "No, no, now, all kidding aside..." He turned to face Bill. "...Bill, you have handled yourself with poise, posture, incredible wit, and a professionalism that I'm _sure_ will carry us to the four hundredth show and beyond. Congratulations and cheers."

Jack held up his glass a bit higher and everyone mirrored him with their own various drinks. They all echoed, "Cheers," and drank.

Bill and Jack approached each other and gave one another a firm handshake. Before letting go of the grasp, Bill turned his head to the crowd and said, "My boss just paid me a compliment. Now there's the _real_ miracle."

Once again, the crowd burst with laughing, Jack joining in. the sounds were brief, allowing Jack to add, "Always the negative one. He didn't even think he'd last a season."

"That's true, I didn't. Thanks again, Jack, I appreciated every word."

Placing his other hand over their clasped ones, Jack warmly said, "Absolutely, absolutely." But then something distracted Jack and his eyes averted past Bill's. "Oh hey, there's your daughter."

"I'll meet you back around."

"You bet."

They parted from each other allowing Jack to mingle and the crowd to return to their respective conversations. Bill made a beeline to Janine who stood beside Charlie.

"Hi, dad." Janine said with a smile.

"Hey, Janny girl, thanks for making it. How was your week?"

They hugged briefly, then she replied, "Could have been better. Not too bad, I guess, though."

"Charlie, good to see you."

The two men shook hands, another brief-lasting gesture, Charlie saying, "Hey Bill, congratulations."

"Thanks, thanks. You guys are planning on staying for a while, right?"

"Far as I know we're staying until the last body drops."

Suddenly, Edna fast approached behind Janine and put her arms around her waist. "Janine, deary, come with me to the kitchen, it's gossip time."

Janine eyed Charlie with a playfully false look of distress. "Well honey, that's my queue. I'll catch you later."

"All right then."

To her dad she added, "Congratulations, pa-pa."

Smiling, Bill gave back, "Thanks, baby."

Edna whisked Janine away leaving Bill and Charlie to stand silently and cordially smiling at one another.

Bill broke the silence, "Actually, it's a good thing I got you alone. I need to talk to you."

"Oh, okay, sure."

Beginning to move, Bill offered, "Here, let me get you a drink and we'll step outside where it's a tad bit quieter."

Grinning at Bill's comment, Charlie followed him over to the bar.

****

Drinks in hand, Bill and Charlie exited the noisy house, closing the sliding glass door behind them. The noise muffled considerably. They approached the wooden deck to lean on it with their elbows. Bill looked up at the night. After a second, he said, "It's nice out. Not too cold...but I ask you, _where_ did all the stars go? What happen to them in the last twenty-some years?"

Casually, Charlie answered, "Don't know...rising pollution I guess...I'll say this though, I can remember some pretty spectacular nights out in the desert, camping with my family and all."

" _Ah,_ the desert...that was certainly the place to be. I mean the sky was just covered in some of the brightest stars you could ever see. It was kinda like a light show, wasn't it, with all the shooting stars coming down every few minutes or so...now you can't even see 'em out there anymore...but I guess...things can't ever stay the same..."

Charlie eyed his host with tense concern. "What's on your mind, Bill?"

"...Edna and I are getting a divorce."

"...I'm sorry, Bill, that's a terrible shame. I'm truly sorry."

Bill shrugged. "It's been coming for quite some time."

"Edna...seems so cheery, I never would have guessed—"

"Welll, we've both decided just to have a good time tonight. I hope you will too, despite what I've told you."

"...Admittedly, it does put a bit of a damper on things...but I'll do my best for Jan."

Bill took a drink from his scotch then said, "Good. Thanks. You're probably wondering why I've told you about this when we haven't even told our daughter."

"Well, I just thought, maybe you always begin conversations on a down note."

Bill smiled briefly, but then elaborated in a serious demeanor, "I told you because, well, you've been through this before. Janine had told us. I was thinking maybe you could talk to me about it a bit, give me a bit of advice...quite frankly, I really don't know what to expect."

Now Charlie took a drink and looked down into his glass, as if he could recount his marriage disaster within the liquid and ice. "I can tell you this much, it wasn't very fun. Every little dirty thing comes out and I mean everything. I don't know Edna that well, but I can tell you that Marilyn, my ex-wife, she reveled in my downfall. The woman who I once thought was the sun, the earth, and the moon became my worst enemy. I never hated anyone more."

"What did you mean by every little thing came out?"

"Everything _you've_ done, everything _she's_ done. Our bad financial decisions, our petty fights, our frustrations with each other, infidelities—"

"She cheated on you?"

"We cheated on each other. And I know what you're now thinking, am I going to cheat on your daughter at any point and time."

"You're not, are you?"

"No, I can say that I will never cheat on your daughter because I'm not married to her. My infidelities were never based on falling in love with someone else. They were a symptom brought on by my eventual realization that I never should have been married in the first place." He took sip of his vodka then looked up into Bill's eyes. "Maybe people were meant to be with a few select people in their lives, but I don't much believe that they were meant to be with just one."

****

"The little punk bailed on me yesterday, can you believe that?" Edna griped to Janine as they both were preparing more food for the guests. Edna was unwrapping the cellophane from a platter of gourmet cheeses while Janine was working on uncorking a bottle of red wine. Edna added, "I can't get a hold of him."

"Come on, mom, are you really that shocked? Anton's a flake, I could tell that from the get-go. My only surprise is that you kept him on this long."

"He knew lenses and he worked for cheap." She winced, tutted, "Oh, I'll probably just have to hire someone who's more professional for higher pay. It's just so tight with freelance."

Struggling with the cork opener, Janine scolded, "Well, why don't you just get hired on as a staff photographer like you've been offered ten times a month?"

"Because I'll miss the freedom. You know I'm too used to making my own rules, what days I work, what days I don't. It's liberating."

Really straining with the cork removal now, Janine managed to get out, "I hear extra money to shop is quite liberating as well—" POP! The cork flew.

"Oh, speaking of liberated..." and then Edna leaned in closer to her daughter and lowered her voice, "...Have you noticed how much Tara has been 'living it up' this evening?"

"You know, I caught a glimpse of her as we came in. she was talking to a couple of guys, laughing and putting her hands on their shoulders—"

"And their arms and their legs and God knows what else by now. I mean, think of it, Ms. Snooty-snotty, 'don't touch me or I'll spit poison' is actually flirting!"

Janine drew in her eyebrows as she commented, "It is odd, isn't it?"

"It's more than odd, it's _peculiar."_

****

"So I'm wagering that you'll never walk down the isle again," Bill surmised of Charlie.

"Thaat's a fair bet," Charlie confirmed, wiggling the ice in his almost emptied glass.

"How do you know it wouldn't be better the next time out?"

"Because I know myself. I know that marriage to me is like a...a prison sentence without the possibility of parole. Eternity to me is a burden too heavy to bear...maybe it's a fault of mine..." He turned to look at the night's sky again. "...maybe a part of me wants to rebel against the very idea of institutions themselves. Whatever it is, it's something that, after my divorce, I was willing to firmly come to terms with."

Bill nervously stared on at Charlie. "Well...not to get too personal into yours and Jan's relationship, but...what if she, one day, comes to the conclusion that marriage is the next step?"

Charlie downed the very last sip from his drink and paused briefly before answering. "I've thought about it once every so often...if she never asks me, then there's a good possibility that she and I could last, which is what I want because, believe me, Bill, I really love her a great deal...but if she does want marriage some day, then I can see things getting painful and messy...But truthfully, I'm really just hoping that we'll be happy together as things are now."

Bill stared at Charlie for a brief moment with genuine concern etching his eyes. He had always liked Janine's latest man because he appeared to be a solid individual—well mannered and hard working yet not obsessed with himself or what he did for a living. The age gap gave Bill pause though not to the extreme that it did Edna (she almost had advised Janine to end the whole thing and move on). But if Charlie was the one who made their daughter supremely happy, then he wasn't going to stand in their way. Let them go on their course and make their mistakes if there were any to make. But now Bill actually worried for them. Now the issue might not have anything to do with age, but with conflicting wants and needs between his daughter and the man she once called "the coolest thing since curly fries; the coolest man since you, daddy."

He averted his gaze from Charlie and eyed the barely star-filled night. He waited a few more seconds then said, "I wish you the best of luck, Charles."

Sharing the same uninspired view of the darkened sky, Charlie offered, "You too."

****

Edna had already said warm "good nights" to predominantly every guest from the party. After eleven years of visiting the set of the show for various reasons, she had come to know and become friends with practically every crewmember. Which made up the majority of the soused (though most were sobering up or had designated drivers) souls who came for the festivities.

One of the last who "whirled" her way towards Edna was a forty-seven-year-old lank of a woman named Tara Gaines. Shapely yet severe in appearance, she served as the line producer of the show. Edna started for a courteous "good host" hug towards Tara, but the boogie-footed woman shot through it to place both hands on Edna's cheeks. What proceeded was something that the good host would never forget as long as she was capable of remembering. Tara drew in closer and planted a pressing, long-standing kiss to Edna's tightening lips. Edna instinctively recoiled slightly, her expression one of annoyance mixed with shock. But Tara held firm and kept the kiss going for a number of seconds. Finally, she released it with a great smacking sound; Edna's eyes were fluttering—a visual queue of her mind's attempt to adjust to what just happened.

"Good night, honey!" Tara gleefully said to Edna, then smiled wide and simply passed by to jiggle herself out the door. Her head craned back to look up at the night sky. "Good night, moon!" and she boogie-danced her way to her car across the street.

Edna stared after her with a knitted brow, still attempting to come to grips. She murmured to herself, "What the hell was that...?" Focused so much on Tara, she didn't even notice that Janine and Charlie had come up behind her.

"Mother?" Janine said.

Turning rather abruptly, Edna blurted, "Oh, honey..."

"Good night, mother."

"Night, honey, I hope you had fun."

"Apparently not as much fun as some...do you think maybe she's discovered Ecstasy?"

"Tara Gaines?...You think?"

Grinning, Janine said again, "Night, mom." And they embraced.

As they did, Edna added, "Hey, you could be right, who knows." They parted and Edna eyed Charlie. "Good night, Charlie. I hope you had a good time."

"I had a great time," Charlie announced, apparently making good on his agreement with Bill. "Good night, Mrs. Kirby."

The two departed for Charlie's car leaving Edna to look on after them for a brief moment. Then, with no others to usher out politely into the night, she closed the door and bolted the deadlock on it. Once done, she immediately turned to face Bill, who had just approached. She asked, "So, what'd Charlie say?"

Bill thinned a corner of his mouth and let out an oppressive breath. His eyes were dark with a measure of intensity. "More than I expected unfortunately."

Edna's brow furled with concern. "What?"

"Charlie, uh...well, he never intends to marry again."

" _Oh no..."_

"What?"

"When we were talking earlier tonight, Janine, well...mentioned marriage and Charlie in the same sentence."

****

Charlie steered his classic 1970's restored car through the dark, early morning's sparse traffic. Janine sat beside him, her face was sour as a jarring, indefinable bur prodded her thoughts. Something she just couldn't put her finger on. "My mother was acting a bit off tonight."

Matter-of-factly, Charlie said, "I didn't notice anything."

"She's faking something...something's up, I can feel it."

Charlie's expression tightened up ever so slightly. "Well, whatever it is, I'm sure it's nothing."

She whipped her head to face him. "You know something I don't?"

"Hn-n." _Change the subject, Charlie. Now._ "Hey, that one lady...what's her name—?"

"Tara—"

"Tara, right. Was it a good idea for her to get behind the wheel? She seemed pretty loaded—"

Quickly shaking her head, Janine said, "She didn't have one drink. She doesn't drink."

Silence hit for a moment as Charlie processed this bit of contradictory news. "...Huh. Could have fooled me."

****

The crickets were having their say, droning endlessly on in the same rapid rise and fall of high pitch grindings. Out in this neck of the Garrison Woods area, the overlapping shrills were quite audible and would likely try the nerves of anyone whose patience was notoriously thin.

But as Tara had her car windows firmly rolled up, the noise was muffled enough to be considered livable. Not that she was even focused on these habitual sounds in the first place. Her main locus of listening came from a mixed CD of songs pouring from the car's audio speakers. It wasn't just any mixed disc to her, these were her most time honored and cherished tunes—the soundtrack to her mental and emotional landscape.

Though she was indulging in the lyrical, melodic creations from her favorite moody artists, she was not reveling in their perceived brilliance. Wasn't swaying with her eyes closed, lost in the soothing nirvana that these songs had religiously taken her to in the past. She most certainly wasn't the Tara of earlier this evening; there was no more "groove" in her movements, no flail of the arms in rhythmic time to imaginary pounding beats.

That Tara was much hell and gone.

The one that existed now was that of a middle-aged woman who sat motionless behind the wheel of her parked car. Her face had pasted on it a dead stare directed straight ahead. Her eyes were looking at a thickened darkness emerged with patches of visible forest structures, textures of enormous tree trunks and droves of leaf-rich plants. But her mind registered none of it. It's only concern, only narrowed purpose was to try its utmost to somehow enjoy, if only at its most minimal, the songs she cherished above all others.

Yet it was becoming increasingly difficult. Perhaps, she reflected, she should have tried to get the others at the party to play some (or all—wouldn't that have been a party!) of the music on this disc. She would have been able to enjoy them there, while she was still in a dancing and grooving mood. While she was still whooping and flirting with wild abandon.

She wasn't quite sure why she paid so much attention to the men of the crowd tonight. She was predominantly a lesbian after all and had such a peripheral sexual attraction to men. She rationalized that, perhaps because it was a woman who had made her the way she was now, inflicted her with this particular brand of biological mass destruction, that she chose to deny her inherent sexual identity on this particular occasion. She recklessly resigned herself to "fit in" with the status quo of traditional sexual roles as some irrational snub to her own kind. Why, again, she was not entirely sure. It's not like all women had done this to her, subjected her to the proverbial room with no windows or doors—waiting for the air to run out.

But not all thoughts are rational, she concluded, when one is trapped, locked in the mode of desperation.

And in following with that mode of psychological and emotional upheaval, she, of course, backpedaled on her sexual rebellion at the last moment of the party. She had to. When it came to Edna.

For eleven frustrating, damn years she had a deep and gnawing crush on Bill's wife. Something about how she carried herself, her mannerisms when she spoke, had sucked Tara into Edna's physical allure. And that voice she had—that husky, almost commanding voice of hers—that tugged at the pit of Tara's stomach, wanting to draw her near the elder woman. And kiss the fucking hell out of her.

And, of course, wanting much more than that.

But the kiss would have to do, she had figured on even before the party had begun. That would be enough. It would have to be, because she knew it would be all she was allowed to get away with. Even if there were rumors that Bill and Edna were having marital issues, Tara knew full well that the object of her desire had not a gay bone in her body.

But Tara was not going to harp on what could not be. She had gotten the kiss that she had wanted from the woman that she wanted. Well, not _exactly_ the kiss she wanted, there was no reciprocation of passion on Edna's part. But it was sweet and satisfying nonetheless. And as she left the party and drove to her current destination (starting the mix disc as soon as she started up the engine), the joy of the stolen kiss had made her giddy. Like a fourteen-year-old girl hopped up on soda pop and prank calls made with sleepover friends.

But now that she was at her inert spot in the night-blanketed woods, the wave of euphoria she felt from the risky act had crested and now crashed. A thin spread of the feeling had gone about as far as it could reach on the sands of her soul, and was now receding. Now all she had were the songs, the soundtrack to her miserable existence. Songs that simply couldn't feed her spirit any longer, save for a lingering sliver of familiarity (and a soured nostalgia of better times).

She continued her zombie stare ahead for a few seconds more then she reached over to the glove compartment, opened it down, and pulled out a folded pair of papers stapled at the top left corner. She unfolded it to flatten it as much as possible. The header of the facing page read:

The Offices of Doctor Edward Ocampo, M.D.

What followed was a paragraph that began with: We regret to inform you...

She didn't finish reading it as she had already done so five times over. Instead she flipped over to the second page which contained the results options for various diseases contracted or otherwise. She scanned down to the only one that didn't feature a "negative" in the results column.

Across from the listing that stated the HIV/AIDS results, it read:

Positive

She had checked this page multiple times as well. Why was she doing it now, she asked herself. Was she hoping that it could ever possibly say something different by looking at it one more time? Was there something she'd missed, near the end of the sheet maybe, that read "April fools! From the zany staff members of Eddie Ocampo M.D.?" Besides, there was no mistaking the fact that she had the disease—and full blown to boot. She had already lost some weight and was sick a number of times in the past six months. She felt decent right now, but she knew that wouldn't last for long.

Perhaps she looked at the papers now as a way of punishing herself, bringing another whip swing on her conscience for having unprotected sexual contact with a woman she barely knew. She had been convinced by this woman that if they matched up their privates, in what was called the "Scissor Position," it would have quite a desired effect. At the time, the woman was right.

Or maybe Tara wanted to, again irrationally, join in on what she had perceived God to be doing for most of her existence: kicking the crap out of her heart and having the best time doing it.

Well it won't be happening for too much longer, I guarantee you that, she finalized in her mind.

Keeping the papers in her left hand, she reached with her right to dive below her seat and bring up something that weighted heavily in her grasp. Something made of thick and certain metal.

A handgun.

She placed the still unfolded papers on her lap and then rested the intimidating weapon right on top of them. The weight kept the papers supremely flattened.

She stared down at the items before her for an interminable few seconds more. Then she simply stared ahead again, the dead expression of her eyes having never left her face.

Sunrise, she thought. That's when. Only a few hours more.

And the music along with the crickets' squealings droned on.

Chapter Five

For eleven years, Trini Alvarez had been a fan of the Bill Kirby Show. At fourteen, she had switched her TV viewing habits from fruit-inspired cartoon characters to more sophisticated fare. And Bill's show certainly fit snuggly into this evolution of her entertainment preferences.

She liked how nice he was to his guests even when he was broaching difficult subjects with them. Any other host would have made that boring, she thought, but Bill made it work with his ultra-clever phrasings. With every episode, he came into her living room (or bedroom) TV and enthralled her, made her laugh, and satisfied her Thursday night, end of day viewing cycle.

So it was with a good amount of fortuitous luck that in her fourth year of college she, Trini Alverez from Santa Ana, California, landed an intern position as a production assistant working on the Bill Kirby Show. She accepted the job, unpaid though it was, as part of her college credits but also because, obviously, it was a chance to see Bill in action. To actually, in person, witness his interviewing magic.

Most of the time, the crew had her running errands or cleaning up by the end of the day—all standard intern drudgery, of course. Which Trini performed without complaint or whining, mainly because part of her duties included handing off the background note cards to Bill himself. Here was her chance to get close to the nicest man in the entertainment biz. The guppy among the sharks, with which the sharks all liked.

But apparently his wife didn't anymore. Or at least that was Trini's perception of the woman. The star-struck intern had only been with the show for two months and was not privy to Bill and Edna's marital history. But it seemed that whenever Edna made a visit to the set, she spent more time talking to the staff and crewers than she ever would to Bill. And there was no hug or kiss hello or goodbye. Even Trini knew that in a professional setting, those displays of affection were acceptable.

Something was amiss in their relationship, Trini could sense it. And if there was, then it was time for her to make herself truly known within Bill's sphere of consciousness. Time to inject herself into his life, the consequences be damned, future with the show be damned. She was Trini Alverez after all, the reckless go-getter.

_But_ , as Bill was currently in the middle of taping an interview for his show, Trini figured she'd wait for her time to strike.

Although the show would air on Thursday night, Bill began taping as early as today, Monday. This was a normal procedure as it allowed the show's coordinators to schedule prominent personalities on the days that they would become available. Two were cleared for today's taping. The first one was being interviewed now—her name was Paula Ezran, an up-and-comer promoting her first major film production. She was an attractive, slender Caucasian with auburn hair and dynamic eyebrows. She and Bill were in the middle of a conversation.

"You know, I never thought of it that way," Bill said, commenting on a particular subject. He was sitting next to Paula against a glitzy, stylish backdrop.

Paula added, "I know, neither did I."

"Now...'Nathan's Art' will mark your first entry into the feature film category—"

"Well, actually it will be my first in a _major_ major motion picture. I'd done a couple of indies.'"

"And before that you had a short stint as Crystal on the daytime soap—"

"'Serenitee Springs,' that's right. God, you guys don't miss a beat!"

"My staff loves their homework. Now tell us about the character you play."

"Well I play Diorda who's kind of like a lost soul, but I end up becoming like a muse for Nathan played by Cory Johansson—"

"I know Cory, we had him on last year for, oh, what was it, 'Capital Offenze?'"

"Right, 'Capital Offenze,' _his_ first major film."

"Right, right, yeah."

"Really good to work with. So I play his muse, the inspiration for all his new paintings that set the art world ablaze." She took a sip from a glass of water from a glass she had picked up while talking. She hit her pace again with, "But there's a problem with his brother and I have problems too. There is an ex-boyfriend who is stalking me and, you know, chaos ensues. It's great, I was really attracted to the story and I think the ending will surprise people. It will shock."

Briskly, Bill teased her with, "And what's the ending?"

"I can't tell you that!" she blurted with a shocked smile. "Go see it!"

"Ah, you know I had to try. Now, one thing I do know about is that there is fairly extensive love scene in which you and Cory have to appear pretty much completely naked—"

"There's that staff at work again," she interjected with a playful grin.

"They _really_ love their homework."

She cackled and he joined in. But only briefly as he asked, "Now, it's completely naked?"

Recovering, herself, she answered, "Well, not completely, they've these sticky patches over, you know, the groin area—"

"For both man and woman—"

"Right, but the rest is out there—your chest, your butt..."

"And the crew still gets their work done?"

Smiling sheepishly, she said, "Well obviously, we finished the film."

"I know, I know, but seriously, that's got to be quite a daunting task. I mean, you're exposed to a number of people—lighting, technicians, sound, what-have-you. Now...I _know_ that if I was in that position for a film...whew...I think I probably would be jumping out of my skin, leaving it behind, and running down the street!"

They both laughed. And from behind the cameras and the people operating them, Trini stood and laughed as well (though as silently as she could). There you go, Bill, she thought with warmth and satisfaction. You disarmed her uneasiness with a difficult subject. Marvelous as usual.

Bill continued when the laughs abated, "Now are you comfortable with that kind of situation or is it like, 'eegh!'?"

"I'm perfectly at ease—hm—with a fifth of vodka in me." They laughed a touch more and then Paula sobered. "No, honestly... _honestly_ , yeah, it is a bit of an unnerving experience. I don't consider myself to be and exhibitionist and, in fact, am very self-conscious about my body. But, you know, it's all part of the job and those that don't absolutely need to be present on the set—"

"Are sent somewhere else."

"Right, so that takes some of pressure off but...this is a funny story—the director, Gill Madden and I actually worked out a special deal (after the first hour of shooting that scene) where I basically asked that everyone who is present for the scenes strip down also."

Bill shifted in his seat and brought his hands up in a "picture this" gesture. A quivering, comedic-stricken smile hit his lips. "So, so, you've probably got these older men with pot bellies and hairy backs and everything—"

"Right! All hanging out there, females as well. The whole point, of course, is that we're all going through the same thing. All feeling that self-consciousness, you know? We're all in it together."

Bill leaned closer to Paula and asked, "And Madden went for it?"

"He did! And so did everyone else surprisingly enough! And because of that, there were very few takes."

"Oh, I can imagine, everyone wanted to get their close back on!"

Paula smiled as she pointed at Bill. "There you go."

Bill sat back and turned to face the camera. "We have a break right now, but after that, we'll be back with Paula Ezran and more tales of the nudist production crew. Stay tuned."

Paula laughed.

And so did Trini (again, silently). And the director announced over the speakers that they were a "go" for a break, Trini mentally concluded her praise for Bill's expertise—perfect, Bill, just what was needed...no wonder I like you so much.

****

Two hours earlier, Paula had concluded her interview with Bill, thanked everyone, and jetted off to her next press engagement. In a few moments, the next guest was slated to arrive and be set in place for filming.

In the lag time between the two tapings, the show's director had a million things to attend to, both personal and show-related. But now the director, Gail Hemmings—a balding, tanned, and slightly flamboyant homosexual, had a few minutes to spare. He spent it talking to Bill as people rushed to set things up in the darker areas of the stage.

"Nudist production crew," Gail said to Bill with a sly smirk. "I like that. Good segment, Bill."

"Not bad for three-o-one?" Bill asked, a hint of doubt in his tone and in his eyes.

Gail picked up on it and encouraged, "Not bad, _not bad_. Oh hey, listen, I'm really sorry I couldn't make it to the party on Friday."

"You didn't miss much. How was the benefit?"

Gail shrugged with a neutral face. "Good. Boring. Very righteous cause though."

"Which was what?"  
"Desperate bachelors."

"So, of course, you were invited."

"Listen, don't tell my man! No, it was for M.S. On the twenty-first of next month it's AIDS. You and Edna should really try and make that one if you can."

A slight flicker of unease passed across Bill's eyes. "We'll see what we can do."

"Gotta raise all we can. Listen, I should inform you our temp line producer can only stay on until Friday, so if Tara's not back by then, we're gonna have some scrambling to do."

"What the hell happened to her?"

"Who knows. Nobody has heard from her since the party. No messages, nothing."

"Doesn't seem like her."

"Nothing much seems like her if what I heard about the party is true. Anyway, Dan and I are mounting a search party for her tonight."

"Call me if you find out something, will you?"

"Sure." An intern came up to them and announced that the new interviewee had arrived. "All right, let's get set up."

"Got it."

Gail left for the control room. And Trini came about with a slew of index cards in hand. She stopped short of Bill and yanked out the cards toward him. Without fear or hesitation, she said, "Here are your notes, honey."

Instinctively, somewhat absently—because he had done this a million times before—he took the cards without fully registering exactly what she said. Turning away from her, he robotically said, "Thanks," but then froze save for his eyebrows which drew in quickly. He whipped back around to witness Trini walking away. "Wait—what? Excuse me!"

Trini halted herself and turned to face him. "Yes?" she responded cool and calm.

"Did I hear you right? What did you say to me?"

She jabbed a hand forth, palm up "There are your notes," then she retracted it to her side.

"No, no, I mean what happened to Bill?"

"What happened to him? Look down."

"You called me honey, if I heard you right, when you've referred to me as Bill since you started here."

"Oh, well, I just figured if we're going to be seeing each other in the near future, going out and all, I'd try honey on for size—"

Bill's expression switched to a hint of alarm, "Come again?"

"If we are going to _date_ , then—"

Stalking towards her slowly, he issued, "Young miss, you _do_ know I'm married, right? You are aware of this fact?" Now he was right in front of her, staring her down.

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long have you been marr—?"

" _Thirty-two years."_

"Working still?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business, really. And you are dangerously close to being let go here."

She tutted before thinning her lips and looking off for a brief instant. Then retorted, "I gotta be honest with you, that still doesn't put a dark cloud over us going out."

"We are not—"

"Hey, how does that work, firing someone here? You don't do it yourself, do you? The producer does it, right?" Then she screwed up her face as she blurted, "But why fire someone you're getting for free, anyway?"

As even-keeled as Bill typically was and was famously known for, he was actually losing his cool for this girl. "Please listen to me, Miss..."

"Alvarez—"

"Miss Alvarez, please listen and understand something right now...you don't know me. We don't know each other."

"That has to change." Again, her demeanor was confident and cool.

This very fact was enraging Bill, trying his patience almost to the breaking point. Before he said something that might threaten his career (and stir up tabloid fodder), he broke away from her sight and plodded forth, uttering, "Where's Jack?"

Predominantly unfazed, she called after him, "Oh fine, do what you're going to do. But we could have coffee after work." And she walked away, herself, to get lost in some menial task.

As she had said this last statement, Bill had stopped himself a second time to whirl about and stare upon her. When she had finished her say in such a calm fashion—which was so infuriating to him—and walked away, he had such a confounded, disturbed look to his face. "...Unbelievable..." was all he could get out.

Chapter Six

Anton had still yet to reveal his whereabouts to Edna. All throughout Saturday and the bulk of Sunday, she had tried her damnedest to reach him at his cell number as well as his apartment building's main office line. Nothing and nothing. By Sunday night, she had resolved to unofficially terminating his employment with her and posting a position ad online. It read: Photographer's assistant needed to carry heavy equipment. My back won't take it; must have strong back and know lenses. Work as needed.

Then she posted her email address and waited for any responses. As she had a new assignment coming up in two days, she only waited two hours to check. What had come were two emails regarding the ad. The first one she opened stated that he wouldn't help her with photography, but he would be more than happy to lift his heavy unit and shove it hard up her...well, enough said. It was quickly deleted.

The second was from what appeared to be a legitimate response for wanting to work. The prospective's name was Jerry Nesmith and he stated that he would be available for an interview on Monday at two p.m.

It was now four minutes to two in the afternoon and the doorbell rang at Edna's front door. She opened it to reveal a tall, rather thin man with paled skin and shoulder-length ebony hair. He offered, "Hi. Edna?"

"Jerry Nesmith?" she said in response.

"Yes! Hi, I'm here for your—"

"My ad, yes, are you ready to hit a coffee shop?"

****

The aromas of blended coffee drinks filled the noses of Jerry and Edna as they sat at the table inside the designer coffee shop. They faced each other as the both of them situated their interview materials. Her drink was an iced tea, his a coffee shake. Around them the tables were occupied predominantly by people who were enraptured by their laptop computers. Some were searching the infinite and addictive world-wide net while others were typing in rapid succession.

Edna, herself, could have had her list of interview questions read off from a portable PC. Instead, however, she sported the old school method of a sheet of paper clamped to a clipboard. Some habits never die. She read her first question to Jerry, who seemed ready and eager to answer. "Do you have any other employment at the moment?"

"Yes I do, The Home Place, but it's twenty-four hours and I work at night."

"Full time?"

"Ah, no, just under, thirty-five hours so they don't have to issue medical."

"I'm afraid I don't offer it either."

"That's okay."

"So your days are free, yes?"

"Yes."

"Are you planning on becoming a photographer?"

"That's the hope, yeah."

"Lemme see your rez."

"Oh sure," and he took out his resume sheet from his portfolio case. He passed it to her and she positioned it on the table right in front of her.

Reading the sheet, she said, "So you've worked for some photo studios over the past ten years."

"Yeah, there was FotoUs for a number of years until they folded. And after that it was just a lot of temp work."

"Tough out there, isn't it?"

"Kind of, yeah," he said with a bit of nervous and fatalistic laughter.

"I see you've got a portfolio. You do some shooting?"

"Occasionally, when they let me borrow what I need for it. FotoUs is where I managed to do most of this..." He brought up the expansive yet thinned encasement and pulled from within it a number of photo prints. They were enlarged and in color. He spread them out for her to get a better look. The majority of the pictures were of a public park: benches, trees, kids playing, a couple holding hands as they walked a path.

"That's Gorman Park, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he said looking at the prints himself. His eyes flicked from one to the other in a jittering nature—he wondered to himself if any of these were the slightest bit good.

As if to answer his mind's old friend, doubt, Edna commented, "I like your depth of field on these. There's some dimension to 'em. I think you got some promise here."

Looking up at her and smiling, he offered, "Thanks."

"Well, Jerry, from my initial look at everything, you seem like you're good to go to help me with my work."

"Okay," he said with the expectance of more to be said from her.

"But, of course, the true test is us actually getting out on location and seeing how we work together. I mean, I don't foresee any problems but it's always best, you know, to make sure."

"I understand."

"Good, okay," she said, smiling. "I have a gig tomorrow at nine a.m., can you make it?"

"Sure."

"Great." She rose and extended a hand to him. He did the same. Shaking hands with him, she said, "Nice meeting you." They ended the handshake and she asked, "Do you know where the Sutherland Cliffs are?"

"Oh yeah."

He knew them well enough actually. He had spent a good amount of time there in his "freedom days" of post-high school meandering. In the days where he had no direction, no real responsibilities beyond making his third of the apartment rent and his personal expenses. In the times when he was running from himself, too frightened to face any solid path for his life.

Who the hell am I, what am I really capable of, he would ask his mind, lying in bed at night. And do I have the guts to realize that person?

For three years he languished this way, becoming more and more hesitant to brave any sort of challenging and rewarding endeavor. His motivation for most activities began to atrophy, malaised in the slow quicksand of day-in, day-out routines. Finding only comfort in the duplicitous ascension into alcoholic stratospheres.

Oh yes indeed, he knew Sutherland Cliffs quite well for he couldn't count the number of times he'd gone up there with a group of his high school buddies. And before settling in too long on the cragged, uneven rocks, he would have already dived into the cheap beers they bought, knocking back bottle after bottle, keeping pace with his reckless mates. Even after the insistence of one of them, who had been given an inspired path, to pony up, focus, and stop poisoning himself, Jerry continued his downward spiral.

Until Sandy.

Jerry sure as hell knew Sutherland because it was there that he first met the girl who would become his wife, his love, his life.

Had Sandy showed up late in the festivities that one night, it is quite possible that she and Jerry would never have come together. But, as she had arrived early with her new friend, Adrienne—new because Sandy had just moved to the area—Jerry was still quite lucid. He had had only one beer when he witnessed group regular Adrienne come near with a girl he'd never seen before. Hence, he still possessed his full faculties—not that he wasn't highflying as he ogled Sandy walk tentatively, nervously forth. Adrienne had introduced her to everyone and, in turn, the group acknowledged the new one with warm, sociable greetings. Sandy flipped up a hand for a quick, fluttery wave, saying, "Hi." One of Jerry's friends, Gabriel, playfully belted, "Welcome to our cult! Initiation begins at midnight!" and everyone laughed. Except for Jerry who only smiled toothily. Apparently unfazed and trying her best to match wits, Sandy retorted, "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot my ceremonial robe." Which elicited more laughs. The witty banter on the subject continued on throughout the crowd but Jerry heard none of it. His eyes, his senses of attention kept drawing him to this new addition to their motley crew. Jerry never believed in love at first sight and didn't think he ever would. But he was a firm believer in first impressions, instant attractions, those quick and natural impulses that pull someone to another.

And he was feeling an unquestionable yank towards Sandy. To the point where he wanted not one more beer that night. He had to stay centered mind and body because he had to somehow find a way to talk to her. To get to know her and hopefully interest her in wanting to know him as well.

And, of course, wanted to press his lips to hers at the earliest appropriate opportunity.

Three weeks later he got that very chance.

One week after that, quite a bit more.

Two years later, they were married and living together in a small but quiet cottage.

And happier than either had ever known in their lives.

Despite any sort of financial or familial hardships, Jerry and Sandy's feelings for one another never dampened, never swerved toward the affections for any others. There were opportunities to be certain. But it crossed neither of their minds to ever take part in such reckless dalliances, such deceptive poisons. It was the two of them no matter what came about—vicious fights, thoughtless words said under duress of too many pressures...the severe knock over the head of finding out Sandy was infertile. It didn't matter when all was said and done—it was simply them, two as one; storybook but true nonetheless.

And when it was discovered eight months ago that Sandy was riddled with cancer, that couldn't deter their passion and dedication for each other either. On the contrary, it only reinforced the solidarity, further concreted their unity.

As Jerry said his farewells to Edna at the coffee shop and got to his car, he couldn't help but allow the memories of Sutherland to flood his conscious thoughts. That one fateful night of meeting Sandy and all the other cliff parties after that came to the immediate forefront, of course.

Not that memories of their love and the good times that emanated from it were too much buried in the first place. Sandy's current tragic situation had demanded that these thoughts be somewhere close to the surface level of his mind at all times.

Before he started up the car to leave the coffee shop parking lot, however, he made a sobering attempt to center his rushing, thrashing feelings and thoughts. He was going straight to the hospital, after all, to see his pallid wife (yet still beautiful, don't forget that, Jerry, he reminded himself), and he wanted to make it there in one piece.

Chapter Seven

Edna and Bill had said in the early days that they would be a thing until they both turned a hundred and ten. By then they would have gotten bored with each other and desire to look elsewhere. It was an exaggeration, of course, but it was their witty and comedic way of saying that they would be madly in love with each other 'till death parted them. And at the time they truly meant it, there was no reservation, no hesitation in their minds when they agreed to those spiritually contracted words, "'till death do you part" in their wedding vows. Both had full confidence in their love and total conviction for their future together.

Neither would have guessed at the time that it would take less than half the time they playfully referred to for their feelings to change so drastically. For their vows to be rendered suspect and eventually voided. Perhaps what Edna had suggested was true, Bill jarringly pondered—maybe we _had_ failed each other. It could have been that neither of them possessed the enduring courage to keep things alive until one or both of them met their proverbial mortality. Their confidence and sureness had faltered, and now neither wanted cohabitation which had come so routinely and naturally for so many years. Bill would live in a hotel for weeks, maybe months, while they consulted a lawyer on how best to proceed with the divorce.

In the meantime, he would be almost obsessed with consulting himself on how best to go forth with his existence. Which was playing uncertainty upon uncertainty on him, fiddling with his confidence in most things. Even his performance in executing his show duties, oddly enough—despite Gail's and most of the crew's insistence that the second segment for today was even more titillating than the one with Paula.

There was one immediate certainty, however, that Bill stapled to his thoughts as he prepared to leave for the day. One quite alarming and chest-tightening dilemma that required his full focus of attention. Here and now.

"All right, young miss, so cock and sure, let's go," Bill forcefully uttered after he had vehemently beelined it to Trini's spot in the darker parts of the studio. She had been coiling chord and was finishing up when he finally stood rigidly in front of her.

"Great, I'll get my coat," she said, again so calm and matter-of-fact.

Infuriating.

****

Tommee's Coffee House had a more personalized feel to it than the chain coffee store Edna and Jerry had met at. Tommee's was a family owned and operated little establishment, complete with a multi-color chalk-written menu board. Tom actually worked there—though he was seldom seen as his ownership duties kept him magnetized to his back office seat.

Bill chose this place as a lecture point because it was nowhere he had ever frequented before. In this he hoped for less of a chance of being spotted by the paparazzi. Tommee's had inside seating within the shop yet Bill opted to have himself and Trini take a table outside. There were just too many customers inside who could easily overhear their conversation. Not that it couldn't happen outside as well, but with the street traffic noises and the buffer of a few empty tables in-between, he'd hoped the talk drowned out a bit. Of course, there was more of a risk of being spotted this way. He'd just have to risk it.

Trini had offered to buy them both drinks and Bill reluctantly agreed. Having just come out with the hot beverages and seated herself, Bill felt he should begin without any small talk. "Now I want to make myself perfectly cl—what are you doing?"

Trini, without reservation, was emptying packet after packet of sugar (no chemical sweeteners for her) into her coffee—six in all. "Putting sugar in my coffee."

" _Six packets?"_

"Ahh, wait 'till I grab that creamer."

Mentally thrown, Bill shook his head in an attempt to collect his thoughts. "Now—as I was about to say—"

Handling the container of half 'n' half creamer, Trini cut him off with, "We're not going to date, married, thirty-two years, I got all that, I was listening." And she poured an enormous sum of the white liquid into her cup.

" _Good,_ I'm glad you were," he retorted, watching her turn her black coffee supremely into a light, beige-colored substance.

"But, coffee's kind of a date, though..."

Bill leaned forth a bit, agitation owning his face. He pointed at her and said, "Listen, _this, us_ —meeting together like this is—is not me trying to recapture my youth, Miss Alvarez—"

"Trini, _please_ —"

" _Miss_ Alvarez _,_ this, however, _is_ me trying to avoid being some kind of tyrannical entertainment figure who...shoves people aside simply because they have proved to be difficult or on some...basic level annoying—"

"While you're being noble, could you get the cinnamon off the table behind you? There's none on this one, it seems."

Bill stared at her incredulously. But then he dutifully complied and reached behind to confiscate the cinnamon container off the table to his back. Thank small favors for no one had seated there, Bill thought peripherally. He swung back around and handed the thing to her.

"Thanks," she said and proceeded to dump half the contents into her smoky brew.

"...Cripes..." he uttered almost inaudibly. _"...Anything else?"_

"Nope, that tops it." She plopped down the container and then stirred her drink.

"Good. Because this is not in any way a date, nor will it turn into one, nor will I jeopardize my standing for you. Is that clear now?"

Continuing to stir her drink, she said, "Very."

"You're a hard and diligent worker, Trin—Miss Alvarez and I think it would benefit you greatly in your career if you were to abandon this rash, self-destructive behavior—" While he preached to her, Trini raised her eyebrows, her mouth sported a tentative smile. She was clearly amused by his advice. "—and focus on your eventual advancement, for that's why you've elected to be an intern at the show, I'm sure."

She threw an admiringly nod while stating, "Very fatherly of you. You know, you didn't exactly answer my question from before."

Bill's eyes snap-narrowed, his brow yanking in. "What question?"

After taking a sip of her amped up coffee, she added, _"Is_ the marriage still a tight ship?"

Then his eyes popped a bit as he answered with force, "I did not answer that because it was—!"

She held up a hand, palm out, to halt his furied answer. "None of my business, I got that. But you see now, that gives it away. The ship _is_ sinking. If everything was tip top you would have proudly said so right off."

Now his eyes cinched once more in a tightness of rage. "Just who the hell do you think you are to feel you have the right to—?"

She grimaced in annoyance, lulling her head to one side as she issued, "Oh, stop being a child, Bill, and just be honest with me. It's in trouble and probably on its way to the big 'D.' Just be honest with me, that's all I ask."

So many caustic and disturbing emotions ran through Bill's mind as he stared confoundedly at Trini. Shock, anger, confusion, frustration, a desire to lash out, to curse every word in the profanity dictionary at this insolent little brat. Instead, the only word that came from his already gaping mouth was, "...Unbelievable..."

Fortunately for his whole being equilibrium, a sobering, mature voice within him ordered, walk away, Bill. Just get up and walk away. Get in your car and drive away from this place. Away from this odd, odd girl.

His body listened and he rose to walk past her, tension plaguing his every step.

But as he got a few feet behind her, she elevated her voice to say, "Divorce is already happening, isn't it?"

He stopped dead for a brief instant as if some invisible thing held him in place and was sending a vibrating shock through him. He whirled about and madly eyed the back of her head. Then he marched toward her and stopped just behind to lean down to the side of her face. Not immediately, but a second later he raged into her ear, _"Yes...yes_. Are you satisfied _now_ , you disrespectful little punk?!"

Ignoring his escalated anger entirely, she turned slightly and craned her head up to calmly eye him. "I can help, you know. I want to help."

That's enough for me, his frayed nerves announced, throwing up their hands. Don't even think of bothering me anymore tonight. Out of commission, folks.

He spit a malignant breath while straightening himself, then stormed away, almost plowing into a chair as he went. He Joltingly corrected himself and was off again.

"Your coffee...!" she hollered after him but he was obviously too far into his discombobulated fury to hear or care about his drink. A second later, he was out of sight.

So she shrugged and took the coffee for her own.

Chapter Eight

What was that? Bill kept coming back around to asking himself as he drove to the hotel, entered its halls, and slipped the keycard in to open his room door. He walked in, allowed the door to close and took off his jacket. He let it fall to drape the arm of the couch then he took off his clothes and showered. After, he got into his pajamas and slippers and plopped down to the bed. The hot, steam-filled shower was soothing and for that small amount of time he was mercifully free of mental traumas. But now that he was sprawled on this foreign bed (though comfortable enough, thank goodness), he returned his mind to the disturbing, needling questions: what the hell just happened to me this evening, and exactly how am I going to deal with it? And more importantly, how far gone was this girl who had fixated upon him? Would she turn into some kind of stalker who shadowed him wherever he went? Would she become violent, feeling justified for her criminal actions after being snubbed, denied what she delusionally thought was rightfully hers? Would Bill end up with a knife deeply embedded in chest or a bullet hole grotesquely tunneling his head?

Jesus, Bill, stop this, an internal voice reeled in his nerve-amping hysteria. It's more than likely that this girl is just an eccentric individual who says exactly what's on her mind. That's all. Besides, you're a public figure and running into unique groupie types was bound to happen sooner or later. After almost thirty years, don't you think you're way overdue? Just calm down and think of options of how to handle this bizarre predicament. True, this is coming at the worst possible time when you're dealing with this jarring transition in your life, but you can do this. You handle tricky spots all the time in interviewing prominent and complex personalities, and have for many years! Just deal with the anguish and focus anyway.

Well all right, he answered himself...we'll try...let's see...option one: he could simply just have Trini fired and booted off the set for good. But if by some slim and way out of the box possibility she is disturbed (and criminally so), canning her may fuel her "crazy" fire. Option two: I alert H.R. and studio security to have a talk with her, try to reason with her to have a conversation or two with a professional counselor.

That could also set her off.

Option three: leave the country.

Real option three: perhaps try to see this girl as something more than just a common crackpot. Try to see her as a person who might have had some things happen to her that weren't too much on the nice side. Could be a viable way of diffusing this potentially volatile situation.

But then others would start to talk, the warning voice piped up again. Being seen so much with a girl half your age might bring some bad PR to the show and your standing in the national conscious. They'll say this brazen girl was the cause of the death of his marriage, the proverbial homewrecker. Of which, I'm willing to bet, wouldn't internally affect Trini in the slightest. Nothing seems to get to this kid—which is disturbing in its own right! But that really wasn't the point, the whole thing is that it would affect me. I wouldn't want any slander brought on her, despite the trouble she's presented. Let's remember, after you called her a little shit, she didn't respond with "Fuck you, you ancient fucking fossil! You wish you could have what I got!" or some other derogatory tirade fueled by ego and confidence issues. No, she merely said in her most jovially calm tone, I want to help.

And even considering the horribly vexing behavior she displayed to you, complicating your already complicated life, the unavoidable fact is that you believe her. Either she is the most convincing actress to never pursue the profession of acting, or she was wholly and blatantly telling the truth.

" _I can help, you know. I want to help."_

It was in her eyes, the offer was genuine; he could sense that even though he was seeing things through a charged haze of anger and frustration. She meant it.

Okay, option three amended: talk to this girl but do your utmost to be discreet about it. Pull her over to places at the studio that no one needs to go while the crew is working—

His cell phone rang on the night table next to the bed. He grabbed it and checked the incoming number. It was Edna. He answered it. "Hello?"

Through the phone, Edna's filtered, trebly voice responded, "Hey Bill, how's the hotel?"

"Good, I guess. What's happening?"

"Well, we were going to tell Janine, don't you think it's time?"

Expelling a breath fueled by mental exhaustion, Bill replied, "Ahh...to be honest with you, it's been a bear of a day. I really don't think I'm up for it tonight."

Edna fissured a hissing breath of her own, this one out of exasperation. "Bill, come on, we've waited three days already. She deserves to know no matter what her response is going to be."

"Look, I know, it's just—I'm dealing with something here that could potentially blow up in my face if I'm not careful. I mean, it's really got me racked here, I'm exhausted from it. Can't we just wait until tomorrow night?"

Another flustered breath shot from the phone. "...You know, this is really weighing heavy on me...all right, we'll do it tomorrow. I hope you're able to work out your problem there because your daughter is going to need you."

"I'll get it worked out, okay? I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Bye then." And she hung up.

He hung up on his side and proceeded to silence his phone's ringer. Once done he tossed it lightly to the night table again. It slid a bit then rested.

Then he lay back on the bed once more and resolved to stare at the ceiling for several hours.

****

Gail was truly becoming anxious, alarmingly so; not primarily because he couldn't ferret out Tara's whereabouts despite all his efforts, but because Dan, his significant other half, was on the verge of an emotional stroke over the matter.

As much as Gail thought his long time line producer was a self-absorbed, socially frigid hag, Dan somehow took the brightest shine to Tara. He saw her standoffish demeanor as courage in not taking crap from anyone. Lord knows Dan was capable of an attitude himself. Which, at times, caused friction within between him and Gail—though never enough to seriously threaten their relationship, thank God. Gail loved Daniel Beech like he had never loved any man before. Which, of course, was why he was so distressed over this mysterious sudden disappearance. Gail was also Dan's ultimate lifetime love—but Tara was his best friend, his female counterpart when it came to sharing and relating to the homosexual experience.

Gail just hoped that Tara, wherever she had gone off to for whatever reason, would return. And hopefully by Friday! The business side of him really didn't want to have to look for a new line producer. Most of those jerk-wads were even more brutal than Tara was on her worst day.

****

Jerry stared at his sleeping wife who was lying in a hospital bed, her head lulled to one side. A lazy snore emanated from her tube-lodged nose. Earlier in the evening she had been awake but supremely loopy from a fresh intake of morphine—a strong dose to kill the cancer-induced agony. She had said a few words to him trying her best under the influence to emulate small talk. He obliged her, of course, even though some of her words didn't quite gel within the context of each other. At one point she said to him, "Oh, I love that song, I've seen it hundreds of times."

In one agonizing way, Jerry wished she could have stayed awake longer because he cherished every single waking moment with her. Even though she looked so anorexic and her eyes were yellowed in the corneas, he still wanted her conscious, aware of his presence.

But in another, he was glad for her slumber. Because that meant that the drug was working on her, allowing her a peaceful dam from a vicious flood of pain.

More than anything, however, he wished and hoped for a better day tomorrow.

****

Alone in the Kirby family house for the third night in a row, Edna sat on the living room couch and stared at the active television. In reality, however, she was looking past the TV, not really focusing on what was on. Her mind was too lost, too distracted by pending marital dissolutions (and their resulting transitional actions).

She was not sorry she was splitting from Bill, to be certain. She firmly believed that if you were not in love with someone, you should not be in a marriage with them. It wasn't that she didn't hold with the whole "for better of for worse" part of the vows. On the contrary, she fully supported the concept as a crucial, core promise to the marital status—as long as you were in love with your betrothed. Heights of success and personal achievement—be there for them and congratulate their accomplishments, even if you, yourself, were not on the short road to personal career fulfillment. Slammed twenty feet in the air by an oncoming car and ended up a quadriplegic—be there for that person and take care of their life-sustaining needs, regardless of how nerve-crushing it would be at times.

As long as you were in love with them.

She cared about Bill, of course, and always would, there was no doubt about that. Despite the fact that Bill was a renowned celebrity (and worldwide, God, how do you fully wrap your head around that?), he always made a conscious and serious effort to be a presence in his family's lives. And he had been a standup father to Janine—Edna would always respect him for that.

But therein lay one of the chief reasons their love faded (at least on Edna's part). The fact that he was so involved in assisting with everyone else's social activities, organizations, and, last but certainly not least, their inane and overwrought personal emergencies. Bill's sister keeps getting dumped on or beaten up by her boyfriends. Tragic except for the blaring fact that she openly seeks out these types! "Stupid plus stupid doesn't equal healthy relationship, Bill!" Edna would say to her husband on numerous occasions. "I know, I know," he would reply every time, but then keep going in for the "sister save." Infuriating! Enough's enough, she would scream in her increasingly numbing mind. The situation was compounded considering when they were madly in love with each other, he was far less inclined to go gallivanting everywhere to help everyone else live their lives. Personal trips for the two became increasingly infrequent as they hit the twenty-year mark of their marriage. And although Edna would never openly admit this to Janine, raising her did have an adverse effect on the marriage. Their daughter had always been involved in several different social and school-related activities (sometimes two or three at once) as she was growing up through the pre-teen years. Sports, academics, girl scouts, you name it—Janine had done it all. And getting her to all these things had predominantly fallen on Edna, forcing her to sometimes cancel important photo gigs. While Bill canceled nothing, not once. That grated.

But then Janine hit her mid-teen years—and everything she had been involved in, dedicated to, stopped altogether. Then, the hammer dropped on her enthusiasm for life, and soon it became impossible to get her to do anything. Her grades slipped and she did the proverbial spending of enormous amounts of time in her bedroom alone. Talking to her became a monumental chore because she simply wasn't very responsive beyond the miracle of rarely saying, "I don't know, I guess, whatever."

Scared and looking for answers, Bill and Edna discussed Janine's new persona at regular intervals of bedroom conversation. Hardly any other subject could be squeezed in during these endless talks regarding their daughter. It didn't take too long before accusations began to surface. She would blame him for not offering enough encouraging words to Janine while he would pin her with allowing Janine to overload herself with activities. Both claims as well as many others, of course, had nothing to do with their daughter's new adolescent condition.

Heaped upon this were Bill's insistent protests and attempted banning of all boyfriends Janine brought around. Eventually, Edna would become fed up enough to, one day, announce to Bill that the next boy that came to see their daughter was immediately accepted and "pa-pa" wouldn't be allowed to say a damn thing about it. She didn't care if the boy had twelve nose rings and a purple Mohawk.

Naturally, Janine grew out of this ultra-blue funk stage and became a dedicated student again, graduating high school as well as college (with full honors on that one). But some damage already had wormed its way into her parent's marriage. And without Janine even being aware of it, not even partly conscious of any serious trouble with her folks.

And if Edna had her way, her daughter never would. Until such time as she felt it was unavoidable.

And what did it truly matter anyway? It wasn't even the major catalyst for the disintegration of Bill and Edna's love and the slow downslide of their marriage. What it truly had been was what disturbed Edna so greatly—she simply didn't fully know for sure. Like Bill, she racked her frazzled brain with numerous plausible possibilities. And like him, she also meandered on any firm conclusions. She did know what was the final straw, however—Bill's sexual impotency issues.

It was such a supreme irony, she reflected sadly. He had always wanted it more than she did (primarily because he didn't have a screaming, protesting child to take care of most days) back in the early days. And then suddenly, nine years ago, he had no interest in it at all. Not even a pill was going to get him going—he wasn't hip on even trying it to begin with. He claimed it might be stress related from mounting competition in the network lineups and the new difficulties with Janine. But that didn't really wash with Edna—their intimate encounters in the past had always been the answer to their stressors, the release of their pressures. It didn't add up for her.

In the meantime, she still wanted that release, and was only going to wait so long. And she didn't want to settle for just taking care of herself. A year later, of course, Pang Choi happened and she never looked back.

But now she was ruminating about the situation. She wished now that she had had the guts, the courage to end the marriage officially nine years ago. She was simply so terrified that it would send Janine further down the teenage depression pit she had already resigned herself to. So much so that her daughter might never recover. And then how could Edna ever forgive herself?

But Janine had only been in her blue funk for roughly three years. Edna could have made a move after that...but then did she really want to risk a relapse with her daughter's spirits? Now that her grades were up again and she was getting involved with things?

And then there was the four-year-long debacle of marriage counseling. Bill and Edna both made the decision (rather foolishly so, Edna now reflected with fatalistic laughter) to see if there was some way of getting it back, rekindling the flame that had meant so much to them for so long a time. But after working through so many issues and trying so many techniques suggested by the therapist, it became abundantly clear that they simply couldn't get it back. It was DOA, folks. Time to close up shop, people, and look for jobs elsewhere. Best of luck in a new town, keep in touch and all that well-meaning crap.

Of course, in a manner of speaking, she had already found alternate employment in Mr. Choi. And she could have stayed on with him—if it weren't for the rising guilt in her as of late. When she had mentioned this to Pang, he had responded with confusion: all of a sudden you're feeling shady (why did you have to use gammy's term for sneaking, Edna ruefully thought) for what we've been doing for eight years? Her explanation for breaking it off with him was true...of a sort. But she didn't elaborate enough for him to fully understand her reasons. The truth of it was that her guilt didn't primarily stem from a sense of betraying Bill, but of her daughter. Edna knew that Janine would never accept her mother going out with another man. Not after being duped for so long in believing her parents' marriage was solid. If she somehow found out about the affair after finding out about the divorce, Edna wasn't sure just how traumatized Janine would become. She simply couldn't risk it. So she ended it. And resolved to taking care of her bodily need on her own, despite the downgrade in pleasure.

She would, naturally, sacrifice that and a world more for her daughter's sanity.

****

Janine and Charlie, having both had long days at work (though Janine had no hassles or interference from Nick, thank goodness), decided to turn in early. They climbed into bed on their favorite sides and talked to each other about the pressing tidbits of the day: friends who did this or that and "oh, can you believe that!" happenings. The kind of conversations to satisfy the social commentary endorphin within their minds. They exhausted their current catalogue of enticing subjects and in the process exhausted themselves into a pressing need to conk out. With the obligatory yet no less heartfelt "I love you's" they kissed each other and then sunk down deep into unknowing within seconds. The perfect end to a prolonged physically and psychologically taxing day.

Why not a little calm before a storm.

Chapter Nine

The Sutherland Cliffs rested its mammoth juttings in the same spot it had for thousands, perhaps millions of years. With no intention of moving (without something of greater force causing it to do so), the solid and cragged mass resolved itself to lounge and watch the ongoing panoramic movie known as the sky. At this point, the film was featuring a blue expanse populated with the occasional cottony cloud structure moving at a snail's velocity. Perhaps enjoying the endless picture too immensely, the spread of stubborn rocks obviously cared nothing for the two tiny beings climbing, walking, and erratically stumbling upon it.

And conversely, the two beings, who, from their own point of view were not tiny at all, spent not a second or first thought for trampling on and using the raised land mass for their own ends.

The two, Edna and Jerry, with the proper equipment in hand (the heavier gear in Jerry's grasps), had now reached the flatter plateau of a wide portion of Sutherland. Their final destination was near the edge of it which dropped deep to meet the sky-reflected, movement-busied ocean. Having walked to a spot two feet's distance from the termination, they casually halted and Edna announced, "This looks good, let's set up here."

"Got it," Jerry said as he lowered the dormant tripod and lens case to the uneven ground. "Do you want me to set up someplace in particular or...?"

"Mmm," she hummed in monotone then waited a second or two as she scanned the surroundings before going on, "Let me get a feel for what might work."

"Okay." He crouched low yet still stood, ready to spring into action at her say so. He glanced around himself as he asked, "Who are we shooting for?"

"Norm's Travel Guide," she obliged, peering an eye through a small search lens that was dually attached to a lengthy, thin strap around her neck. She had been genuinely focused on searching for viable snaps of scenery to start her work—but then a gnawing, irksome thought popped through her mind. It pressed her forth in voicing its purpose before the "manners filter" could halt it. Lowering her ocular piece from her face, she locked eyes with him and queried, "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Shoot. Whoops, a quarter in the pun jar."

Laughing unexpectedly but not uncontrollably, she asked, "Are you married?"

"Yeah."

Sobering her breathy laughs, she prodded with, "Happily? And before you answer, please understand that I'm not coming on to you."

"All right...yeah, I'm pretty happily married. She's—she's a...a pretty amazing girl..."

"What's her name, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Sandra, Sandy."

Smiling a touch, she commented, "Sandy—that's nice."

An uncomfortable air emerged in his expression and he tentatively put in, "Youuuu don't mind if I ask why you'rrre—?"

"Why I'm asking?" And now the manners filter hit its stride. "Because I'm being completely inappropriate, please just—forget I asked." And the lens shot back up to her eye as she looked away.

"Sure," he said and looked to the ground in different spots, feeling decidedly awkward.

Edna tried to refocus on working, but the doubt-fueled curiosity in her head was a powerful bur. Letting the lens leave away slightly from her eye, she blurted, "Would you ever—no, skip it." And brought the lens close again.

Her eyed her and said, "No, it's okay, I don't mind. Ask what you're going to ask."

Down came the lens once more, she faced him. "...Would...could you ever see yourself leaving her for whatever drastic reason? And again, not coming on to you in any way, shape, or form."

Immediately, Jerry rushed to answer in his mind, No! Impossible! Not a snowball's chance lobbed straight into hell. But then right after, he had to consider what she included in her request...drastic...how drastic though? If Sandy decided to tell him one day, "Hey guess what? Sorry, champ, I just don't love you anymore and I've been seeing someone else for quite a while. I know it's a super bowl sized shocker and all but hey, that's life sometimes. And I think us going our separate ways will be for the best in the long run. Try to be a big boy about it, okay? Okay, champ?"

That would cut him deep down, obliterate, destroy, demolish him in the space of a millisecond.

And yet, in all honesty, he would not in his mind, in his core, in his then broken and decrepit soul ever consider himself left away from her—even in that type of "drastic."

So he vocalized his resolve, "Nope...I could never do it..." A tight laugh burst from him as he continued, "...Jeez, I guess theoretically she could cheat on me and I'm confident that, after a period of time, she and I would be back in the loop—if she was willing, of course. Not that she would ever cheat. I mean, one time she said to me, 'Too bad for all the other dickies walking around out there, you've just ruined them for me, jerkwad.' Talk about the ultimate confidence booster for one's ego, right?" He smiled at Edna but soon his eyes flitted off to signal something that stole his thoughts. A distractive and corrosive pondering. "...Not that she even would get the..." he mumbled almost inaudibly, his eyes bugged slightly for a dead stare.

Wrinkling her brow, she asked him, "You all right?"

Snapping out of it, he whipped his head to face her. "Fine. I'm fine."

Edna, sensing that she had pushed things as far as they were going to go (with someone she just met), finessed a transition to a lighter subject, one far less personal. And, having eventually found some inspirational photo opps arranged in her finally centered mind, they set about to work. They operated well together and she found that he was just as knowledgeable as Anton on different lenses (and what they could achieve). And what was even better, Jerry had more enthusiasm for the work. But Edna had anticipated this kind of work ethic based on seeing his photo prints. Obviously, he wanted to go somewhere with his craft.

Obviously, Anton did not.

They finished the preliminary shoot and left for their cars, but before entering them Edna stopped Jerry to brief him primarily on his status as her new assistant, her new partner in crime, so to speak.

First things first, however.

"So Jerry, I wanted to apologize to you because, honestly, I've—I normally don't ask those kinds of things when my assistants and I are working...and it seems I may have touched on something a bit too personal perhaps."

"Well I was bit caught off guard, but seriously, I didn't mind." And he smiled warmly at her.

She thinned her lips as a slight grimace formed her face. "...All right...you seem like a good fella, I have to say I envy you."

"In what way?"

"Oh...your relationship with your wife, I guess."

"Oh, well...it's not a perfect relationship."

"Of course, of course, no relationship is but...I just meant...your certainty about things."

"Oh, okay, thanks." The warm smile again.

"Sure—you got the job, by the way."

"Great. Thank you." He threw in a few quick nods for emphasis of his enthusiasm.

"You got it. And I'll see you back here at nine again. We should finish up tomorrow."

"I'll be here."

Chapter Ten

Inside the studios, frenzy was the play. Naturally this was the case when there was limited time between two guest appearances for Bill's show.

And Bill needed his notes. With fifteen minutes to go for the next taping, he would need a quick review of his guest's background and personality tastes.

And Trini was nowhere to be found. This wasn't a total shock to Bill considering his fury towards the girl; she more than likely got the message and bugged out for good. Well terrific, he thought, problem solved, crisis averted...except no one was apparently aware of her absence enough to fill her task route—namely the pressing matter of picking up the note cards from Research.

Well hell, he'd just have to march down there and pick them up himself. What was he, a massively self-important primadonna who has ascended miles above a menial task allotted for your typical, forgettable intern?

He hightailed it down the hallways of the office portions of the studios. Down the hall he just turned was Research. The room before it, however, was the file cabinet-fat room known as Personnel Archives. Files of employees with their tax records, medical specifications...resumes. It was all kept in there. Bill halted his hurried pace and stood staring at the door to the room. It was ajar. Someone had forgotten to close and lock it.

What are you thinking, Bill, he asked the impetuous, irrational side of his psyche. Whatever it is, forget it. Forget it and walk on to the next room, which was your real destination in the first place! Walk on!

So he did. Quickly.

Chapter Eleven

Nick was the man, the epitome, the arrived one. Fully arrived and fully realized? Well no, to be honest, he hadn't reached the Mount Everest heights of CEO yet for Dynamek. He hadn't even reached vice president of operations, though he had some coals in the fire, so to speak, in making that happen. He anticipated that his predicted time frame for ascension within the company would take him no more than a year's time. If what he had planned fell into place in the proper succession, then the current vice president would step down—and rightly so, Nick wholeheartedly believed. V.P. of Opps, Curt Dennings, was a passable second in command for the company's needs. He dotted his i's and crossed his t's and everything looked good on the surface. But how many damn vacations does a man in his position need to take inside of a year? Hell, inside six months?! But that was just the tip of the tail with this guy, this reject of Chase's teachings. This nonbeliever in Dynamic's potential as a business leader. Nick had felt it necessary to hire an outfit to do some extensive research on Dennings, find out exactly where he was spending his generous vacations. As it turned out, the unmarried, non-dating wretch had been jetting off to the Philippines for every single trip. Nick also discovered that he was visiting illegal brothels featuring exclusively underage boys. Naughty, naughty Curt, Nick thought with a mental smile as he was issued the intel by his investigative contact. It had cost Nick thousands to come by the "dirt" he now had in his possession. Nothing that put him out in any drastic way, of course. And not that the ammunition against Dennings wasn't totally worth every penny he spent. It was a shrewd investment, it would pay him back in millions down the line.

But he couldn't act immediately (though he salivatingly wanted to) for one very large reason. It was the expansion overseas which Dennings was responsible for "dotting the i's and crossing the t's." It was in motion and needed to be carried through to its completion without any shakeups in the company positions. That was clear. And what was also clear was that the expansion would take the better part of a year to come to fruitful life. Construction of the buildings alone would take six months. New contracts, three to four months, with networking systems being implemented at roughly around the same time frame.

But when it was done and Dennings was likely feeling safe after having done all of his "i's and t's" like a good little boy (or a good little pervert depending on how you look at it), then Nick would (anonymously, of course) send the damning evidence to the office of Morton Meeks, the CEO of Dynamek. Meeks was a traditionalist of American values, and Nick didn't need a team of hired sleuths to know that. Every higher-up in the company was aware of it because good ol' Mort certainly made no bones about it. It was his personal and company mantra, for crying out loud. The news would be devastating and the action taken would be thunderous and immediate. Dennings would be beefing up his resume and sending it out over the internet by the end of the day, his extensive career at Dynamek a distant memory.

And who exactly would be tapped to fill in for Dennings' veep shoes? There were other regional managers, of course, but Nick didn't need to get any dirt on them. Because none of them brought in the revenues for the company as Nick had year after year. None of them had won the award for business excellence year after year. Who else would Meeks consider as Dennings' replacement. Let's face it, Nick had concluded in his thoughts and plans, it was a done deal.

This was not the only coal he was stoking however. There was Janine. Personally and professionally, he wanted to proceed forth with her in the most meaningful of ways. And if he played things right, and there was no reason to believe that he wouldn't, then his ascension into the vice presidency for Dynamek would also coincide with his eventual proposals to Janine. Proposal one entailed his passing the regional manager's position off to her—which would likely exhilarate her into instant gratification for him. He would tell her, of course, that the position was earned solely on her merits as a dedicated and innovative worker. And he would mean it, he was not the foolish type to promote someone based on his personal feelings for them. Proposal two, however, would be based entirely on his most deeply felt and most personal of emotions.

He would ask her to marry him.

At the present time, however, he still had yet to woo her. But he knew things about women, and he knew full well that the way to a woman's heart was to make her dreams, her ambitions come true. Janine was a climber, Nick could tell without a doubt. No one else had the potential she possessed at their branch. And coincidentally, none of the others sparked Nick's personal interests like butter-skinned Janine. Introducing the master of business' (The Great C.C. as Nick liked to think of him) exceptional books, his unmatched teachings, to Janine was the first step in making her see the light. In finessing his way into her heart. His next step was to offer up some late night work sessions, and in these sessions he would cleverly interweave his life with her's—show her what she meant to him, show her what an extraordinary talent she was.

And that whatever trouble she might encounter in her life, he would be there for her. Whenever time allowed, of course.

There was the little matter of a boyfriend that Janine had been seeing for a matter of months now. But how could he possibly compare to what Nick had to offer her? Point one, Janine knew nothing about The Great C.C. before Nick had brought him up to her. That meant that this boyfriend also knew nothing of the superbly enlightening Mr. Curall. That meant that this guy had no intentions of elevating Janine's career feet to the plateau they rightfully belonged. And why would she stay with someone like that? Point two, this guy was reportedly in his mid-forties from what Nick had overheard. How was that going to fly in twenty years when Janine, herself, was reaching the mid-forties and this "Charlie" fellow was creaking into his mid-sixties? She would still be in her prime while likely having to take care of her senior citizen husband (who would be too rickety to play with their children). Nick didn't see how it could possibly work out in the long run. He, himself, would only be in his mid-fifties and still in prime shape thanks to his morning workouts. Exercise can take five to ten years off the clock, so in a sense, he and Janine would be in sync. Perfect.

As perfect as her form, which he was currently and surreptitiously admiring as he stood half hidden at the corner leading towards the elevators. Thankfully for his reconnoiter, Janine was also half hidden behind the cubicle wall that semi-enclosed her work space. While her face was blocked as she leaned towards her PC monitor, her shapely physique in its tightened dress blouse and pants was predominantly visible to Nick's leering and wanting eyes.

One more year, he thought with mounting yet controlled anticipation. It was a done deal.

Chapter Twelve

Janine's mind was not on the work she was rotely performing. It was not thinking on Nick as that self-grandeured corporate climber was obsessively hoping for. It wasn't even on Charlie for whom she typically had sailing, swirling daydreams about.

What her mind was primarily fixated on was the indefinable thing that gnawed at her curiosity impulse, fraying it, infecting it. Her mother had acted off at the party; too jovial, too enthusiastically wanting to get involved in the gossip game. It wasn't drastic or extreme, just a slight escalation, a tiny degree of overdoing it that only Janine with her expertly reading her mother would detect.

So why, what was going on that would cause her mother (most likely on an unconscious level—some things down deep simply betray our actions on the surface, sad but true, kiddies) to act "off?"

Janine had a sense, an instinct that is was something big, something not so agreeable. In fact, likely something of a tragic effect too damaging and traumatic to ever be fully kept under.

A death of someone close to her? Was the show going under despite the big "to-do" the other night? Was father actually a meth head being clamped down by DEA agents or the FBI? What?

She flicked her eyes from her monitor and coincidently whipped her watch arm to her view. One minute till her lunch break which would last an hour.

And in that space of time she was going to find out just what the hell was going on.

****

"Hello, baby, how's your day?" Edna said as she answered her cell phone. She was at home and about ready to take a bath (the shoot had made her sweaty with all the walking and climbing) when Janine called.

Janine, herself, was outside the Dynamek building, off to its side where no one appeared to be in earshot. She was pacing in a small circle expectantly, the phone to her ear. "It's fine, mom, listen..." and she took a tensed breath, "...what's going on? Something's wrong and I want to know what it is right now. Did someone die?"

"Who talked to you?"

"No one," she stressed, "I just—I know you, mom, I know something's not right. Now what is it? Is dad in trouble somehow?"

"Nothing like that, no it's..." and then there was silence on Edna's end. A dense silence.

"Mom...mother—"

And then it came through Janine's line, quick-rising, repetitive gasps laced with high-pitched releases of sound. Edna was crying.

" _Mom_ ...mom, what the fuck is it?" Now Janine's face was beginning to quiver, jitter beyond her control. High-pitchness was miring her own speech. "Mom, tell me!...You're scaring me..."

Through the heaves of sobs, Edna attempted some semblance of a stutter-free, comprehensible sentence. "Y...your father...your father and I are getting a divorce—"

"What! Why?! _Why?!"_

"Oh sweetie, honey, honey—"

"Why?! Tell me why after thirty-two years of being happy together and—" But she couldn't continue, a large constrictive sob had seized her throat. She brought her free hand to the space under her nose and upper lip—all of which were shuddering.

"But we weren't," Edna tried as cohesively as she could. "We haven't been for...for a while..."

Janine's face was shaking, spasming with the effects of this newly learned shocking trauma. Her eyes shimmered with welled tears that threatened to fall at any instant. And in the next, they did with unforgiving rapidity. "For how long?" she howled after regaining her vocal ability.

"...Oh honey, what does it matter now—"

"It matters! How long!"

"...Nine years..."

Janine lowered the phone and braced her face in a horrible grimace, pressing her lips together with great, malignant force. Quickly she brought the phone back up to her cheek and ear and, nodding with false comprehension and acceptance, said, "Nine years...nine years..." And then she ferociously pressed the "end" button effectively cutting the call.

On Edna's end, she heard the click but said anyway, "Janine?! _Janine?! Baby?!"_

****

Bill sunk his key card into the hotel room door then quickly pulled it out. The tiny green light flashed on the knob panel and he opened the door. Entering, he removed his coat and threw it on the couch. He moved over to the bed and dug into his pocket for his cell phone. He brought it out and was about to set it out on the nightstand when it hit him—he had forgotten to turn it back on. Of course, he always had it off when he was interviewing and in important show meetings. But he would typically remember to turn it back on because there was always someone to call at the break periods. Friends, his agent, Edna, and so forth.

Today, however, was a different story. Today he had kept it inert after his second and final interview of the day because he did something out of the normal routine. Instead of going straight to the schedule check for the next day, he decided to visit the archive room...the employee archive room once again...just to see if it was still left open. And if it was, he didn't want his phone going off (even in vibrate mode) while he was anywhere near that room. Somehow, someway, it was still open, still unlocked. So before he lost his nerve and before anyone walked by to catch him, he had dashed into the archives and yanked open the file cabinet drawer marked "A—Br." He had briskly flipped through the file folders and found the one he was looking for. Pulling up the folder for easier access, he hurriedly extracted a sheet of paper from it. Once done he crammed the folder back into the thick of the row of folders. Then he had shoved the drawer closed, fast at first but with ease near the final inch of the closure—he didn't want to make any sizeable bang noise to alert others. And he had whisked himself out of the room and vaulted his frazzled form towards the area featuring the wall-mounted "next day" schedule board. The theft done, he had then returned to his normal routine of post show tasks...except he had forgotten through the heavy distraction of illegal activity remembrance to turn his phone back on.

Now that he was back in his hotel room, he thought it best to finally reactivate his cell phone. Edna would surely be calling soon to ask him again about finally telling Janine the big bad news. It's true, she should know what's going on, Bill rationalized, but I would much prefer just to wait for the weekend. So that Edna and I have a chance to figure out what we're going to say and how we're going to say it. I'm going to suggest it to her, he concluded with certainty as he pressed and kept pressed the red "end" button on his phone. After a second of blank screen the thing flashed to life and visually signaled its warming up status. Another second and the phone's tiny digital monitor returned to its normal display.

And immediately the phone rang.

He saw that it was Edna and he answered the call. "Yeah."

"There you are!" Edna blasted through the device. "Where were you?!"

"I—had something—what's wrong, why are you so loud with me?"

A hissing, elongated breath came from Edna's side. "...Listen, don't be angry but she knows and now she won't talk to me."

Blinking his eyes and slowly whiplashing his head, Bill urged, "Whoa, whoa, back up. What are you talking about?"

"Janine. She knows about us and now she's so upset she won't even talk to me."

"Well, how'd she find out?! Damn it, I told Charlie not to—!"

"He didn't..." and another forced breath came out of her, "...she called me, she knew something was up and I just...I cracked, I couldn't take it any longer—"

"Ah cripes, Edna, we were going to tell her together. Call her back—"

"I've tried, she won't pick up. Why can't you keep your phone turned on?"

In frustration, he massaged his forehead. "I told you I had—never mind, I'm not going to get into this with you right now. Just see if you can get a hold of her—"

"You call her! I can't get through!"

****

"They're just being children!" Janine belted as she sat on her couch enfolded within Charlie's arms and chest. Tears had already made odd, lining tracks down her cheeks. They shined from the low lights in the room, flickered as she spoke, "What'd they think, that as soon as I was moved out that it was all right to step on their vows?!"

"No, I'm sure they didn't—" Charlie tried.

"I knew that something was up, they should have told me way before this," Janine forcefully interrupted.

"Well...they probably wanted you to have fun at the party and then, you know—"

"Oh, that's crap." Her eyes darkened, brows drew in. She shot up slightly and turned to face him, studying his eyes. "What'd you know about this already?" A few involuntary blinks from Charlie told everything. "You _did_ know. How come you knew and I didn't?"

Charlie allowed in a deep breath, let it out. "Because your father asked me for advice knowing that I had went through a divorce myself. So...obviously he couldn't ask me without giving me the reason. Listen, I _wanted_ to tell you."

"And what did you tell them when they asked for your advice?" she put to him accusingly.

"The truth. Listen, they had already made up their minds. Don't turn this around on me, I don't want this to happen any more than you do."

She stared at him for a second more in her dissecting gaze, then averted her eyes away. She returned to her cradled position within his chest and arms. "All right...nine years... _nine years_ they lied to me..."

"I'm so sorry, honey. You're right, they should have told you a long time ago. But I have a feeling that they're both in pretty serious knots over the whole thing—"

"Good. Let 'em stew for a while. Now they get to wonder what's going on."

So she has a vindictive side, Charlie contemplated. Not something he had encountered anywhere near this degree in the five and a half months that they had been dating. Typically, Janine had shown herself to be one of the sweetest, most understanding, and intellectually stimulating individuals that Charlie had ever met. She seemed mature beyond her years, which was one of the main reasons he had been drawn to her. But now her current manner of dealing with things brought a glaring truth to the forefront of his thoughts: Janine was twenty-six years old. And just a mere ten years before that she was sixteen. And yet another blink-and-you'll-miss-it span of ten years before that she was six. It appeared obvious to him now that some psycho-emotional level of her mind was still rooted in those two sometimes interchangeable age behaviorisms.

For all her mental prowess and capacity for empathy and generosity—the tent poles of a mature adult—Janine was still a kid.

And if, hypothetically—and this was a one hundred percent hypothetical as far as Charlie saw it—he had decided to throw his core self to the wind and marry her, he would not set himself to doing it anytime soon. Despite the fact that he loved Janine like no other.

"Honey..." he attempted in earnest, "...you know they love you."

As if she had never heard him, she flatly announced, "I'm never getting married."

Immediately, a shower of relief washed over Charlie's entire being, covering up any thoughts of the situation at hand. Blinking his slightly widened eyes, the shower within him extended to a euphoric exhalation of breath from his newly "o"-formed mouth. He had tried to make it soundless but apparently was unsuccessful for she craned her head around to eye him once more.

He covered it with a quick-change sigh of sorrow, sympathy snap-materializing in his eyes.

Chapter Thirteen

Jerry was finally with his wife again. But only for an hour as he was scheduled to start his shift at The Home Place tonight. It would be a seven hour hall of stocking and helping customers (surprisingly, a good number of them frequented the store in the wee hours of the night). When it was done and he finally made it home to rest, he would have only four hours of sleep before he would have to rise and be ready for Edna. But Jerry knew that it would be grueling when he signed on for a second job. Somehow or another, he would manage.

But at the moment, he couldn't bog his mind down with that. The only river of thought he could flow with was Sandy. Being with her and grateful for her full grip on consciousness. The morphine was still working its effect on her but was waning to a certain extent. She was allowing a certain level of discomfort to inflict her so she could be coherent and alert for Jerry. We suffer for our loved ones when necessary. But even with her with-itness she was still reticent to sit up in her hospital bed. She feared a rush of pressure to her head so she remained mostly flattened. No matter though, she rationed, I can see today, miracle of miracles. I can see him.

He sat close to her and leaned in close to clasp her hand. Both had smiles for each other. She was staring right at him.

"You can see me today, can't you," Jerry said, eyes beaming.

"M-hm," she replied with somewhat subdued enthusiasm. "A bit foggy but yeah, I can see you."

"Pretty dang cool," he said and his smile broadened. "Oh, FYI, I can see you too."

"Oh," she said with playfully exaggerated enthusiasm then a giggle burst uncontrolled from her. "Oh, well that's-that's pretty dang cool too." And her giggles plagued her for a few seconds more.

"Hey, I got another job today."

"Really?" she asked, this time with genuine fervor.

"Yeah, it's an assistant to a photographer. Whaddya say to that?"

"Well, well, well," she commented, some of the playfulness returning, "aren't you on your way, Jerryboy..."

"Yeah well, it's just an assistant position to a freelancer but uh...my portfolio got some mad props as the kids say, so, you know..."

"Yeah, you're on your way."

Backpedaling from his bragging, he shrugged absently.

"This guy treat you well?"

"Her actually. Yeah, she seems pretty cool an' all, knows what she's doing—you know what, it was actually kind of weird because she, uh, she asked about you."

"Oh, why?"

He looked off and replied, "Mmmm, not sure really..." then returned his gaze to her and shrugged again, this time in bafflement.

"And what did you tell her about me?"

"Ohhh, let's see...just the usual rap. That you're a highly sought after, one-of-kind government operative on assignment in the Ukraine."

"Oh, so she was referring to your _other_ wife, I get it now."

A very silly version of a "put out" expression burst on his face. _"Crrrrrap, you were not_ supposed to know about that whole thing, _I was not supposed_ to mention her at all..." He closed his eyes and grimaced vehemently, selling his ridiculous act.

"Cats out of the bag now. You love her, you cherish her, hm? Don't hold back."

A caricatured look of defiance hit if face as he said, "I'm not afraid to express how I feel...not after... _Fernando—"_

"I wanna meet her."

"I told you, she's in the Ukr—"

" _Your boss._ I wanna meet her."

"...You...you want her to come here to meet you?"

"Yeah, why, didn't you tell her about all of this?"

"Nnno."

"Why not?"

Grimacing for real now, Jerry tentatively replied in an uncomfortable tone, "I don't know, honey, is that really the kind of thing you mention to your boss on the first day?"

"Well, I don't know if it is or not, but I want to meet her."

And how was he going to say no to her, in reality? She was dying, and dying quick. Forget about a year, put six months out of mind, she had a month or two at most.

Maybe less.

With a shrug of resignation in his eyes and a distilling breath, he said, "All-all right, I'll...see if she'll come—"

" _Aaaah nooo..."_

Alarm provoked wideness in his eyes as he belted, "What? What is it?!"

"I lost my sight again," she explained with supreme disappointment in her voice.

"Oh hell, honey, I'm sorry." He placed a caressing hand to the side of her head. His fingers meshed with her hair soothingly.

"It's okay," she said in her own attempt at easing him. "At least I got to see you today."

Chapter Fourteen

"Today we're going to be shooting on the north end of the cliffs," Edna had said before she and Jerry made the semi-treacherous trek up Sutherland again. "You got it," he had replied with the proper enthusiasm even though he was struggling to stay awake. He had almost fallen asleep twice on the drive over despite the cup of coffee he downed in record time. Thankfully for his job performance (and thus stability), the climb to the massive rock formations gave his body an energetic boost in his circulation. Chalk one up for Curall.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." Edna said absently, almost as if she were unaware that her inner thoughts were being vocalized. Having reached the north section of the cliffs with Jerry and the equipment in tow, she was now standing near the edge of the cliff and peering down at the soothing coagulations of the striking blue ocean. Proud and reaching rocks jutted upward from the loving sea, like thick fingers of solid earth reaching for the heavens. Edna continued, "...I think this will definitely work for Norm's..." She wanted to give in to a strong urge to simply not shoot and just stand and admire. But work is work as some would say. And besides, once she did get to "clickin'" and creating snaps for later development, another urge would kick in to work as much as possible. Benefits of doing what you love. She completed her thought with, "If I was an out-of-towner, I would certainly come to this spot."

"This spot right here," Jerry put in, "is actually where I used to come for night parties."

Edna faced Jerry. "With your wife?"  
"Yeah, but we weren't married yet. In fact, right here is where I first met her."

"No kidding," she commented jovially.

"This was way back in the days when my friends and I would so blatantly go out of our way to get hammered," he offered with a sheepish grin to her.

She smiled briefly back then got official with, "Tripod meeee...right about...here."

Jerry said, "Coming up" and he hefted the bulky tripod to carry it where Edna had indicated with her foot. Apparently she had found a sweet spot camera angle. He set the camera support down and began expanding the thing.

As he did this she eyed him. "Miss the old days?"

Not stopping his set up, he replied, "Sure, I guess. I mean we don't see any of those—that whole group anymore. Most of them have gone down some pretty messed up roads or at least from what I last heard...one of them, though, I think is some big wig ad exec now."

"Oh _really?_ Do you remember where?"

"Um..." He stared off, troubling his memory for an answer. "...I wanna say athlete orrr dynamo..."

"Dynamek Dezines?"

He yanked a pointed finger at her. "That's the one."

"His name wouldn't be Nick Boss, would it?"

"Yeah, hell, how'd you know?" he asked as his expression was hit with instant shocked confusion.

"My daughter works for him."

He looked off in amazement, "...Huh...and..." He turned his gaze back to Edna, "...She actually, willingly chooses to do so?"

"Umm, yeah, she likes it there from what she tells me."

"Wow...she must have some serious backbone." Having paused a bit with the tripod, he resumed the raising of the thing, locking the legs in to their angled position.

"Yeah, she's a strong kid," Edna said and immediately contemplated with a seizing rush of stress, how true is that statement? How resilient was Janine particularly after learning that her parents had lied to her for years that their marriage was well-guarded fortress, a solid keep? Was she towing the line, dealing with the betrayal and performing her life with the proper front? All is well, folks, nothing disturbing to see here; move along, go home, and sleep well at night. I got the fort.

Or was she holed up in her apartment with her face in a permanent quiver of soul-crumbling anguish, lining tears setting up successful residence on her face?

Was she about ready to relapse into the horrid, maligning depression that caused Bill and Edna to wonder if they were going to find their daughter dead in a bathtub one day? Their precious little girl, just a toddler it seemed just like yesterday, lying in a pool of her own dark red blood that had fissured completely from two deep gashes in her wrists?

My God, was that happening right n—? NO!!! Shut up! She's better now, and she has a good man who will bend over backwards to help her through bad shit like this, Edna attempted to soothe in her newly formed hysteria of the mind. Charlie will be there for her, don't worry...

...But never as her husband—

"Are you okay?" Jerry asked with a measure of concern.

Knocking her focusing back to reality, she quickly got out, "Fine, yes, I'm okay. Sorry about that."

****

Must be the locale, Jerry thought to himself. This lady was on target yesterday with the work, but today...today she was on target with a passion. Almost as if she were doing it to run from something that was chasing her with big emotional meat cleavers. Which probably wasn't true, he rationalized, but that's just the impression he got. Why doesn't this lady work for a magazine full time?—he marveled silently.

They finished the shoot in three hours then wrapped up and trekked down to their cars. Once the equipment was secured and put away in Edna's SUV, she announced, "That's it for Norm's."

"What's next?" Jerry inquired.

"Not sure at the moment. I'm getting a call tonight so we'll see."

"All right. Hey, uh...do you mind if I, uh, ask you for a favor?"

"Sure, what's up?"

"Myyy wife would like to meet you. I'm not sure exactly why, she's never been that interested in meeting my bosses before."

Edna's eyes shifted away from Jerry as she uttered, "...hm..."

He was quick to add, "I'll understand completely if you feel weird about it. It's just that I mentioned you a bit to her and the things we talked ab—"

"Sure," she cut in, eyes going back to him.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I'd love to meet her."

"Well, all right. Thanks, thank you."

A small smile passed between them.

Chapter Fifteen

Another terrific day so far.

In terms of interviews anyway. Two more were in the can for Bill's show with one more set up to go in less than half an hour. Bill, of course, had been doing this game for a long time and had trained himself on not letting any personal issues interfere with his ability to give a hundred percent to the job. In staying fully focused on remaining energetic, gracious, witty, and inviting. Making the guests feel right at home and drawing out their own charismatic personas, in whatever forms they may take.

Impotency problems, a daughter's deep depression, a sister's repeated relationship dramas, a "no-one wins" fight with his wife—all locked away in a neat little room of the mind. Not to be let out until such time Bill was off set and out of sight of anyone related to the show.

And today was no exception. Despite the fact that his daughter may be sliding on that downward spiral again (no way of knowing for sure, she wasn't talking to either him or Edna).

And despite the quite alarming fact that, surprise, surprise, Trini was back on the job—with card-passing punctuations of "Here they are, my little superstar," and "Here you go, cute stuff."

So...crisis not averted, his mind came unnervingly to grips with—which made keeping that little room in his mind's structure extremely difficult to keep solid. Trini's presence and her undoubted resolve to pursue him were serving to supremely challenge the dimensions of the room's trauma capacity. It was cracking at the seems and corners, wanting to burst. He had kept it together so far...but what about the third interview? How much more could that room stand?

"Miss Alvarez, might I have a word with you outside?" Bill asked Trini with about as much politeness as he could muster. She was just about to hand him his cards when he gave his query.

"Sure, big guy," she calmly replied, still grating his nerves.

"Meet you outside on the northeast corner of the studio, yes?"

"Yyyes," she jovially answered.

"Five minutes."

"On the dot." Again jovial.

He stared at her with deadening eyes of "why me?" for a second then let out a lip-pursed breath of frustration. She handed him his cards and they parted from one another.

Five minutes later, they both met up at the agreed exterior corner of the studio. Thankfully, no-one else was hanging around, they were alone.

"Now listen, I...I want to apologize for calling you what I did the other day. Mind you, it wasn't without some merit, but...all and all I still wanted to—"

"Why?" she asked with eyebrows cinched. "If you even a third meant it, then why even try to apologize?"

"Because...I don't normally say things like that to people even if I'm angry at them—"

Shrugging, she cut him off with, "You can call me it if you want, I don't care. I've been called worse—slut, whore, retard, run down the list."

Visibly and mentally taken aback by her language, Bill outed, "I'm _not_ going to call you any of _those_ things for God sakes—"

"It doesn't make any difference to me, they're just words."

"They're not very nice words."

"There's not very nice people in the world, is there?"

"That's not the point, you shouldn't toler—"

"But _you're_ nice, aren't you? I mean you can't help it. It just comes out. You know what, every show I watch with you in it, either on set or at home, I see nice just, like, explode from your eyeballs. Hell, you wouldn't be standing here trying to apologize to me if you weren't." And then she moved in ever so slightly closer to him. "I _was_ a little punk the other day as I probably am today. But that has very little to do with the fact that I find you irresistible, and if you're having a tough time right now, I want to help."

He stared at her for a moment before saying, "You really do, don't you?"

"Yep."

Shifting himself in the shoulders and stepping a bit closer himself, he pounced with, "Are you, in fact, even slightly aware of how old I am?"

"Fifty-three. I do have a computer with that whole 'www' thing."

He backed up a few steps, flitting his stare off and around, laughing nervously, "This—cripes, this _has_ to stop..."

"Why?" She poked her head casually forth. "'Cause maybe you think I'm _unbalanced?"_

" _Well?"_ he challenged lacing it with a breathy sputter of nervous laughter.

"Well how short-sighted of you that you think someone who has the balls to not deny themselves of what they truly want in life as some garden variety wackjob. I don't feel the need to let it all slide by when I have the slightest chance to get what I desire. Shame on you, Bill. You're on in fifteen."

And with that, she walked away and out of sight. Bill could only stare after her, anxiety tightening his eyes.

A terrific day so far.

Chapter Sixteen

"So you're dying, huh?" said a night-lifer type named Gavin Lerner to Janine as he popped by her workspace. She was just closing down her computer for the day.

"What? Why would you say that?" she asked, already flustered from a day of battling her emotional agony. Tears had clearly been wiped away from her now makeup-imperfect eyes.

"Well you have the look of someone who just found out they're dying, so I figured, you know...what is it, West Nile, Lupus, Alzheimer's, 'cause, you know, that last one would really explain a lot."

"It would, wouldn't it, but you know, as advanced as my case is, sadly, I still remember you, Gavin."

He recoiled his head and spit an abrupt breath then said, "You could be braindead, Baby J, and still remember me."

"Considering your track record with girls, you really oughta know."

"I'm not offended by your egregious statement, you understand that right?"

"I didn't think you would be."

"Seriously, though, what the hell's going on with you? And don't think I'm going to blab it because you know you're the only one out of all these plaster-heads I can talk to." Gavin could say this openly, everyone in earshot of them had already taken off for the day.

"Okay, my parents are divorcing."

Gavin flicked his eyes away briefly. "And?"

"And it would be nice if they didn't."

He screwed up his face as he said, "Hell, full steam ahead, I say. Only heads-up-it's jump into that quicksand, Baby J."

"Baby G, stop helping."

"Hey now," he began with fervor and a playfully warning tone, "Don't let Boss see you have any evidence of personal crap going on. He's liable to bust a vein."

" _Hey,_ is he making you read?"

A simpleton expression materialized on Gavin's face. "Only my mommy makes me read," he replied in a childish tone.

"I _mean_ has he given you any books to read by this guy, Chase Curall?"

Gavin grimaced. "Chase Curall...? Sounds like one of those chimpanzee freaks who lives out in the Serengeti or some messed up crap like that."

"I wish he was," she uttered almost to herself.

"Well, I'm skating before Boss Turd gets out of the bathroom. Later daters, skaters." Then he squeezed her shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up, huh?" He turned and walked away, heading for the elevator.

Without much enthusiasm, she said, "Sure. Later."

She sat there and waited a few seconds, allowing Gavin a head start before she took off herself. She didn't want to share the elevator with him because she wasn't really interested in talking to anyone (with the exception of Charlie). She certainly wasn't keen on hearing any more of what her fellow employee had to say regarding marriage or relationships.

Poor Gavin, she mused. Either he was going to die alone with a million consecutive venereal diseases or he was going to marry some day and be miserable beyond belief.

She couldn't wait too much longer to leave, however, because she, too, wished to vacate the premises (or at least make it into a closed elevator) before Nick exited the bathroom.

The elevator doors had just pressed together for Gavin's car. Now was the time. She gathered her purse and coat and made for the hall.

She was just to the elevator doors ready to push the call button when—swing, creek—the men's room door opened inward and wide to reveal Nick. He eyed her and said, "Oh hey, Janine, hold up."

****

"Looks like you've been crying, everything going okay?" Nick put to Janine as they sat in his office. They faced each other, his desk between them.

"Oh, oh yeah, no, this is an allergy. I'm having a bad reaction to this new eyeliner I'm using," she covered quite convincingly.

"That's bad marketing. Let me guess, they promised no more clumpage, right?"

"Oh yeah," she lied with a nervous smile.

"No clumps but you get a flushed face and watery, irritated eyes. Where's your benefit?" he asked with arms flung out and palms spread.

"Nnnnone."

"Right. Bad marketing."

"True." Where's that handgun?

"So...?" He raised his eyebrows.

As did she. "Hm?"

"The book. I know you probably haven't gotten too far in just a few days but, whaddya think at this point?"

"Eye opening," she lied with enthusiasm in her voice.

"Of course, right? It opens your mind to a new way of thinking."

"That it does," she added with her best fronting smile.

But then he swiped his head to one side while still training his gaze upon her. "But there's one thing I gotta catch you on right off, you've missed a step," he chided with a rising tone.

Shhhit. "I did?"

" _Overtime,"_ and then he brought his face back to full front with a disarming smile. "Listen, we got the Roony account coming on like a rocket. I wanted to bring you in tomorrow night for some extra hours so we can make this one our best sells ever. So you and me, whaddya say?"

"Oh yeah, terrific!" I'm putting the cartridge or magazine or whatever it is they call the case of bullets in the gun, I'm forcing back the hammer...

"There's my girl, we'll own those spots...well listen, I'll let you go so you can get home and, you know, read some more of Curall's 'literary magic,' how's that sound?"

"Great, yeah!" Boom! In the chest and in the head! Boom! Boom! Boom!...

****

_That frickin' weasel!_ Janine screamed in her head as she drove home. I'm going to kill him, I'm just going to reach right in to his throat and rip his esophagus out. And then maybe I'll torch the corpse so I don't have to smell his damn rancid cologne anymore. Although as strong as that putrid crap is, even setting him ablaze might not do the trick...I know what he really wants now. After talking with Gavin, I _know_ now what Boss wants, that damn weasel, damn lech...

...what am I going to do...I can't take this, not now, not after everything I just discovered with my parents. Those liars. Almost ten years they lied to me and they expect me to just understand and deal with it? Forget that!

Try to remember something, though, kiddo—you were in a hellish hole of depression round about the time things went south for dear ma and pa. This was a sobering voice within her, making her see all angles of the situation. It rationed on with, had your parents come clean and set a divorce in motion, would you have been able to cope? Or would you have let another tar-like layer or two of despair wrap around your soul?

Yeah, most likely, she admitted to herself, to her more mature, level-headed side. But then she ranted, I was only in that deep funk for three years, they could have come clean after that.

Could they have? And risk a relapse? You know how much you had freaked them out with your silence, your nonresponsiveness...

...your flirtation with ending it all...

...okay...so they could have waited maybe a year, maybe even stretched it out to two. But then after that, they could have taken me aside, explained things to me and made sure that this wasn't my fault, that they would be there for me, that they still cared about each other, and on and on. They could have talked to me and made things honest.

And they _didn't_.

Chapter Seventeen

Fizzy's night club this weekend, Gavin thought as he drove the maze-like route to his apartment building. Fizzy's and brews and hopefully a few chesties without hormonal tizzies, he contemplated with a smile and a dreamy anticipation. Just a few more days and I'm there working the talk and walkin' the walk. And if all goes well, then a few white lines up the snozz, a one-nighter with a slinky fox (or two) and then sleepy-bye until noon. Or one depending. Can't wait, he boomed in his mind as he drove into the mini-parking lot, locked his car and headed for the apartment building. He had to enter the lobby first and then climb a few flights of stairs (never the elevator, I'm not getting stuck in there in a breakdown or fire, he would always excuse to people) before he could reach his door. Having made it that far, he fished in his pocket for his keys and attempted to position the proper key in the doorknob's slitted slot. Fumbled, fumbled, got it—

" _Hey,"_ a whispering, rasping voice raked behind Gavin. The halting sound startled him to the core of his being, causing him to jolt abruptly. An immediate electric shock of adrenaline knocked his senses as he whirled about with force to identify the source of the creeping voice. "Hey light man," the whisper-rasp voice invited with false and malignant community.

Gavin's apartment (still locked for he had pulled the key out upon whipping around) was located right near the stairwells and underneath the one on this floor was a man half-buried in shadow. His stabbing smile, however, was visible to Gavin—one he'd seen before.

" _Tooodd_ ...jeeze, Todd, you scared the living hell out of me," Gavin managed over his fluttering breath and slamming heartbeat.

Todd, as he was known, glided ghostly forth to reveal his full physical form to Gavin. The man's eyes were widened with an over-alertness, the skin around the sockets was darkened with a sickening hue, as though he hadn't seen sleep in days. Or a shower either by the greasy dishevel of his hair. The slicing grin remained as he came floatingly towards Gavin. Todd was wearing mildew-permeated pants with graying sneakers and no socks. He was absent a shirt under the dingy windbreaker he wore on his torso. It allowed a glimpse of his boned, tendony frame.

"Hey light man," Todd said again through that piercing smile as he slowed himself to a halt in front of his skittish friend.

Some of the shock was wearing off and Gavin now wrenched his brow in with a measure of confusion. "Hey, ah, Todd...hey man..." He looked around to see if they were alone. They were so he faced Todd once more and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "Listen, this isn't cool, you know I can't sell to you here. And what's with you, man? You look like hell. And lastly, what's with this 'light man' crap?"

Todd's eyes became playful, as did his smile—deceptively so—while he said singingly, "Light man, liii-ight mannn...lighty-light, light man..."

Comically struck by this (yet still freaked out and becoming increasingly annoyed), Gavin vomited a nervous laugh, stating, "O-hokaaaay, you'rrre on about something—definitely _on_ something—"

And with a whip-suddenness, Todd's voice changed to a tone of dead serious force, "I say LIGHT MAN...because when I checked my bag of co—"

"SHHH-SHH!" Gavin blurted as his face and posture exploded with panic.

"WHEN I MEASURED my bag of—" Todd threw his head to the direction of the hall, "—COCAAAAINE!!!...I noticed that it was light on the gram—"

As Todd was uttering the last part of his sentence, Gavin groaned, "Goddammit, Todd, Goddammit—hey listen, that is pure bull and you know it! You know that I am known for measuring to the milligram, Todd, _to the milligram_ the correct—"

With horrid abruptness, Todd raged, "DON'T...try to screw me, don't 'cause I know a gram by heart, I'm not stupid, I know a gram when I _see_ it...and what you sold me was light. You shorted me, you SHORTED ME!"

From inside one of the apartment rooms, a lady's muffled howl came through with, "Hey, shut your holes out there!"

Todd screamed in that direction a far from polite reply of, "Shut up, lady, I will kill you!" then he snapped his attention back to Gavin.

Attempting damage control, Gavin pleaded rapidly, "Todd, Todd, come on, come on, calm it down, come—just calm down now and listen to me for a second. Now...now I measured out your gram perfectly and you, when you bought it, you were fine with it. Now think, think, when did you measure it? Was it just after I left or was it possibly after you had already taken some—maybe a whole lot? Now try to think it through..."

Manic as Todd was, he actually made an effort to sift through his frenzied and swirling thoughts to see if there was some validity to Gavin's claim. His face twitched, especially his eyebrows. His lids narrowed over jittered, searching eyes.

Hoping for a break in recollection, Gavin tried, "It would have to be after, wouldn't it? I mean we're friends here, have been for years, man, you remember that, don't you? This-this is just paranoia from the coke..."

In Todd's mind (what was left of it anyway) there was a searching, searching, the face twittering and spasming, tightening and loosening, eyes ever-increasing in their mad darts...

Until something ferocious took over, dug up through the muck of his misfiring, misdirected synapses and grabbed the cerebral reigns with a maddening grip—"Don't try to LIE TO ME!!!" he roared and swiftly brought out a flashing knife. The large hunting kind.

Instantly, Gavin abandoned his method of approach for reasoning with Todd and rapidly rattled off, "All right, all right, all right, all right, okay, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry..." His eyes repeatedly blinked as they descended in humbled deference to Todd's weapon and newly bestowed position of power.

"Just...don't lie to me, light man..." Todd calmly said as he pointed the spearing tip of the large knife at Gavin's chest area. "You shorted me...you shorted me—"

With an extremely repentant tone, Gavin added, "You're right, you're right, I did, I shorted you, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..." Still looking downward, body vibrating with constrictive fear, he stutteringly offered, "Wh-what—would—what—what—what could—could I do to make up for it? Ju-just tell me—you wanna come in, I've got more, we could make up for what I didn't—did you wanna come in? let's go in..." And now he finally attempted some flitting and highly brief glances back up at Todd. After a few seconds he tried to keep a steady stare to him. But even as he succeeded with this, it was deftly clear that Gavin's eyes couldn't cease their mad blinking. "...Let's go in..."

Todd's eyes spoke of deadness.

But the razor smile returned.

Chapter Eighteen

The phone wouldn't stop ringing at Janine's apartment.

Charlie and Janine were huddled together on the living room couch, Janine resting her head on Charlie's chest, fully acceptant and needing of his arms around her. Her eyes spoke of deadness of spirits, a draining of her enthusiasm for life. The phone high-pitchly rattled on.

"You can answer it if you want to," Janine said flatly, "But I'm not talking to anyone."

"I guess I should," Charlie advised, "they're just going to keep calling." He rose to walk over and answer the phone. "Hello?...Hello, Edna...Yyyeah but she's not really in the mood to talk to anyone right now...Me too...I will, I'm not going anywhere...I will...Okay, bye." He hung up and faced Janine. "Your mother said to say that she loves you and that this whole thing was never meant to hurt you."

Janine breathed a bracing breath before announcing, "I know...this just _sucks_ , that's all. I knew they had some problems, I knew they weren't as lovey-dovey as when I was a kid and all, but I always figured on them sticking it out. It was like one of my last certainties in this world and now it's just gone.

"And to top it off I now have to go into work with a plastic smile and a go-getter attitude for that rancid-musk smelling weasel-bastard. Not only do I have to read those nazi-istic books by chimp lover, Chase Curall, but now I have to work over with Boss on the new account."

"This author isss a chimpanzee enthusiast?" Charlie asked in confusion.

"Nooo...but we kinda crowned as one," Janine replied, mildly grimacing.

"We?"

"Me and Gavin. He's one of the graphic artists at Dynamek."

"Oh."

"And here's another thing, Gavin is actually just as good as I am, if not better in some ways, at the job. But does he get called in or have to listen to nonsense and have books thrust upon him? Nooo." Then her eyes narrowed as she stared off. "I think Nick's trying to get me into bed."

"Well if he is and he tries something, just quit. I'll float you for a while until you can get back on your feet."

"Thanks," she said absently, still too bogged down by plaguing, morose thoughts.

"Listen, tell you what, I know you don't feel much like doing anything, but why don't you and I just go out...see a movie? _A comedy_ ..."

She didn't respond immediately, choosing to lounge there on the couch, ping-ponging her mind's consideration of Charlie's spur-of-the-moment offer. With all that weighted on her emotionally, psychologically, she truly didn't feel like doing anything. Anything other than just folding up on the couch and staring until eventually she couldn't keep her eyes open anymore.

On the other hand, if she left the apartment, it would guarantee her an escape from anymore incessant phone calls. And wherever they went she would be with Charlie. "...Yeah, screw it, why not? But turn your cell phone off."

He did, and they left the apartment for the neighborhood cineplex featuring twenty cinematic choices for possible enjoyment. Half were dramas, some were action-oriented, one was a splatter-fest not for the faint of heart (and certainly not what Janine had in mind to divert her troubled, repeating thoughts and feelings), and two were comedies. Only one of the two was regarded as worth a damn so they bought their tickets and went in for it.

It was a movie entitled, "The Stereo Wars" about two warring stereo shops set in the mid-1980's. It had the feel of one of those "multi-main-charactered, big budgeted, race across the open road" films. The thrust of the plot came when a huge chain stereo store came whooshing into town to steal the business away from the smaller outlets. Naturally, the small stores had to put differences aside to band together in crushing their new threat. The film was quirky and offbeat with comedic moments that came out of left field. And fortunately for everyone watching, the leftfield was stocked to the rafters with clever ticklers. Roars of laughter were fierce and frequent. Janine actually enjoyed herself—something she didn't think was possible when she stepped foot into the theater. After wading through what it seemed like thirty minutes of ultra-loud coming attraction trailers, the movie started and both Charlie and Janine couldn't help but laugh from almost frame one.

As the audience members funneled out of the theater, overlapping conversations about the film's overwhelming laugh factor were rampant. Charlie and Janine were no exception as they raved all the way to Charlie's car. As they drove off, the spirited recap of the movie's highpoints continued unabated with it seemed no end in sight.

"Oh my God," Janine belted, "The anti-stereo cult and how nobody could get the right coffee drink..." and then giggled. "Oh, I love the married, Buddhist assassins, they were so cool!"

Charlie, exhilarated, put in, "I love when they're going to use the skunk juice to clear out the big store, which I really thought was going to happen, and the one small store owner asks that Double G kid why his cousin had a whole bunch of skunk juice in the first place—"

"Right, right, and Double G says, 'Oh man, he is fffffffucked, you don't even wanna know!'" and they both burst out with healthy laughter. As it died down a bit, Janine continued with, "I love the scene at the gas station when the assassins kill that one girl's shithead boyfriend. And the girl finds him in the bathroom and you think she's gonna freak out but then she starts laaaaaughing..."

"Oh, what about what the husband says to the boyfriend before killing him?"

Janine imitates the husband assassin, "'What did the hooker say to the john who had satisfied her so much the time before?'"

And then both together, "'This one's for free.'" And then Janine made a "gun" with her hands pressed together and said, "Boom," while yanking them back, simulating the recoil from a shot. She lowered them giggling along with Charlie's deeper laughter. When it subsided, she jokingly suggested, "You and I should become a married, Buddhist assassin team. We could go into my work and start with my boss and then, I don't know, maybe seek out, like, fluffy pop starlets or something." She ended the thought with a few breathy chuckles.

Still with a jovial mask to his face, Charlie commented, "You'rrrre joking..."

Still with a playful giggle, Janine revealed, "Well, about killing people, even my shithead boss, of course. I'm not, like, Psychotic Sally here but...you know...I do wanna marry you..." She gazed at him with such a dreamy pull, a magnetism only he could instill in her.

Keeping his eyes (which were repeatedly blinking) on the road, he cautiously reminded her, "I, uh...I thought you said you were never getting married..."

Tutting with a bit of a pained expression, she clarified, "I know, I know, I was just super pissed, that's all. Besides, Gavin said to me today that marriage is for idiots so I pretty much go against anything he says..." and she laughed a touch, some uncertainty-injected nervousness creeping into it. Then finished with, "Yeah, no, I wanna marry you."

In the next few tense-filled instances, they both stared ahead with an immense absence of the elated exhilaration both had felt just a moment before. Their eyes had adopted a fair approximation of the deer in headlights phenomenon.

Silence and fear separated them for the rest of the drive home.

Chapter Nineteen

Bill violently convulsed himself awake, fast jack-knifing his form in his hotel room bed. Forceful breaths shot repeatedly from his opened mouth while his eyes blinked rapidly. He remained bent over for a moment trying to come to full grips with the fact that his soul-stabbing dream was simply that—a dream. A neural hallucination drudged up and formulated from his burdened subconscious. It had seemed so real to him, to the point where he was even telling his own mind, this is not a dream, understand that now, you are truly living this.

Perhaps his mind had tricked itself because, in point of fact, in reality, he had lived this heart-scraping event in its varied incarnations most of his adult life. When he was experiencing these occurrences in his waking hours, he had versed himself on shoving any conscience-bothering aspect of the act way deep down. He did this so he could achieve his goal of staying out of the cold—in several crucial ways, both literally and figuratively.

Finally, he began to lay back and rest his head on the pillow again. His breaths continued to be elevated and quite audible for a number of moments until he could finally convince his nerves to abate and equalize. That this serious adrenaline flow was not to their ultimate benefit if sleep was to be reclaimed any time soon.

After close to five minutes his breathing had returned to normal, but there still remained a strange and damning buzz in his mind, a caustic remnant of the jolting and diseased dream.

A thought broke into his consciousness and, once there, flitted around wildly until it became the one and true focus within his head.

" _I can help you...I want help."_

He covered his eyes with his hands then proceeded to drag them down his face. This caused his facial skin to stretch a bit and pull down his lower lids. Edna used to say that when he did this he reminded her of one of those zombie movies. Back when they were into each other, he would playfully taunt her by making deathly moaning noises (as zombies prefer to do) and sauntering awkwardly toward her, his hands forcing his visage down in a drastically horrid manner. She would then laugh and cringe in a caricature of fear.

Fully removing his hands from his face, he took a deep, depressive breath, let it out, then grunted his way to a sitting position on the side of the bed. On the nightstand next to his side lay a folded piece of paper. It appeared to be blank from its facing side save for the ghost of words that were printed on the opposite side. Bill reached over to the other object on the nightstand, the lamp, and turned it on. He squinted a bit as his eyes achingly adjusted to the brightness. Then he took the folded paper in hand and stared at it for a brief time. With another grayish deep breath exhaled, he unfolded the sheet and exposed its printed side.

It was Trini's resume. Complete with all of her contact information.

Bill twisted his frame to glance to the other bedside nightstand featuring the digital alarm clock. It read 1:45 in the morning.

Would she be up this late, he recklessly pondered. Would she even be willing to talk to him if she was? They had not really left things on a rosy note this afternoon. Would she still be living at home with her parents or in a loft with a slew of roommates? Either party respectively would not enjoy a late night call, he wagered heavily.

But again, even if she lived alone, would Trini even accept his call, his bid for a sizeable apology as well as a plea for emotional solace?

Surely not, he concluded in what felt like total rationale filling his ego's reservoir. But another logic pesteringly swam around in there hollering out the occasional, "What if she _is_ open to it? And what if she does live alone and stays up until two and three in the morning? What if she's one of those types? After the way that girl packed her strong coffee to the hilt with sugar, I wouldn't be surprised."

Okay, Billy Brightman, what if she is up and willing to talk, what then, he asked himself. She's willing to forgive your thoughtless accusations and is more than willing to help you in your time of crisis. Terrific, splendid, fireworks. But now _how_ is she going to help you? What possible way is she capable of doing so, he had to consider now that he had accepted all prior hypotheticals.

She could give him her ear and he could, without a doubt, talk it off with all of his troubles and concerns. But what is that going to do in terms of solving any of what festered his soul? Bill never believed in that old adage that if you talk about it you might feel better. On the contrary, he believed the opposite to be true, particularly in Trini's case where she was just a kid and hadn't lived long enough to offer any true words of wisdom on the trials of divorce...or that thing Bill just nightmared himself through.

Or had she in the former?

Was Trini already divorced at age twenty-five?

Somehow Bill didn't think it was the case. But again, even if it was true, that still didn't offer a solution. Relatability is not solvability as Bill saw it.

Sexual healing? No, of course not, Trini could not cure his ills with that, no-one could. He was impotent and there was nothing for it. He simply had no interest in it anymore. If he was just having some performance issues he would likely take one of those sexual enhancement pills. But that was not it, there was something missing in his psyche, something that turned over, closed its eyes, deadened, and then eventually degenerated into nothingness. And with some of the other thrills that charged his life's worth, his willingness to stick around (his daughter's successes, driving around his birthday present, listening to jazz—a new taste acquirement for him—and other recent additions), he didn't even miss sex. It had been played out as far as he was concerned. Mission accomplished, heights reached, time for new stimuli, a new thing to look forward to.

No, Trini could not help, Bill was certain of it. Fairly certain—no, certain. She was just a kid and a pushy, insensitive one at that.

He folded up the paper into its "once, twice" fold arrangement then reached over to, this time, open the nightstand drawer and drop the resume in it. He closed it and lay back down to stare at the ceiling. It was an hour and a half before he got back to sleep. Swirling, inconclusive thoughts fogged his mind for the whole duration.

Chapter Twenty

The call came last night to Edna that the shoot for "The Scientific Mine" magazine would start on Thursday. It was then that a private reserve was slated for official photography. Edna went on line to study all she could about the location.

Having only taken a few hours for her research to exhaust itself, Edna decided to call Jerry—first to inform of the coming shoot, then suggest that they could get together today so that she could meet his wife. Jerry agreed and they decided to meet at a restaurant.

Edna had to admit she was quite curious as to why this Sandy wanted to meet her when Jerry had claimed she never had any interest in doing so with any other boss before. She knew why she wanted to meet Sandy, there were no doubts there. Part of it was brought on by a strong sense of envy (without, thankfully, any signs of jealousy) in Sandy's unswerving devotion to her love for Jerry. To hold up the proverbial reminiscent mirror of what Edna used to be. And the other part was, well, just garden variety curiosity: what did Sandy look like, what were her personality traits beyond what Jerry revealed, how old was she—younger or older or same age compared to her husband, etcetera.

Edna and Jerry met around two in the afternoon but without Sandy, which Edna almost immediately inquired about. Jerry only scratched at his hair and, with an uneasiness to his overall appearance, replied, "Aaah, we have to go to her, she kinda can't get away from where she is sooo do you wanna just follow me and we'll..."

"Sure, sure, lead the way," Edna said, successfully hiding her initial "caught-off-guard" gut reaction.

They got back in their cars and Jerry led her a few miles away to a large facility known as Berrenger General Hospital.

As they both parked (near each other, miracles of miracles) and got out to approach each other again, Edna asked, "Oh, does Sandy work here?"

There was still awkwardness in Jerry's stride, his posture, his overall being as he corrected, "Not really, umm...come on in, let's just go see her," and he started off for the hospital's entrance, motioning her to follow.

" _Jerry_ ," she coaxed, remaining where she stood. Her eyes demanded that she be told more than she already knew.

He stopped himself as he heard Edna call his name and immediately understood the seriousness of her tone. Facing her again, he took a heart-skipping second before pleading, "Listen, I know this is going to sound weird but...I'd feel better about this if I told you more after we met her..."

Edna's brow furled, sensing something troubling and immense was about to happen. With an odd shrugging motion of the head, she perfunctorily said, "Okay," and followed him in.

****

"She's been asleep for quite a while so it's possible you might be able to wake her at this point," the nurse informed Jerry and Edna at the doorway of Sandy's hospital room. "Of course, no guarantees."

"Oh sure, thanks so much," Jerry said as the nurse was departing.

"You're welcome."

Jerry looked at Edna who still looked a little befuddled (though less than before, that was certain) and with hopeful yet cautious eyes, he said, "Well...um, here we go..."

She mirrored his look.

He walked over to Sandy's bed and sat on the side of it (with what little space there was). He faced her and ran a few fingers through her stringy hair while saying, "Sandy... _Sandy_ ...Sandy, honey..."

Must be cancer, Edna surmised morosely, with how pale and sunken she looks. Full head of hair so she must be beyond chemo...God...

"Sandy, sweetie..." Jerry tried on.

"Hmm?" hummed Sandy with thick grogginess. Her eyes were still closed but they were visibly shifting under the lids.

"Sandy? Sandy, it's me."

She lifted her eyebrows in an attempt to convince her lids to separate. A second or two later they did but then they blinked successively trying to acclimate to consciousness.

"Sandy, baby, can you see me?"

Sandy swiveled her eyes around to catch sight of Jerry's, then bunched her brows inward. "...M-hm..."

"You can see me?" he said with barely controlled elation.

"Yeah, I can see you," she drowsily confirmed again.

"That's great," he encouraged, his enthusiasm growing, but then quickly sobered it with, "Are you seriously uncomfortable right now?"

"I'm okay I think," she replied in the same foggy tone. It seemed clear to both Jerry and Edna that this level of alertness from Sandy was about as good as it was going to get.

"Okay...hey, listen, I brought someone to see you."

Sandy's eyes slipped from Jerry to train as best they could on Edna. The elder woman yet chose to remain somewhat near the door. "Hi, Sandy, I'm Edn—"

"Could you come closer," Sandy interrupted as politely as possible. "I can't make you out over th—"

"Oh sure, I'm sorry," and Edna somewhat quickly came forth to stand by Jerry. "Is that better?"

"Much, thanks."

"Hi, I'm Edna Kirby."

"Sandy Nesmith. You're Jerry's new boss?"

"Well, I don't know how new I am being, eghh, fifty-one now, but yeah, I am."

"How long have you been a photographer?"

"Twenty-eight years."

"Wow. You must be good."

"Well...with the right help, I do all right," and she glanced at Jerry and gave him a jovial wink of the eye. They smiled at each other the way trusted associates do.

Weakly, Sandy smiled as well and then raised a pallid, intravenous tube-injected arm up sluggishly to point a finger at Jerry's midsection (near the waist area, likely because she lacked the strength for chest height). She did a wink herself (as well as a nod) at Edna and uttered, "He's your one, that I know."

Feeling awkward as hell which caused redness to seep up into his cheeks, Jerry playfully checked his watch then said, "Yep, three 'o' clock daily embarrassment session right on time."

"Right on time, honey," she corroborated with as much verve as she could muster under the influence.

"Thanks for being punctual."

"M-hm, you're welcome."

Edna laughed as did Jerry. Sandy merely kept a smile.

Immediately, Edna thought to herself, what an incredible girl to joke in a condition such as this...

Jerry decided to switch gears with, "Hey honey, guess where we did some shooting yesterday?"

"Where?"

"Sutherland Cliffs."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you know, where we used to go for all our parties with the old gang."

And suddenly, Sandy's eyes cinched. "...That was a beach..."

"No, it was the cliffs, honey, the parties at night, that was Sutherland."

Her face now graduated to a pained grimace as she forcefully attempted cogent memory in her crowded brain. "...No...I'm pretty sure it was the beach..." Then her eyelids blinked in slow motion—her energy was waning.

But Jerry kept with her saying, "But you remember us meeting on the cliffs, right?" and laughed nervously a touch, as if to say, come on, you gotta remember that?!

Her blinking slowed further until it was obvious to Jerry and Edna that Sandy was drifting under again. "...Sure...the beach..." was her final utterance and she was catatonic once more, having expended her energy reserves completely.

"Okay..." Jerry said flatly, as if this wasn't totally an unexpected occurrence for him. And, of course, it wasn't, knowing how many times she had been loopy and sluggish with the serious amount of painkillers flowing through her system. The ultimate mixed blessing, he often thought of them.

"Jerry, I think maybe we should let her rest," Edna suggested gingerly.

"Sure, of course...you hungry?"

"Sure."

****

Berrenger's cafeteria washed over the senses as Edna and Jerry entered its portion of the hospital. Clangs and dings rang out from the kitchen area like bizarre drumming while low-level conversations served as a steady backing rhythm. A fresh scent of pine permeated their noses signaling that the floor had recently been mopped. Fortunately for their hungered appetites and their patience, there were few people in line ahead to pay for meals. Both got their passable for eating lunch varieties and found seating at a nearby table. Despite their empty stomachs, however, neither was rapidly digging in.

Edna decided to look at Jerry. Her brows were low to her eyes, a crinkle had formed between them. "So what is it, Jerry?"

He took a few seconds before answering her, choosing to eye his food in that brief time. Then he locked his stare with her and said flatly, "Various tumors...the most serious of which is on her brain, frontal lobe, which presses on her optical nerves. Likes to mess with her sight frequently, kind of a pesky little bugger." And he offered up the slightest hint of a deathly smile.

Edna's brows had risen, the wrinkle ironed out as Jerry had given his response. She whispered, "Jesus..." then became more audible as she inquired thick and grave, "And...the others?"

"Pancreas and liver and one on her ovaries—"

"Oooh God, Jerry..." she trailed off in horror, looking away to her side. She scoffed slowly in shocked amazement. Something jogged in her mind suddenly and she made her sightline back to his. "...And you don't have any insurance, do you?"

"Yeah, but I don't think about that. Try not to anyway."

"Isn't there somebody who can help you out, I mean, her parents?"

A fatalistic laugh blew from his mouth as he dipped his head down for a brief moment. As he brought it back up, he said, "I don't think there's much chance of that happening seeing as how they've disowned her."

Alarm filled Edna's eyes as she blurted, "Dis— _why_?"

"Ah, well for one, she married me, a half Jew. And secondly, she turned away from their beliefs, so...far as they care, she's gone already."

Slowly, she shook her head. "...Unbelievable..."

"Yeah, they ah...they just had some set prejudices that Sandy, you know, when she started getting out there and meeting different people..."

"Found out simply weren't true?"

"Right, right. So when she tried to, ah, "enlighten" them, her family, they, you know, kind of flipped out on her, excommunicated her, whatever you wanna call it. Anyway, she was no longer allowed to have any contact with the family or their church." Surprisingly, Jerry's expression brightened a touch as he continued, "But, the good thing, the upside is that if she hadn't been kicked out of all that, she likely wouldn't have come out here to start something new. And I probably wouldn't have met her."

Disturbing as the former part of Jerry's recount of Sandy's family tragedy was to Edna, some genuine warmth and admiration now soothed her face.

That expression was mirrored with more intensity on Jerry's as he continued on with, "And I know this is gonna sound like a bunch of cornball bullshit but, I _needed_ to have Sandy come along. I mean I was so aimless before I met her, just skating by from one day to the next without a monkey's clue what I was going to do. But once I met her and we got to know each other...it's like everything was put into focus and...I could see clear."

"Sandy was your right pair of glasses."

"Right, exactly."

"No other pair would do."

"Not as far as I would ever want to know, no."

"Aaaaand, lemme see, because of her coming into your life, you started to see even the simplest things—like a park bench or a child playing—in a whole new perspective."

Jerry admitted with a twinge of embarrassment, "Prrrretty much, yeah."

"And that got you inspired, didn't it?"

"Right, right, I finally found the right path to follow—"

"Lemme guess," she interjected quickly but not rudely, "photography."

A mock sense of confusion acted upon his face and body gestures as he confirmed, "Photography, that's right...now how did you figure that out?"

"Oh," she said waving him off with false flippancy, "took a wild guess," and then gave him a whispery laugh.

He returned one to her than said, "I have the suspicion that somehow you—maybe?—know where I'm coming from."

Nodding slowly and with a reminiscent smile mired by regretful eyes, she concurred, "Oooh yeah...at one time..."

The jovialness of playful banter disappeared from his face and was replaced by an embarrassing frown. A moment of silence, and an awkward one at that, existed between them before he made the heartskipping effort of offering, "Ah, listen, I hope you don't think I would ever be rude enough to—"

"No, I'll tell you," she said with no uncertainty. "You've been more than forthcoming with me so I'll tell you. You know who my husband is, don't you? Bill Kirby?"

A stark realization hit his face. "Wait, _that_ Bill Kirby with the show and all that?"

"That's the one," she responded in a depressive yet expectant tone of what she knew was coming.

"Wow, I didn't even make the connection that you were—Sandy and I used to watch him every Thursday night..." And now his eyes were blinking in disbelief combined with a gushing euphoria, "...he always gave the best interviews and Sandy would tape the show if I had—" As he was praising Edna's husband, he noticed that she had looked away with a pressed, thin-lipped smile. "—to work late and I am saying the wrong things right now..."

"It's okay," she eased with, "your reaction is actually tamer than some I experienced in the past."

He stared at her with nervous, tentative eyes. "...Is it...divorce?"

Nodding somewhat quickly, she gave off an officious, guarded tone in, "It is divorce, yes, we're in the process."

"...I'm...sorry..."

She issued a soured breath while cramping the side of her mouth. Then said, "We haven't been what we should be for quite some time."

Eyes looking away and darting oddly in contemplation, Jerry surmised, "And I'm...guessing that's why you...asked about Sandy and me..."

A bit of a playful smile returned to Edna's mouth as she asked, "Now how did you figure that out?"

Playacting the confident type, Jerry responded with, "You think you're the only one good with a shot in the dark?"

His comedic tone was on target and she had to laugh. He joined in with a slight chuckle himself, peripherally thinking, "I hope I get to hang out with this lady more on a personal level—she just seems like my kind of people..."

The laughter abated and Edna's eyes turned questioning. "Hey, I found out last night that we have a shoot tomorrow. You gonna be okay to...?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, absolutely. What time?"

"Eight in the morning at the Dormer Private Reserves."

"I'll be there."

She pursed her lips into a formal smile then nodded once. But then her eyes returned to questioning once more. "...Jerry...why do think Sandy wanted to meet me?"

Confusion and loss of understanding on the matter crinkled his brow; his eyes searched for a halfway plausible response. "...Not sure...maybe...she's just trying to look out for me...that I'm treated okay or something..."

A sly smile crept upon Edna's face as she retorted, "Well fat chance of that, bucko, I'm gonna make you change lens after lens after lens until I'm satisfied."

"And then you'll make me change it some more?"

"Of course," she said with false venom.

"Oh nooo," he whispered as he buried his face into his hands, faithfully acting out despair's caricature.

They both broke from character and laughed once more. When it died down again, Edna, still with a smile of warmth, reached over and pinched Jerry's arm near the shoulder. Keeping the pinch, she tugged twice then let go. Her eyes spoke to him it's going to be all right somehow. His met hers for a brief moment then shifted down and zigzagged—as if communicating the desperate response, "I hope you're right."

Chapter Twenty-one

Today was the "hump" day both in terms of weekday status and the scheduled interviews for the show. With four of them already in the can, one more was needed to fill the show's hour and half run. That interview had been set and was already in progress as Bill talked to young basketball star, Chad Burke. Even though Chad had on a formal suit and tie apropos to the show's ambience, it was clear that the boy was muscular from neck to ankle, his frame bulged making his attire seem almost too small for him. Most of the crew members were dead silent, enraptured, as most sports fans would be, by a gifted and spirited athlete being engaged by the indelible Bill Kirby.

Trini, however, cared nothing of it and sat in a shady corner of the studio, not bothering to even intermittently glance up from her mystery novel to watch her "idol" in action.

After the interview concluded and some applause from the staff subsided, Bill dismissed himself of his corded mini-mike and the set to converge on Gail. The director seemed highly out of sorts.

" _Still_?" Bill said in alarm after Gail had mentioned Tara's prolonged absence, "They still haven't found her yet?"

"Dan is just beside himself, poor dear," Gail despairingly added, "You know how close they are. If he didn't have me, he'd probably lose it all over the place."

"Well, if you hear anything, please let me know."

"I will for sure. We're going out tonight again so I'll see you tomorrow for the edit." Gail moved away while still facing Bill.

"All right then, good luck."

"Thaanks," Gail called while turning away to head for the exit.

From Bill's side, Trini walked up and held out a bottle of water to him. "Here," she said dispassionately and, once he had the bottle in hand, walked away without further comment.

Bill sighed in frustration. Not for long, however, as across the studio grounds came and echoing holler.

"Bill!" It was Jack. He motioned Bill to come to him. He walked over to Jack and they made their way to the back offices where Jack's was located. Once they entered, Jack closed the door and faced his employee with folded arms. "So what's this you're bunking in a hotel? I call your house last night and Edna says you're staying at a hotel. Now what's the story?"

Bill briefly closed his eyes as a deep, defeating breath hissed from his nose. "...All right, Edna and I are getting divorced."

"So, counseling was a bust then?"

Nodding slowly, emphatically, he answered in confirmation, "counseling-was-a-bust, to say the least."

"So, before I am your friend again, you know I have to cover the bases on the business end...is this going to affect your performance on the show, are there going to be a lot of absences, that sort of thing?"

"No, I'm a professional, you know that."

Jack eyed him for a second, searching for any signs of duplicity in Bill's vocal tonings, any breaks in eye contact that might reveal a lie, any facial ticks or body language that would betray sincerity. He found none so he decided to switch gears to questioning of a more personal nature. "Okay...but damn, Bill, how come _you're_ the one having to slum it in a hotel?"

Now there was a break in eye contact as Bill turned his head away in slight embarrassment. His mouth creased on one side displaying his discomfort. "Welll...I didn't feel right about kicking her out of a house that's been ours for twenty-two years. I just couldn't consider it."

Just as Bill finished his explanation, Jack burst a harsh laugh from his mouth. "You're...you're a bigger man than I am considering what she did..." and his toxic laughter coughed on a moment longer.

Bill's brows drew inward to meet with sharp, vertical lines on his forehead, his eyes narrowed in poisonous suspicion. "What _she_ did...?"

Jack now successfully ended his remaining hisses of laughter then belted, "Yeah, going around behind your back like that. Hell, I wouldn't have put up with it. I'd make damn sure—"

The sheer electricity of alarm shot and streamed through every fiber of Bill's body as he forcefully asked, "What the hell are you talking about?"

****

All right, Bill...keep it together, you're on the road and you have to focus. This was the droning, repetitive thought that Bill slapped his squirming, convulsing rage with. Main-tain, you don't want to have a tragic car accident before you can make it to the house to tear Edna a new and large one. Just con-cen-trate on following the tried and true route to your house. Be a device, a mechanism, a robot, an emotionless extension of your vehicles ability to get from one "A" to a certain "B." Your chest is going to pressurize and thicken—check that, already has tightened up, but will likely worsen...simply feel it and drive. Hold your thoughts in a box, even if that box can barely contain the tigerous, clawing and biting furor. Will power, Willie Boy, will power. Live it, love it, be it.

...I'm gonna kill her...

****

Edna was seated at the dining room table, a cup of hot tea was resting on it in front of her. She absently, slowly dunked her teabag into the scalding, fuming liquid, her mind lost in a million thoughts. Some were inconsequential in their level of importance—get some potatoes at the store, record her favorite show tonight (in order to skip through the commercials!) though the show was becoming a tad repetitive and silly in its plotting, throw out the new hair colorer because it's crap, etc., etc. The bulk of the major thoughts, however, were oppressive, depressive, and disturbing. Her daughter dominated the focus of these more crucial mind maladies. God, she thought, if I could just talk to her again—

_Crr-g-g-rrroon!—_ the front door knob was being stabbed in its slot violently and with almost blind rage aim. _Rrnn-dauk!_ —the deadbolt was unlatched...

The sound of the front door key ferociously unlocking the door startlingly ripped Edna out of her malaised marathon of thoughts. She joltingly twisted her seated form to experience the sight of Bill opening the door wide with a forceful and careless SLAM! She quickly rose from her chair in a standing state of surprise and caught-off-guardedness.

Bill made a mad-eyed beeline directly toward Edna then stood loomingly in front of her; his shoulders hunched closer to his thick neck as if he were a predatorial behemoth preparing a vicious pounce on its prey.

"BILL—!" she began in a voice distorted by throat-quivering shock.

But Bill cut her off with an attacking, booming voice, "You know, I'm so very fucking sorry that my sexual problem got in the way of your doglike need to get it off!!!"

"Bill! What in sweet Jehovah—?!"

"Don't play dumb! Who is he?! This Asian fellow, who the HELL is he?!"

Coming to full realization of Bill's raging inference, Edna closed her eyes, bracing herself guiltily for what was to come. "Oh God..." she almost whispered.

"Jack tells me he saw you with this joker on at least three occasions, having lunch! Getting cozy! Hell, he thought that's why we were divorcing!"

"Bill, listen—!" she tried in a desperate plea.

"You can imagine his surprise when he found out I had _no idea_ , no clue whatsoever that my wife of thirty-two years was, in point of fact, a two-timing whore!"

That changed it for Edna, her frightened, "I'm teetering on the edge of a cliff" face quickly erupted into an enraged, wide-eyed viper's countenance. "Now that's far enough, mister! You don't call me that ever! I am the mother of your daughter! You do not treat me—!"

"And what do you think you're gonna do to her with this?! Or does she already know?! Does she?! Am I the only one who's been made to be a chump here—!"

"She doesn't know!" Edna got out rather quickly.

Bill bit with, "Well, she's going to, dammit! She's gotta know what her mother is capable of!"

No! Dear lord, not that!—her mind gasped. "Bill, no! Don't—!"

"How long did it go on?!"

She didn't answer.

Bill's voice boomed deeper, intensified, "How long did it go on?!!!"

Answer, Edna, her head ordered her in resignation. Just do it. "...Eight years—"

"EIGHT?!" he burst with, his eyes popping. His arm cocked sideways then shot forth slightly in an attempt to point a finger at Edna; it appeared as if he was going to explode a venomous reproach towards her. But then it was all halted as he jerkingly spun away from her and walked tensely in a lame, awkward pacing. Strained, audible breathing fissured rapidly from his mouth and nose.

Edna took advantage of his emotional overload to attempt some sense of reasoning—a bit of water to try and douse a madhouse powder-cake. "Listen, Bill, we haven't been in love for years, I felt scared out of my mind, I felt like a failure! Just—just—trust me, your sexual problem had nothing to do with it—!"

He briskly made towards her a few steps and shot, "So you have to go around with some jerk-off, violating, betraying our family and our vows!"

"I was alone! For me the marriage had already ended! Can you honestly tell me it hadn't ended for you?! _Nine years_ of kidding ourselves, of having the same petty frustrations with another eat away at our souls!"

He turned away from her suddenly and instinctively she moved in closer to him—an attempt to emphasize her point. "Bill, did it ever occur to you that this impotency thing started because you just didn't want me anymore?!"

He fast eyed her once more, moving in closer himself. He jabbed a maddened finger at her as he barked, " _Don't_ try to wiggle out of this! Regardless of how we felt about each other, I never would have done anything to violate the trust and the sanctity of OUR FAMILY!"

And that did it. Hit Edna to the bone. Her face crumpled into a shivering, immense grimace of crying. Tears immediately submerged her squinted eyes and took almost no time in spilling down her flushed cheeks.

Bill stared at her in his rage-engorged expression of incrimination for a brief moment longer. His gaze almost spoke of possible violence, of wanting to reach out and shake her until she was nothing but a broken bag of bones.

Once again, he turned a way with whipping force, resuming his jittered and uncoordinated pacing. This time, however, he brought a few tremoring, bent fingers to touch his moving but noiseless lips. Clearly, he was frantically doing his best to put together something crucial and ultimately decisive in his buzzing mind.

Suddenly, he yet again turned his attention fast to Edna. "Did you ever do it here?!"

In the midst of her horrid sobbing, she managed a wrenching, "No..."

"No?!"

"No!"

"All right...for that, I let you stay here for now! But you start looking for a lawyer, lady! Because from here on out it gets ugly!" and with that decree blasted from his mouth, he raced himself toward the front door.

She yanked herself forward, in a near hysterical state, after him. "Bill, listen, it's over, I don't see him anymore!"

Venomously grabbing the door knob, Bill pulled with every square inch of his upper body strength to swing the door slammingly into its frame. Before it finally shut with a frighteningly loud "THOMP!" sound that shuddered the walls of the entire house, Bill could be heard hollering, "Oh, good for you!"

Edna threw herself upon the door in a pathetic sense of defeatism, as if Bill's closing the door had sealed her inside the house without the possibility of release or escape. One hand went to her tear-streaked and cinched face to cup her wrinkled, closed eyes. Her lips receded to reveal gritted together teeth. Through these she issued to herself, "Noooo!"

I told you it would come back on you one day, my careless granddaughter. Now didn't I tell you?

Shut your damn mouth, gammy!

Chapter Twenty-two

Janine's bedroom oppressed itself with darkened, grayed shadows countered only by two dimly-lit nightstand lamps. Blank-faced, Janine lay in bed on her side, her eyes to the wall closest to her bedside. Though she was not focused on any decorative feature of this wall, peripherally she was aware of the framed family portrait that hung uniformly there. In the glass-pressed photo, thirteen-year-old Janine stood in front of Bill and Edna as they all had festive smiles on their faces. The jovial quality wasn't just revealed by their mouths but in their eyes. Without a doubt they were happy to be together in those times. Janine could recall that they had done a few choice activities that day. A trip to tinsletown to find the names of their famous stars etched on the sidewalk. A visit to one of the landmark movie theatres—one where the screen was actually curved. And the movie was good, making sure that the trip to the panoramic cinema house was not wasted on aesthetics alone. A day of fun where none of them had allowed stark realities (even when witnessing the homeless sideshow acts—a tall, boney man dancing around in a superhero costume singing folk tunes always stuck in Janine's mind) to mire their day.

Long gone now, she accepted with cold malaise. Harsh reality has a way of insisting itself eventually...as well as its insect-like cousin, loss.

In his pajamas, Charlie walked into the room and got into bed without a word. He lay with his back to Janine, the male reflection of her, blank-faced and all. Only his eyes had the added feature of expectant fear tightening lids around them. He knew what was coming—yet for some habitual reason he had changed into his night clothes anyway. Got into bed and lay down regardless, hoping against all lost hope that the preceding fallout would just be baseless worry.

There was silence, heavy and suffocating but still tempting Charlie to entertain the thin thread of a chance that he could avoid the horrific shredding of their relationship. One that he cherished beyond—

"We have a good thing, don't we?" Janine flatly, emotionlessly inquired of Charlie.

Uh oh... "'Course..." Charlie answered and meant it.

"There's a lot of love between us, isn't there?"

"No question."

"You'd help me through just about any bad thing that came down the road, wouldn't you?"

This is it, he braced his mind with, closing his eyes..."You know I would." Please God, no...

"But you'll never be my husband...will you?"

Okay...okay... "No...I can't."

"You can't? Explain that to me...please."

God, her tone of voice is so dead, he thought with fatality. So devoid of emotion she is now. What have I done? What am I doing? He wanted to say this out loud, but instead, another voice took over. "It's...not an easy thing for me..."

"What is, marriage? It's not an easy thing for anyone, but a lot of people consider it worth the risk."

"It's not an easy thing for me to _get out_ ...there's...more to it all than just—just loving someone until you can't see straight, believe me...after a time, there'll be a permanency..." Oh dear God, I'm sinking, he uttered in his fluttery, horrid thoughts. I'm sinking down a hole I couldn't possibly get myself out of, even with all my strengths of courage...

A stuttering deep breath left out through his shivering, tensed lips before he finished with, "...a permanency that wears on you...making you someone you don't want to be—"

"Only if you let it," she injected and this time with some life to her voice. Some wrenching desperation that finally clawed its way up into her pleading (if rather indirectly) statement to this jaded man. Quicksand, she thought as she was speaking. I'm neck-deep in it...

Charlie, whose mind was now almost completely bended, soldiered on with, "You don't fully understand...you know, maybe for some people...marriage is the best thing, but for me...it's a death. For me it says you must feel this way about one person for the rest of your life whether you do or not. And I can't live that way. I won't live that way." He pulled the covers off of himself and sat up on the side of the bed. He stared at the wall. "I'd rather love someone because I want to. Because the feelings are truly there."

"But you married before..."

"And that worked out oh so well, didn't it," he remarked with morbid enthusiasm.

"But I'm not her."

"And I thank God for that. I mean, there's no question that you're ten times the person she was..." He let slip another deep, jittery breath, buried his emotionally wrecked face in a hand, then said, "But that's not the point." The hand dropped to his thigh. "The point is that marriage changes things. You no longer feel it's a privilege to be with someone...but after a time, a cold obligation—"

"Please go." The deadness of her voice returned.

"Janine—"

"Please."

He sat there motionless, gripping his mental faculties as they attempted to scatter into hysterics—and strong considerations of violent property damage. He ran a spread-fingered hand through his hair then lowered it back down. "All right...but I'm going to say something before I go."

"Go ahead," she allowed in a toneless, lowered voice—as if whatever he had to say wouldn't do a bit of good.

"I cheated on my wife because of that ring and that piece of paper."

"Then you're not who I thought you were. Please go."

Charlie rose, stood there for an instant, then, without any protest or further delay, he walked out of the room. Janine could hear somewhat distant shuffling and grabbing of clothes in the living room area. She yelled out with some reserve of sound, "You can change before you go."

Charlie's slight reverb of a response came back immediately, "I'm just putting on my overcoat and my shoes."

She heard nothing more from him except a few more shuffles, a grabbing of his jangling keys, his walking to the door, it opening, then closing.

The next sounds she heard were the convulsive eruptions of her gut-stabbing sobs.

Chapter Twenty-three

Morbidly, the hospital halls leading to the Cancer Ward of Berrenger reminded Jerry of an abandoned and haunted asylum. Echoed and unseen phantom voices jumbled and melded into an odd, disconcerting rhythm—like the deathly ruminations of spirits long since passed from the world. Of course, it didn't lessen his uneasiness to realize that this part of the hospital was, in fact, where people came to wait, waste away, and ultimately die.

"It's good you came," Doctor Sanjay announced to Jerry as they walked side by side though the halls to Sandy's room. "From the latest CT scans, I'm afraid it appears that things are progressing rapidly."

Pakistan born, forty-four-year-old Udani Sanjay had practiced medicine in the U.S. for the past thirteen years. She was one of the most trusted, dedicated, and innovative medical practitioners that Berrenger had ever seen. Jerry felt fortunate to have Sanjay assigned as Sandy's attending doctor, not just for her celebrated expertise but in as much for her kind delicacy in handling heart-crushing diagnoses. It was never with, "here it is, deal with it because I've got a hundred thousand patients, dammit," always with incredible, almost unbelievable empathy joined with sympathy for the afflicted and their loved ones. Her experience and her compassion for the "kicked around by Ma Nature" were what Jerry admired and liked in Sanjay. Not to mention she was a charming conversationalist.

Yet how he dearly wished to ever-loving God he wasn't having this particular conversation with her now. "How soon are we talking here?" he asked her with as much thrumming courage as he could muster.

"A few days, a week at most," she gingerly replied, her sunken, intensive eyes stared at him with a world of regret and sorrow, "If we are lucky."

"You can't do anything?" he said in irrational desperation.

"Everything's been done. But unfortunately it's too advanced at this point. I think it's vital that you try to be with her as much as possible before the end." Her eyebrows rose in honest trepidation. "Will your jobs allow that?"

"They'll have to," Jerry replied with no semblance of hesitation, on this he felt there was zero room for discussion.

They were nearing Sandy's room when Sanjay's cell phone chimed. They halted and she pulled her phone from her bleach-white coat and looked at the call number. "I'm sorry, Jerry, just moment, please."

"Sure, sure," he abided with politeness.

She answered the call. "Hi..."

Not "Dr. Sanjay," nor even the more formal "Hello" but "Hi." Jerry figured that it must be a close friend or family member.

What he didn't figure on in any conscious scenario was what would happen next.

Sanjay's prominent eyes bulged further than normal while her twitching mouth dropped open. Curved fingers of her left hand instinctively reached up to dab at her gaping, horror-stricken lips.

"Doctor Sanjay?" Jerry tried with rapt concern, alarm filling his face.

She had staggered back a step or two, the phone stuck to her ear, fear shocking her to almost speechlessness. Almost. "No, I'm going now! I'll be there—I'll—just stay there, I'm coming!" She hung up and stared at Jerry, an anxious flood of panic bursting from her eyes. "I have to go, my daughter has been in a car accident!" she suddenly announced, anguish lacing every word. She started away back down the hall.

"Oh dear God, go, go, please," he reacted with heightened worry, "I hope she's all right!"

"Thank you!" she answered almost in hysterics and turned to speed up her progress. An instant later, she shot away, Jerry manically looked after her. Once she disappeared, he stared a brief moment more, then turned to enter Sandy's room where she happened to be asleep.

Her breaths were ragged.

He approached her bed and bent his frame to gently kiss her forehead. His lips still close to her brow, he whispered to her, "Here I am..." His eyes blinked repeatedly, his mind still reeling from the recent disturbing news—both about Sandy and Sanjay's daughter. Aberrantly, a train of thought interspersed itself into his frazzled mind: it turns on a dime for any one of us. And there's no magic coin to keep you from the worst of happenings. No one's immune, even the best of us with whom Karma should have smiled long at.

Looking at Sandy now, he certainly knew that to be true.

He stayed with her the entire night, first just staring at her face as its mouth and throat labored to circulate air into her system. Eventually he had gone to sleep by sprawling his form on a chair in the room. He woke up once feeling hungry so he traipsed over to a vending machine for a bag of chips and a soda. An hour later he was asleep again. He dreamed of the first time he and Sandy had met—only instead of the true recollection of the Sutherland night party, the dream followed Sandy's disjointed beach scenario. And in place of the biting reality (at least for Jerry) of only achieving an AA degree, he was a bachelors packin' full blown grad with a paid internship at a law firm. Why he chose this particular line of high pressure work was never logically ironed out in his deep consciousness. In his waking life he never had the slightest interest in lawyering. But then such are the bizarre incoherencies of dreams.

Within it, he saw Sandy walking his way—close to the ocean line of the sand, the darker, soaked grounding that ramped down into the thinned surf. She was alone this time as was Jerry, no Gabriel, no Adrienne, none of the old crew were present in this Sandy created version of events. Just the two who mattered to each other most in either event—real or imagined.

They converged and said hi to one another immediately smiling as if there was implied trust from the get-go. They commented about the weather for some reason (perhaps just a passable attempt at small talk to kick things off) and about how it should be colder but wasn't. Jerry said that it was similar to how his day was shaping up in that he wasn't supposed to be at the beach this evening, but was originally meant to meet some friends for a night party far from here. She popped her eyes in surprise for she also had a different plan for the night—she was to meet a friend who in turn was to introduce Sandy to a new group of friends. Also some place far from the beach.

And from there the conversation took off into related and unrelated tangents eventually coalescing into the warmth of sharing each other's dreams and aspirations for what meant most to them. What they hoped could come true with all their respective talents and drives to achieve. Oh, by the way, I'm Jerry, Jerry Nesmith, he finally announced to her. Sandy Coopersmith, she gave back, and I'm going to see a lot of you, aren't I? Oh, for certain, he offered his firm prognostication of their future. I mean, he added, let's face it, we were both supposed to be somewhere else tonight. And we ended up here together, no-one else around, I think that's pretty much in the category of fortuitousness, you know, written in the stars and all that slushy biz. But she had looked at him strange, as if there was an auditory gap in his statement to her. Stars? she asked, what'd you mean by stars? Creasing his brow, he said, you know, stars...up in the sky, seen at night, usually hundreds of 'em, little white dots glowing and twinkling and all that...No, she announced with certainty, I've never seen them. You're kidding, right? he asked with a nervous laugh, you're yanking me here. No, Jerry, was her response, I don't know stars. All I know are infinite clouds, stretching from every direction of the sky. Gray and bloated with tarrish-blackened molds of poison, formless yet formed...and determined...He inquired with hypnotized eyes, are you a poet of some kind? No, she answered, her ethereal voicing adding to his hypnosis. No, I'm no poet, Jerry Nesmith, my dear, my believer in serendipitous happenstance, my sweet, lost boy. Well then, he asked, what are you...exactly? He smiled playfully at her. She pulled her eyes in a robotic fashion down low, saying, I don't know...I don't know...I...Her inviting expression so apparent to him since they met had metamorphosized into one of fear, shame, and fatality. He pressed with the smile still present, come on, sure you do. Now tell me. And she softly, almost inaudibly murmured, I'm ma...lig...nan...and she trailed off to indistinctive mumbling.

You're what? he barked but not in anger.

...See...and tew...mer...us...she muddled in her child's guilted, shamed, and lowered voice; her head now following suit with the depressive direction of her eyes. Her hair fell over her face draping it in obscurity as she muttered on with, can...sir...I...m...

So small in volume was her voice that he moved his head in closer in hopes of catching better knowledge of her stumbled, breaking speech. Sandy? he attempted gingerly, Sandy—?

I AM CANNNNCERRRRRRRR!!! roared the whip-lifted, bone-white, stab-staring visage of Sandy. Inhumanly, she spun in ultra-rapid motion to instantly reveal the back of her head—which did not show a normal thick of wavy hair hanging long but a hideous, multi-bulbous tumor that bulged greatly from the rear of her cranium. It was sizeable and ripe with sickening hues of blacks, brown, purples, and blues. Rogue hairs, crooked and diseased, sprouted sparsely from the horrid and deeply malignant mass. Around the cragged edges of the tumor's oddly semi-sphered shape, glimpses of brain matter peeked through like some wormed river that trailed completely around and in-between the cancered growth and her hair-ladened scalp.

Exploding from Jerry's mouth was a horrendously thundered and profuse scream.

****

He woke up to an abrupt version of that very same scream he howled in his dream. He stared ahead of him, his eyes tightened and widened in residual shock. Seconds later, he was blinking slow and fast, emotionally catching up to the fact that he was back to tangible reality.

Not that that was too much favorable at the moment.

Still blinking, he turned to lock his eyes with Sandy, wanting some irrational confirmation that she didn't have something resembling hell's football clinging to the back of her head. Of course there wasn't and he mentally kicked himself for checking in the first place. But reflexes were what they were and he was still half-believing the dream at that hazy point of consciousness. He continued to gaze upon her for a moment more as another instinct guided his actions—his innate need to see if she was still breathing. Even if that breathing was strained, severe. Still rising and falling was her blanket covered chest. Thank God, he breathed in his increasingly waking mind. And no alien-spawned monstrosity jutting out of her rear skull curvature.

There is, however, the one on the other end inside her skull. You know, Jerry, a sobering, sarcastic, damning voice within him reminded, the deeply interwoven sponge of poison that's encroaching on her brain tissue and optic nerves. Not to mention the grape-sized devils poaching her liver, pancreas, and ov—

NO. Don't do that. You promised Sandy you would not dwell on those things...

... _but GOD, it's so hard not to...let's face it, it's these four little rubberish, organic carnivores that are stealing from me my spark, my purpose, my core, my reason for wanting to get up in the morning..._

... _My beautiful SANDY—!_

STOP IT!!!

"Jerry?"

He quickly met his eyes to hers, which were now open, and fully realized that she had called his name—though in a very weak and deadened voice. Almost as if she had been reaching out from the dream to tempt him back in...

"Hey..." he replied with a bracing breath. "...you're awake." He rose his brows in hope. "You seein'?"

Groggily, slowly, she said, "Kind of...it's foggy mostly though." She wrinkled her brow and asked, "Were you screaming just now?"

"Oh, yeah..." and he smiled nervously, a laugh of a breath hissed from his nostrils. "...I was, uh, living out a horror movie in my sleep..." He coursed his right hand through the top of his hair, running it straight back and down, then massaged his neck for a few seconds.

"What was it about?"

"Cats," he blurted quickly.

She drearily countered, "But you like cats."

"That's what made it so scary," he said with vigor, further selling the lie.

She stared off lifting her brows slightly, attempting to fully register the logic of his reasoning. Not so easy, of course, in her state. She lazily swung her head back to his eye-line. "Were you here the whole night?"

"Yep." He rose and leaned over to kiss her forehead. Then he pulled his chair closer to her bed and sat again. He grabbed her hand and gripped it softly in his.

"How long?" she sleepily inquired.

"Since about eleven last night."

"You're not going to work?"

"Not right now."

"Won't...Edna be mad?"

"It'll be okay. I'll call her and tell her. And, you know, either she'll understand or she won't."

"I like her. So don't be rude."

"When have I ever?"

A small, thin smile crept on her lips.

"You okay?" he asked.

"...Bad headache...I'll live."

"Better," he half-jokingly warned with some authority in his tone. But then switched his demeanor to enthusiasm. "Hey, you'll never guess who Edna's husband is."

"Who?"

"Bill Kirby," he said with a bit of wonder.

" _That_ Bill Kirby?" she asked for confirmation, eyebrows drawing in. "From the show?"

"Yeah, yeah, isn't that a trip? He's like our favorite talk show host, and now I'm working for his wife—well, hopefully I still am. Which reminds me, I gotta call her soon..." He glanced at his watch. It was 7:38 am.

"Don't blow it with her," she mother-henned in her listless voice. "This could be your start with things..."

"I'll try not to, but I can't leave today."

"Why?"

He averted his eyes slightly from her, drawing a deep breath. After expelling it, he settled with saying, "I just...can't...okay?"

In her state of physical and mental malaise, she simply wasn't up to overanalyzing his decisions. So she responded with a soothing, "Okay," then gave a smile. "Miss you anyway."

He trained his eyes back on her and returned a releasing smile. He brought himself closer to her, switching his hand-gripping of her's to his other. And gave her a soft but lasting kiss on her moistureless lips. They both closed their eyes in the process. After, he rested his cheek to her's keeping his eyes shut. Another deepening breath blew from his mouth—but this one was quite cathartic in nature. It was clear that being near her temporarily cured him of his core-infected torments. It was also clear in his mind that he wished to climb into the bed with her and just lay in her cradling arms the entire day. He could have told her this and part of him seriously considered it.

Instead, he joked, "I only minorly miss you."

"Jerk," she calmly retorted, and they both gave toothy grins. Soon, however, she turned straight faced as she began, "Listen...I wanted to t—"

"Time for the next round, Sandy, honey," announced the attending nurse as she strode into the room with fresh bagged supplies of morphine and other system suppressors. She made a turn to the other side of the bed (opposite of Jerry's) to begin with the IV rack.

"All right," Sandy acquiesced with no measure of enthusiasm. She eyed Jerry and asked, "Why don't you get some breakfast for yourself and call Edna while this is going on."

"Okay," he agreed and gave her another in the long line of their soul-reaching kisses. He pulled up and playfully ordered, "Don't you go running off or meeting any other guys while I'm away."

" _All right_ ," she kidded in mock disappointment.

He puckered to her lips two quick kisses, squeezed her held hand in the same amount, then raised his form to stand above her. He winked an eye at her and smiled as best he could. She in turn winked and smiled back. For good measure, he put a hand on her sheet protected thigh and rubbed it caressingly.

Then he was gone from the room.

****

Although Jerry didn't feel much like eating, his stomach concluded otherwise so he bought a breakfast from the cafeteria and ate in silence. When he was finished, he bussed his tray then walked outside to use his phone. "Edna?" he said to the cell.

"Hey Jerry," came Edna's trebled voice through the small slit of a speaker. She sounded distant.

"Hey, I'm sorry but I'm going..." A deep breath, exhaled, "...going to have to cancel today."

"Okay," she said flatly.

"I don't want to lose my job with you, please understand that. I'm seriously grateful for the opportunity, especially to work with someone like you, but...it's just, she's slipping fast, Sandy is and, uh...I just have to be here—"

"Stay there, Jerry," she prescribed to him adamantly, "and do me a favor, okay?"

"Sure."

"Find her a book and read to her, even if she's asleep. You'd be surprised the effect it can have."

"Ah, yeah, okay. I'll find something here, hopefully a mystery novel, she likes those."

"Hope you find one. And it's okay about today, I've turned down today's assignment anyway."

"Oh, why?"

"Ah..." Now it was her turn for the deepened breath, "...it's a long story for which, frankly, I don't have the energy to discuss right now."

"All right."

"At some point or another we can talk."

"Of course, of course," he offered politely, "Please, ah, please come by later if you feel like it. But, you know, only if you do."

"I might after a while, okay?"

"Sure. I'll talk to you."

"Bye, Jerry."  
They hung up on each other and he looked on, strangely feeling disconnected immediately after pressing "end." He didn't know exactly how Edna felt about him but for some strange reason he already considered her a friend—like they had known each other for a long time and had been through some serious traumas together. Perhaps it was because they had opened up to each other about their personal woes and tragedies. Well, okay, he admitted to himself, it was predominantly Jerry who had spilled his tortured guts to Edna. But she had been so accepting of it and had felt trusted enough to even touch his shoulder in a show of comforting.

And he had felt comforted. Pulled back just a bit from his stomach fluttering, self-fashioned abyss...

Go buy a book, Jerry, he ordered himself. A really cool, retro-style mystery story that Sandy can never seem to get enough of. And take your new friend's advice.

He re-entered the hospital. Sadly, like an inmate returning to his cell.

Chapter Twenty-four

Don't allow it, Bill kept ordering his mind at its most emotionally concentrated areas. Hold down the fort no matter what. Don't let Edna's betrayal poison your professional life. You gave Jack your word you would keep things formal at work.

Not informal, and frenzied, and highly distractive, with a pressing urge to want to ring someone's neck.

Get that locked away and snapped up good. No emotion. Just editing for the show. Just work and a worker's demeanor—

Tap, tap.

Someone in the studio had just tapped his shoulder from behind, startling him out of his mental efforts to barricade his emotions. Making him fully realize that it was strange for him to be simply standing there off to the side of the set, arms half folded, one hand up to his lips in a contemplative position...

It was Trini, he discovered as he spun about, who fingered his shoulder for his attention.

"Hey—" he started energetically, partly because he was shocked back to the here and now, but also because he felt different now about her—he wasn't sure exactly why, but he did—

"I'm turning in my two weeks notice," she interrupted unceremoniously, matter-of-factly—as if she were giving out her lunch order to a waiter, "Not that I have to or anything, I could be replaced in a flashed, I'm sure. I just felt I owed it to the studio and the show." Bill stared at her, fixed in an attempt to process what she was saying, this off-putting news. She didn't seem to be the "giving in" type, why is she leaving, he wondered. She added, "Thanks for not going to the producers about me." And without another word or glance at Bill, communicating regret or loss, she walked off to involve herself in coiling cable across the way.

Instead of staring after her, he chose to unfocus his eyes to any distinct focal point as he finally finished his greeting to her with, "—how ya doing?" He stood there a bit longer, flustered and disappointed that he couldn't have said more. I should have, he chided himself, why didn't I?

Because there was the possibility that she might have made a scene, a sobering voice within him chimed in. And we can't have that, particularly not now. Get to the damn editing booth and stop ruminating!

Still, he stood there, and finally did eye Trini across the way as she was situating long and cumbersome power cables with another intern. Catching himself in his ogling, he glanced this way and that making sure no-one was watching his surreptitious act.

And then he finally walked on.

The intern that was assisting Trini was named Donald who was, even by appearance alone, the epitome of the clean-cut, cocky type. Though not the worst of the worst sociopaths available in the world, the discerning individual would immediately infer that there was an abnormal surge of ego running through Donald. Simply by his insistence that his acquaintances, family, and friends identify him as "The Donald." And if one were to know him on a deeper level, they would certainly recognize him as someone who looked out for number one. Case in point...

" _Gotta groo-oove, You should moo-ove_ ," came the ringtone techno song blaring from Donald's—or rather "The Donald's" cell phone. He transferred his half-wrangeled cable to one hand and dug out his phone from his pocket. He viewed the incoming number from the tiny display panel—it was someone quite familiar to him.

"Hey Trini, can you finish these up for me, it's my girl on the phone."

Not looking up from what she was doing, she calmly (though aligned her response with an undercurrent of facetiousness) replied, "Anything for The Donald."

Turning to walk a distance away, he perfunctorily said, "Thaaank _you_." Once he was in a spot reasonably free of eavesdropping from others, he answered the call. "Hey Sonia...Nothing, we're almost done. What's up?...Well, what's up?...You took a test? So, you took a test, what test?... A preg—!" His face erupted with shock and rage as he pulled the phone away from his ear and made as if he was to throw the disturbing device across the room. His teeth gritted behind tightened lips, his eyes tensed with revulsion and fear. He brought the phone back to his ear again. "What's the verdict?..." He heard it and his eyes jammed shut in coincidence of his face's hard wince. "...Really?...Yeah, no, of course I'm excited...No, I'll come over straight away...No, I'll see you soon... _Loove-youu-tooo._ " With disgust-fueled force, he hit "end" and stood there looking around, checking to see if anyone had noticed his conversation. No-one had so he stared ahead but zeroed in on nothing in that direction. Soon his eyes began to zigzag side to side in hurried, desperate contemplation...something was vehemently latched onto and decided in his frantic mind. He pressed a number on his phone—a speed-dial one to be certain—and pushed for the call to go out. Three seconds later—"Ken!... Hey man...Good, good, hey, listen, listen, you know that road trip we always talked about?...Well screw it, man, let's do it...I'll get the money from the trust fund, don't worry. If I have to break my father's arm and chop off his pearls to get it, I'll do it...Sweet, man, _road triiiip..._ Talk to ya soon, bro." And he hung up and left the building.

Chapter Twenty-five

There were twenty-two employees currently working at Dynamek Dezigns, Nick's branch. At present, which was approximately quarter to seven at night, nineteen of them were standing anxiously near the elevator doors, waiting for the car to ascend.

It couldn't come fast enough for the lot of them.

Pauline Bayer, who handled payroll, wanted to get home to her newly wedded husband to essentially jump his bones, both still riding high on the marriage wave.

Gregory Stinson, Human Resources Advisor, had a seminar to go to starting in forty minutes. It was a retool your life/business principles kind of thing—for Greg desperately wanted to retool. HR was killing his spirit day after bone-crushing day.

Marjory Gates seriously wanted to get home in time for the Thursday night line up of television gold. On a certain network there were three shows that she loved with an addiction. The only thing that occasionally spoiled it for her was the piggy-backing of trite sitcoms on her favorite ones. Who were they kidding?

There were, of course, others in the group who had their own reasons for wanting the elevators doors to open so they could pile in, descend to the first floor, and "plow" as they say.

But there was one overriding factor that motivated every single one of them to pressingly get the hell out of Dodge. None of them had even the slightest desire to be pulled in with Nick at the last second for hours of overtime.

None of them wanted to be in Janine's current shoes.

The elevator signal pinged, the doors opened, they all briskly yet politely filed in, the doors closed to each other, and the nineteen lucky sods collectively breathed a mental sigh of relief. One of them actually recited in his mind, "Hal-le-lu-jah! I'm free at last!" And almost smirked.

Not that they didn't sympathize with Janine for her predicament. They knew what Nick could be like when working one on one with him—or at least had heard from their fellow workers who actually had. Knew full well that he was consistently an over-exacting and overly-critical supervisor. Perfection, perfection, perfection, and total dedication to the Dynamek Dezigns' life's blood. Any other consideration was a distant second, perhaps so distant you could barely see it—a dot on the horizon. They were also fully aware that Nick was not hypocritical in this sense—he unequivocally lived his entire life to fuel the Dynamek flame. No friends (beyond Dynamek higher-ups), no girl, no kids, nothing. Just the career, the singular cause of corporate nirvana.

The nineteen now rolling downward in the elevator simply couldn't share in this singlemindedness. Simply couldn't. They possessed complexities, personal lives, people they needed and non-work activities that they deeply desired. It wasn't in their DNA's to become Nick clones.

Nor was it, they all knew, in Janine's. Which drew cause for suspicions and second thoughts on their good boss' true intentions. Not that they were willing to stick around and entertain notions of hidden agendas. They liked Janine as a co-worker, even enough to call her friend...

...But not enough to share in her late night of torture. And as all of them got into their respective vehicles and drove away, the less and less they thought about the matter.

Janine, naturally, couldn't stop thinking about it. She was neck-deep in it.

She equally enjoyed the company of her fellow employees—even Gavin who could be pretentious at times—and conversely could call them more than just acquaintances in her heart and mind.

But hearing the muffled opening and then closing of the elevator doors from within Nick's office, Janine came to realize two undeniable feelings toward them: envy and loathing. She was sure that these abhorrent emotions would eventually pass, but in her current state of personal and professional upheaval, she just couldn't see them in a positive light.

Of course, this was nothing compared to the pure, unadulterated distaste for the man standing a few feet from her. The man who now had her in his proverbial grasp, in his personal confine—his excellence award-littered office. How she wanted to lunge across the oak desk that separated her from Nick and supremely gouge his eyes out. Maybe even rip his esophagus clear from his throat for good measure.

How's that for a palpable drive, Nicky Boy?—she mused with furor. Would that be close to what you had in mind, you soulless robot, you Chase Curall crony...

...You vacuous bonehead piece of—

"Mmm..." Nick hummed with obvious disdain, disagreement.

She broke out of her mental tirade and looked up from the uber-expensive laptop computer to see that Nick was slowly shaking his head. His eyes were fixated on the prints in his hands, so she assumed it was displeasure with an ad option or two.

As it turned out, the truth of it would be much more disturbing...to her at least...

Still eyeing downward at the prints, he alluded, "It's uh...it's tragic about Gavin..."

Concern and bafflement changed her eyes to stern. "What happened to Gavin?"

A slightly deepened breath rode its way out of his mouth though his expression was nonplussed. "Wwelll heee's...dead it seems..." Now his eyes widened while his lips pursed in a "Yeah, that happened" gesture. But only briefly, and he still stared at the work.

"What?" Janine breathed in shock. This simply couldn't be...

The serious pressing of his lips returned as he again slowly shook his head. While this occurred he soberly elaborated, "Yyyyeah, stabbed to death at his apartment building. The, uh, the neighbors found him just outside his door apparently, blood everywhere for God sakes."

Struggling to keep coherent speech, Janine asked, "How did you find out about this?"

Eyes continuing their lock on the prints, he calmly answered, "I called his landlord when he didn't show up this morning...good guy, the landlord, he gave me the whole rundown...it seems that inside Gavin's apartment were various narcotics clumsily hidden in his bedroom."

Janine could hardly take this in. Her mind swirled with disorienting emotional electrocutions. It would have been bad enough to have heard this news when things were solid in her life. But with the loss of Charlie and the presence of Nick (God only knew what this slime-ball really had mind by focusing on her and no-one else!), this new revelation of senseless tragedy was an overload to say the least.

Nick droned on, "My guess is that he was selling out of his apartment and one of his customers got the drop on him. The stupid hazards of addiction, of course." Now he finally looked up from his print ad options to connect with Janine in a formal gaze. "Oh and before I forget, let's keep this between us, shall we? It wouldn't be favorable to the company's image to have employees and clients aware that we hired a drug peddler."

Blinking her glassy eyes, she coldly, flatly responded, "...Fine..."

"Good..." he began, clearly noticing that this morbid news had struck a discordance within her. How much he couldn't fully determine because, as observant as he was of his employees, he had no definite knowledge of their social connections outside the office. He decided to play it safe and proceed on the assumption that there was some level of friendship between Janine and Gavin. He averted his eyes from her and then walked casually around his desk and behind her chair. Janine's eyes were darting nervously now, her sanity-stretched mind shifting the forefront of her horrific thoughts of Gavin's violent end to the tightening fright of what might happen next.

He concluded his leisurely stroll right directly behind her and calmly leaned forth, resting his hands on the top edge of the chair she sat in. His chin was mere inches from the roof of her head. Finally he continued with, "...Because, honestly, we shouldn't feel too broken up about it..." Unseen to Nick, Janine's nose twitched and wrinkled—that damn rancid cologne of his. My God, she gasped inside her thoughts, I might just vomit from it. "...I mean, as you know," he drew out, "from Curall's opening chapter, _he_ was a heroin addict in his youth, but he had the courage, the _will_ to end that kind of life for himself...but Gavin, marginally gifted as he was, didn't opt for that...and chose weakness." Now he moved in closer, positioning his head to the side of hers. Again, without haste. His mouth aligned with her ear as he concluded with, "So we can't mourn him too much, hm?"

"...I..." she started, managed, yet in her head, her brain screamed in its last latches of self control, OH GOD! OH GOD, I CAN'T STAND ANY MORE OF THIS! NOT ANOTHER GODDAMN SECOND! I'M GONNA PUKE! "...I-I guess not..."

"Good," he awarded her satisfyingly. Feeling the matter resolved, he flicked eyes (which had been firmly fixed to the side of her head) to now stare straight at the laptop's display version of the print ad options. Turning his head ever so slightly and gingerly to allow his mouth a shorter gap to her ear, he fervently murmured, "I like...the second ad frame...except for the color of the border..."

That's it.

Critical mass.

Everyone clear the building NOW!

Her face trembled, her nose bunched, her eyes and brows spoke rage, her teeth pressed manically together. They likely would have shoved each other right out of their gummed sockets if she hadn't have bolted up from her chair, spun madly about and wrenched from her throat, "OH, THAT PUTRID SMELL! PLEASE JUST GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!"

Nick had backed up, jerked upright with aghast. "How d—you just made serious mistake, lady!" he belted with intensity, almost a killer's voice. "You just buried your career!"

None of it, of course, fazed her stratospheric rage. "I don't care! I can't stand to look at you or smell that stink anymore! Whatever you thought you were going to get from me, I just want you to know that it is _never_ going to happen!"

Nick's face grimaced harshly in disgust as he retorted, " _Don't_ flatter yourself, second-rater, I got better fish to fry than you! I'm not going to waist my career wisdom on some—some witless nutjob! So you can just...go off and find Gavin's crowd and follow in his coward's footsteps and—and overdose like the stupid moron that you are!"

"Seriously?! He was fricking murdered! Don't you even remember what you said?!"

"Who gives a crap! It's all the same with you damn kids these days! Curall was right in his seminar! The ranks of you are growing! It's a damned epidemic—!"

"Good God! Listen to yourself! Do you have any idea what a monumental fricking tool you are?! What a robotic slave to that fascist—!"

Whoops. "You better watch your mouth!" he threatened with heightened fury. "Unless you wanna walk out of here with a serious welt across your cheek!"

"Come near me and I guarantee you a gallon of pepper spray in your face!"

Ignoring her warning, he roared on, "I _tried_ to show you the right path because that's what Chase's wisdom entailed! To better things and turn the tide in the struggle against the droves of apathetic, potential-wasting slugs like you've obviously turned out to be!"

Revulsion cringed her face to add to the electrifying, surging rage as she shot back, "What-ever! We both know what you really wanted! And you know what?! Even a thoughtless little _sluggg_ like me could figure that one out! It's _sooo_ obvious!"

Nick's face went near volcanic in anger and hatred...but also in pain and embarrassment. These four emotions flickered and twitched throughout his face for an interminable second or two. Vying for squirming control of his forethoughts. Finally, however, they all merged into one and formed a supreme disgust as he slowly breathed, _"GET...OUT..."_

But she wasn't quite through with stabbing him yet—not after what he said about Gavin...not after what he assumed in his warped mind—"Is that _all_ , Mister Boss?!" she mocked as if she still delusionally considered herself an employee of Dynamek Dezigns and Nazi Nick. "Will that be _good_ for the day?! Have I put in enough satisfying hours of overtime for you and Chase?!"

Raising his maddened pitch, he barked, "GET THE HELL OUT!" while vehemently cocking then thrusting his fisted hands downward.

Continuing her taunting—because, quite frankly, it was becoming perversely satisfying despite her mountainous anger, she balked, "But wait! Shouldn't I log out here?!" while motioning an open hand toward the laptop.

"Forget the laptop! Forget the project! You're done here at Dynamek!"

" _Oh! You think?!_ " she hollered, pouring on the act with a sarcasm-thick expression of interest and emphasis.

Then marched speedily past him to make her way to the office door. He tensely whirled about, tracking her every move towards the exit, towards the elevator which would eventually lead her to the first floor lobby and out of the building.

Where he would not see his lusted object ever again.

As she reached his office door and was about to race through it, he viciously accused, "You didn't even read the books, did you?!"

She halted. And turned to him with pure venom in her eyes. A toxic breath hissed out between her tightened, thinned lips, then she drew out, "NOT-ONE-DAMN-PAGE, YOU SICK SON OF A BITCH." She turned back around and continued her forceful walk to freedom. Only now with a bit less rapidity—almost as if she were inviting him to stalk after and try something physical: Come on, bright boy, I want your eyes burning white hot with pepper spray; I'm begging you.

But he didn't rush after her. Instead he whipped about, himself, to stare at the wall facing him—one of the three that featured his beautifully framed awards. Frantically eyeing them, he suddenly, if only for a brief time, felt that they meant almost nothing to him now—nothing other than poisonous mockings of his current failure. His mind struggling between shame and hysterical rage, he, again, spun to witness Janine's distanced form, her back to him, disappearing behind the door to the stairway.

Of course, she wasn't going to wait for the elevator.

Once she was entirely gone (except for her subdued yet echoed footfalls down the stairs) he stared downward with his eyes madly darting about— _what now, what now, this is failure, this is failure, this is HUMILIATION!_

_Remember_ , Curall's words drummed through Nick's exploding thoughts, _you have the control in all situations. You can't control the world but you can always dominate and delegate your mind to effective thinking, and from thence effective action._

Nick had always believed this to be true ever since he read it in the first revelatory book of his life. But at the current moment, with his brain in such an insanely manic state, he was seriously doubting the full validity of his beloved mentor's words—which had the potential of further unhinging his mind. Therefore, he hastily switched to the alternate "Curall's words of wisdom" that seemed to fit Nick's chaotic predicament: if anxiety ridden, pull all efforts into redirect; focus on work and the supreme details of the task at hand.

He stepped forth and grabbed the laptop to yank it up and bring it in the rest of both his arms, the monitor facing his view. He drilled himself with: forget and focus, forget and focus, the work, the ad campaign—which ad frame will work for Roony?

...Which Janine created ad frame will work—

No! Strictly the work and the benefit of the company, and thus the satisfaction of your efforts. So sayeth Curall, so sayeth I—

But then out of the peripherals of his vision, his framed awards once again screamed at him his blatant and complete failure...

...And a creatured voice erupted from the depths of his baser self and without considerations announced, "Sorry, Nicky, sorry, Curall, old boy, but I'm going to have to take over now. And there's really nothing you can do about it. Sure you understand...

Superior anger wrenching his face, he violently threw the laptop, still in opened, jack-knifed position, at the wall to his side. In no time it smashed into the hanging award he was (more subconsciously than consciously) aiming at. It then rebounded lamely and knocked to the floor where it almost busted into two halves. The monitor, now dark, spider-webbed with serious crackings.

An instant later the framed and also cracked award dovetailed to meet further glass damage upon impact with the floor. It rested next to its equally wrecked collision partner, the tattered remnants of an obvious loss of control.

He screamed in a profuse and frightening manner, his hands in taughtly clenched fists at his sides.

When it was over, he panted hideously with frenzied eyes. This lasted for a brief moment longer...

...and then he did something he thought only cowards were capable of.

He cried.

Like the child he truly was.

Chapter Twenty-six

"October Cried Murder" was the name of the mystery novel Jerry had selected and purchased for Sandy at the hospital's gift store. Why he did this before dinner had to do with the fact that he irrationally feared that if he ate first he wouldn't be able to find the book he wanted for his wife. As if by some slim chance someone would come along and snatch up the very book he would eventually choose. Ridiculous, of course, but he acted on it anyway, despite a sucking hunger in his stomach.

With the book bought and, soon after, his dinner from the cafeteria paid for, he sat at a table and dug into his food. One would suspect that, even though he was starving, he wouldn't have much of an appetite considering what weighed upon his mind. And if Edna had truly been aloof or even angered by Jerry's absence, likely he would have been in that caustic, contradictory state. But her approval and even insistence eased his soul just enough to focus on curing his stomach's needs. Interesting, he thought in a sideways manner, how that was or is. He barely knew her and her sentiments meant a great deal. Fast friends, he mused, he'd seen it happen before with others but never experienced it before now.

There was Sandy, naturally, that relationship evolved rather rapidly. But that was rather different, that was romance and true love developing. And not just in a few days, in a matter of months. Peculiar, he mused on as he scarfed down his egg salad sandwich. He supposed there was a first time for everything.

Done with his meal, he reentered the kitchen area where he decided to buy Sandy a few things that he knew she liked above most things. Not that she would likely consume the items for they would play hell on her liver and her pancreas, tainted as these organs were. But just to have them around, in her presence, might jog better memories and feelings...

...Or it could have the opposite effect altogether, he warned his good intentions. It could have the potential of stabbing her with the reminder of niceties that she could no longer partake of with any real satisfaction.

He had decided to risk it and buy the items anyway, hoping they would have the desired effect.

He chose to because, in truth, that was really all he had to grasp onto in his mind's reality—hope. Hope that he could have as much time as possible to be with Sandy before the end of her short life. Hope that he could somehow find the money to put together a decent and appropriate burial that would honor who Sandy was and what she meant to him and their friends.

Hope that, when all was said and done, when Sandy was long gone and under the ground, and when he was alone in their apartment (especially at night in their bed), that he wouldn't devolve into a slow hideous nightmare of self-loathing, despair, and psychological chaos.

Hope that, emotionally, he wouldn't break into a million pieces, never to be put back together again. That he wouldn't go insane, another wackjob living in and out of alcohol rehab centers. Or worse, become a ward of the state.

But mostly he hoped that Sandy would somehow go on in some form or another to a place she deserved. If there was indeed a hellish plane of tortuous existence where all sick sadists were ultimately and infinitely punished, Sandy certainly would not join them. Stealing candy from the five and dime corner store when she was eight hardly qualified her to be lumped in with the serial killers, extreme sociopaths, and child molesters of the bent planet known as Earth. If there was an eternal reward for those who did their best to beat down the darkness within them and achieve momentous generosities to all, Sandy had already taken her placeholder certificate in hand. Her generous acts to their neighbors and friends (mostly from Sandy's work) and community outreach organizations never needed to cause Jerry to wonder if they had been affected positively. It was evident in their actions to raise enough money to pay for Sandy's first week of stay in the hospital. They all desperately wished, of course, that they could have donated more yet, naturally, they had financial difficulties of their own. Jerry understood this as did Sandy and, in fact, neither had anticipated such a show of overwhelming support. In honor of it, she voiced to him that all who chipped in should receive substantial "thank you" cards. To wit, he agreed to buy the cards and spend the time writing in each one of them—Sandy wouldn't have to worry about any of the legwork where that was concerned. All she would have to do is sign her name to them.

But Sandy wouldn't have it. She unequivocally insisted that she be the one to write the words in every single card—whether she felt up to it or not. That was simply how she was, someone who wanted to connect with and reward those who affected her life. Someone who gave a damn.

Sandy was not going to hell. Jerry knew that, despite the ramblings of her parents and her older brother.

Jerry recalled the day he found out of Sandy's diagnosis and made the hard but firm decision to contact her parents. He figured they had to be made known how serious things were and that it was high time that resentments within the family be put to rest—or at the very least placed aside for the sake of being there for Sandy. To be there in an enriched, more satisfying support group in what was literally the worst situation of her entire life.

When Arthur, Sandy's father, answered the phone and was told of her multiple tumors, he was silent for a brief time. Jerry had to call out Arthur's name in order to make sure he was still on the line. Finally, the elder man spoke. But not in a voice of broken sorrow or regret when he offered a condolence.

"It's unfortunate...most unfortunate. Sandy was once a complete soul and a responsible member of our family...and of our faith. But those, regardless of who they were in the world, choose their fates when they decide to close their eyes...and take the coward's path...Sandy passed from us years ago. Her body will soon follow her soul's path. But perhaps, Mr. Nesmith, this is an opportunity for you. To see what happens to those stray from the straight and narrow. This disease is a sign, and a lesson. Learn from it and—"

But Jerry had hung up. And understood perfectly why Sandy had told him it was pointless to try and mend fences with her family—even then when the hammer had fallen on her life expectancy. Irrationally, however, he still held onto threads of hope that her family would at some point or another before the end have a change of heart. Thus far that hope had been proven fruitless. "Don't hold you breath" was the old adage that kept running through his shock-riddled mind.

He reached Sandy's rooms to find her asleep again—no surprise since she typically went under after the drugs were administered. He sat in his regular chair by her side and spoke to her as if she were wide awake and chipper. "Here you go, babe," he jovially offered as he placed a tightly cellophane-packaged piece of dessert on the narrow space of bed next to her. "Specialty of the house—carrot cake, your favorite. But what idiot would ever have it without a soda, right?" And he carefully lay down a cola can next to the cake, angled so that it wouldn't roll off. With that done, he took the book from the clamping of his underarm and opened it up to the beginning. "Here we go, ready? 'October Cried Murder,' _woooo_ ," he said with a hint of theatrics, narrowing his shoulders on the woooo as if it gave him chills. " _Chaptah unoo_. 'The old mansion sat on its hill in ruins and it was clearly evident that only vagrants from time to time had found shelter and residence within its dilapidation. Sandy Merkelson'— _hey_ , this character has your name, look at that. Weird, huh?" he commented as he briefly glanced at her, still playacting her consciousness. He read, "'Merkelson approached the ancient wreck in the comforting blanket of night. There was something in there that he lusted f—' oh, it's a man, hm. Still though, right?" he asked her sleeping form—she was just sleeping and not...no, he checked her rising and falling chest. Catatonic not catastrophic, he morbidly quipped in his head. He read again, "'lusted for and would get to it, obtain it—if he had to rip up every floorboard, gut every piece of furniture, and puncture every molded wall still standing...'" Once again he eyed her pallid and sunken face. "Sounds like this Sandy is one determined shit." He gave her a tiny grin then leaned forth to gently kiss her forehead. He murmured with deep affection, "Love you." Then drew away from her to settle in his seat once more. He read on, "What he was looking for was in there, he knew that for certain. But exactly where was the problem—he knew it wouldn't be easy'..."

****

Jerry read for an hour straight, and in that time Sandy had not aroused nor was she expected to. Feeling as if he needed to stretch and move around before he continued his narrating (recounting the book to himself, might as well be) he took a walk down the hall to the nurse's station and inquired to the on-duty about Sanjay's daughter.

It turned out that the accident was a collision with a brick wall, hit at an angle so as to implode the right fender and headlight of the car. Which was brand new and just purchased by the driver's father a mere three weeks before. All inside the vehicle had been drinking heavily having just come from a party. Some only received cuts and bruises and agonizing cases of whiplash. The driver received a concussion from the airbag—which wasn't felt until the next day. Sanjay's daughter, who happen to be sitting in the front passenger seat—and thus the nearest to the impact—earned herself a broken leg in two places as well as a black eye from her own airbag's rapid deployment.

All were grounded with serious privileges taken away. Sanjay's daughter was grounded for a whole year.

Sanjay would be back at the hospital by tomorrow night.

The on-duty and Jerry made a few good natured "relieved that it wasn't too serious of an accident" comments regarding the matter, then he decided he would return to the cafeteria to buy yet another carrot cake for Sandy. Again, he weighed the pros and cons of the gesture but opted to go for it anyway. Unfortunately, in the hour that he was away, the carrot cakes had been sold. Therefore, he made an alternate dessert purchase. And another cola.

He arrived back at Sandy's room with the new round of snacks in hand to find that she was regaining consciousness. Lazily her eyes blinked, still feeling the effects of the narcotics. Blearily she uttered, "Jerry?"

"Hey, you're awake," he said as he came near the bedside to give her a peck on the cheek. Then as he found another narrow bed spot to place the new snacks down, he announced, "I brought your second favorite, chocolate. Carrot cake seems to be quite popular today."

"Jerry?" she said again, weakly.

"What is it, babe?"

"I can't see anything...not even the colors..." and her expression began to sour.

Jerry stared at her with fear in his heart. "Well...that's okay...that stuff was pretty annoying, wasn't it? All those weird colors coming at ya over and over again."

Flatly, she responded, "...Not the point...point is I can't see you..." Now her soured face screwed up on the verge of full crying. "...and I wanted to see you..." Her chin dimpled up with tensings while her lips shook. Her eyes bunched shut and quickly produced floodings of tears. They streamed in no time down the sides of her face.

"Aw, honey," he said in a soothing voice, "you'll get it back, we just gotta wait for the swelling to go down, that's all...besides...I'm an ugly mess right now, I'd only scare ya. More than I usually do," he joked and let out a lame laugh.

"You're gorgeous..." she emphasized through her quivers of sobbing, "You're the best thing I ever saw..." and her crying became louder, convulsive. "...We...we met on the cliffs...at Sutherland...not on the beach like I was thinking...for some stupid reason..."

"You've got a thing pressing on your brain, honey," he tried to rationalize without any hint of resentment or accusation. She had misremembered an important event in their joined lives—but under the circumstances, it was completely forgivable. "It's not your fault. Don't cry, you're gonna make me cry. And I'm a macho man, remember?"

She hiccupped a small laugh in the midst of her tears and commented, "Yeah, _you're_ macho man..."

"Hey, I'm a little bit macho man. I dig tennis—oh wait, that's not helping..."

She laughed with as much vigor as she could muster in her muddled condition. Soon it died down and she became pensive. "...Edna...didn't mention her husband..."

"Well...it's not like the subject came up or anything."

"But...she mentioned him to you..."

"Yeah, yeah, we were, uh, talking about some things, you know, some issues..."

"My family?"

"That came up in the course of it, yeah."

"What...issues does she have with her husband?  
"They're divorcing actually...I guess it's been a long time coming, that type of thing."

Sandy became silent for a moment. Which gave cause for confusion injected with a growing sense of suspicion in Jerry.

She calmly resumed her inquiry. "Beginning or end?"

"Huh?"

"Is the divorce at the beginning stages or the end?"

His eyes averted leftward in loss of comprehension for her interest in Edna and Bill's marital status. "...Wwwhyy would you want to know about that?" Near the end of the question, his eyes went back to her but narrowed beneath a wrinkled brow. What the hell was she getting at?

"...It's okay..."

His eyes cinched even further as his head whiplashed slightly in complete bafflement. "What is?"

"...Edna...I like her...so it's okay...if you wanted to..."

His thoughts were colliding, rising to a tilt, an overload. "...Wanted to—you mean— _ohhhh_ ," he fissured from his mouth in a mental meltdown as he hid his face in his hands. Behind them he achingly pressed his eyelids closed, producing several crinkles in them.

"...It's okay..." she calmly repeated.

Still buried in the mask of his hands, his mouth uttered, "No wonder..." He dropped his hands from his face and addressed his blinded wife with, "Listen...I...I don't want to do any of that. Edna's a great person but..." Electrified and frazzled in his mind, his eyes darted all over the place. Speech was increasingly a struggle. "...Believe me...it's the furthest thing from my mind...with her or with anyone—"

Then something happened that Jerry couldn't have expected. As chemically subdued and as fogged and weighted as Sandy was, somehow a determined and empowered voice erupted from her, "WELL—WELL, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO, JERRY? ARE—ARE YOU JUST GOING TO EAT YOURSELF UP ALIVE AFTER I'M GONE?"

Scared witless, Jerry said, "For God sakes, Sandy, take it easy, this can't be good for you to over-exert—"

"Are you going to fucking answer me? What are you—" then she gulped, trying to get her breath—which was strained under heightened efforts at emphasis and anger. "—you going to do? When I'm gone, what's going to happen—?"

Jerry exploded with, "I DON'T KNOWWWW...I don't know!"

Within a room nearby, a man's raspy voice rang out, "Hey! You wanna keep it down in there?! Some of us are dying over here!"

Jerry immediately came back with, "Screw you! So are we!" and then he, himself, broke out in tears, audibly so, and Sandy heard his sobbing, stunted grunts.

Which made her begin to cry once more. "...Don't be alone, Jerry," she stressed through her grimacing and streaming of tears. "If Edna wants you—"

"Sandy, no—"

"If Edna wants you...then don't turn her away."

Unfocusing his eyes from anything in the room, he muttered—more to himself than to Sandy—"...This is insane..."

"The whole world is insane. Promise me you'll be with her if she wants you," she belted with no traces of uncertainty or exhaustion.

Still staring at nothing, he vibratingly rebuked, "You can't seriously be asking me to—"

"Promise me now..." she warned him in the last currents of emotional and bodily energy she possessed. Her next plea was considerably less forceful, yet, ironically no less effective in swaying Jerry, "...Please...promise...you won't be alone...if she wants you..." Her face became quite saddened as she said these things.

He had focused on her again even though his anxiety-ridden, tightened eyes were zigzagging side to side. His mind was at its limit, yet he offered in a calming tone, "Shh...shh, I promise, okay, I promise, now just..." and he closed his eyes as a resigning (but paradoxically resistant) breath blew long from his mouth.

Tears still glimmering her yellowed eyes, she weakly put forth, "I'm sorry...I'm sorry, I love you..."

Drawing nearer to her and blinking rapidly, he soothed with, "Shhh, it's all right, I love you too, just rest, it's all right..."

Because she was going under again, her energy level wholly depleted, she responded oddly, thickly, "...Okay...'kay..." And she was out, lost to the world once more.

Jerry rose to his feet and wiped at the tears in his eyes and cheeks. Another deep and anguished breath fluttered out from between his shivered lips. He ran his fingers through his oily, listless hair then ended his hand up around the back of his neck; its arm portion hung bent over his chest. " _Oh God_ ..." he breathed in morbid and distressing amazement. His eyes kept blinking and popping, blinking and popping.

And lastly, he exhumed another breathy, "... _Oh God_ ..." right on a blink of his eyes.

****

After standing for roughly twenty minutes emotionally shocked and horridly conflicted, Jerry finally made the decision to leave Sandy for a time and get some fresh air. Exiting the building, he found a central gardening area with a showering water fountain built from abstract, twisting marble juts. He slowly eased himself to sit on the fountain's square-shaped and concreted divider. He sat hunched forth, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. He stared ahead with an anxiety-wrecked expression tightening his face. He knew he shouldn't be away from Sandy for too long but he simply had to find some open space. An area where a cool wind could pass its currents over his entire form. He didn't know if what he experienced was textbook claustrophobia, but he knew for certain that if he had stayed inside any longer, he might have done the proverbial "wigging out." That might have gotten him ejected from the ward altogether and he couldn't have that. Better that he have some air and a sky to look at if only just for a brief time. To reset as best he could.

My God, what did I promise to, he knocked his mind around with. I can't touch another woman the way that I have with Sandy! It's not like I married her with an the option of viable alternatives should she check out early in the game! I swore death due us part, I know, but to me that always meant until _my_ death not hers.

Edna is a great person, there's no question about that—hell, she could be the photographer's equivalent of a modern day saint. But it still wouldn't make any difference to me. She's not Sandy. No one is the same to me as Sandra is and they never will be. End of story. It's not like I was exaggerating to Edna the other day and I certainly wasn't lying. I could never cheat on Sandy in a million years, or even the day after that. Not after what we've meant to each other in the past fourteen years. Even after she leaves this life and goes on to whatever's next—if there is anything next—she will still be my wife, death-parting vow be damned. And I'm still going to love her as completely as I do now.

But you just swore you would open yourself romantically to another. You swore to your wife, a woman you've never broken a promise to. You made a pact with her that if Edna wanted you with her...

But she's not going to want you to be with her, is she? Edna's going through a divorce with her husband. Likely, the last thing on her personal agenda is shacking up with someone she just met and with whom she works with. It's not going to happen so I should just not worry about it. I won't worry about it.

But overtime...if your friendship with her develops deeper...and in a moment of impetuousness, loneliness, and weakness, she might...

I should quit now. Tell her today that I've got another job offer and that I'm very sorry but there's more money in the other position. That's what I'm going to do, possibly tonight if Edna decides to stop by the hospital. But if not tonight then soon, tomorrow.

But she is already a friend—admittedly someone you felt you've known for a very long time. A connection was made between you two, a trust, an openness. You gonna throw that back in her face by lying to her? And wouldn't that be in some small and indirect way you reneging on your promise to Sandy?

God, this is insane, why did she do this to me? I know that she doesn't want me to be alone, I get that, but I wouldn't be alone. I would always have Sandy with me for the rest of my days. And maybe after that.

It was admirable and selfless of her, in a way, to offer what she did, to say without hesitation that it was okay for me to find comfort in the arms of another woman. It's one of the things that makes her so incredible, so worthy of my devotion to her...

...But why did she make me promise like that...?

Damn it, damn it, _damn_ ...

****

And so all of these paradoxical, warring thoughts recycled in his head time and again as he sat there framed against a work of art that doubled for a fountain. Its inspiring effect was lost on him, and there was no reset for him, no true respite from the madness that was now his life.

Only the opposing thoughts as they bashed into each other.

And the realization that in another minute he was going to force himself up and walk back into the hospital.

Back into the cage he both loathed and loved.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Seeing that she was still deep under, Jerry stood over Sandy and simply watched her chest as it slowly and flutteringly rose up and down. And felt unnervingly disappointed that she hadn't regained consciousness by now. So that he could try to reason with her more, explain to her that what she asked of him was wholly impractical and, in his mind, virtually impossible. He would just have to wait it out, he had to talk to her, this was just too much to consider for his sanity's sake.

Feeling that there was nothing more to be done about it, he turned and picked up the book, sat down, and began reading aloud once more. The novel was getting to be quite interesting as it continued to vaguely allude as to what the prized object truly was. The Sandy from the story had located and extracted it from the skeletal mansion and the narrative mentioned that it was small and metallic. But that was as close as a description as the story would allow at this far in.

The book's tension level hit a bit of a lull half way through and Jerry's eyes were beginning to ache after an hour and a half of reading. He folded a page corner to mark his place then closed and put the book aside. He then positioned his chair to face the bedside directly, pulling a bit closer so he could rest his arms and head right next to her blanketed arm. Yet again he examined the odd swellings of breathing from her chest.

And then he flicked his blood-veined eyes to stare at her sunken face. She was still so beautiful even with the gray and ivory shades that now pigmented her skin. Cancer's makeover, he perversely and morbidly remarked to his tousled and jittered mind. Get it for the new fall line, all you ultra-desperate runway models. Of course, you won't be catwalking for long.

He whispered to her, "I don't want anyone else but you." Then he rotated his head to rest it on his crossed arms and closed his eyes. Before he knew it he was asleep.

Deep into his sleep cycle he began rapid eye movements under his resting lids. And thus began to dream. His first hallucination consisted of an unachievable goal where he had somehow wound up in a foreign location (at least foreign to him) and attempted to find his way back to his car. Why he was at this unfamiliar location eluded him yet it mattered not. Only that he must find his way back to his vehicle concerned him. It was this street around the corner from where I am, he thought with almost certainty. But when he made it to the street in question, he found a row of parked cars that looked nothing like his. He walked up and down the length of the street and found nothing. I'm turned around, he rationalized. It must be the opposite street from where I started. It happens to me all the time. He turned back to the street of origin and tried the connecting street at the other end. This had to be it, he told himself, I don't remember parking that far away from this spot. What was I doing here anyway? Was I visiting a friend? I think that was it but I really need to focus on finding my car now.

He turned onto the other street and again found a neat row of parked cars that had nothing to do with his. At the end of this particular road there was a large installation that looked to Jerry like a military base. But more stylized in certain sections, as if parts of it were also a highbrow youth military school. In his dream state it seemed quite logical for him to want to enter the massive facility in order to reach the only street he hadn't tried yet. He figured he could walk a straight path through the structures to reach its backend. But this proved not to be the case in the slightest. There were labyrinthian paths that often either led to building constructed dead-ends or barbwire-topped fences that rose high from the ground. One path seemed promising, however, even though it led him a few steps underground to a classroom hall-like passage. Within it, military uniformed adults and adolescents walked back and forth, some emerging or entering connecting rooms. All seemed to ignore Jerry and allow him to move by unaccosted or unquestioned. Possibly they intuited that Jerry was no threat and simply was a man trying to get somewhere. As if people cut through the installation quite frequently to gain access to adjoining neighborhoods. He rounded a corner that had to be taken and through another corridor rounded another necessary turn. And another. And another. And yet another.

But finally he managed to find the stairs leading to the surface level and ascended them quickly, bobbing and weaving to avoid military personnel (young and old). As he was just about to leave his foot from the last necessary step to leave the building, Jerry noticed and recognized an officer who was going down. The man also tracked Jerry, halted, and immediately smiled at him. The officer's hair was reddish and close-cropped in true military style, his uniform was prim and proper from collar to foot. They blurted their enthusiastic greetings to each other and remarked how long it had been. The small talk had ensued between them chronicling the whereabouts of mutual friends and what each had been up to since their last meeting. In the reality of the waking world, Jerry never knew this man and likely never would. It was purely a small sliver of comfort food fed to him by his unconscious inner workings.

Jerry asked for directions to the other end of the base and to the adjoining street—the one he hadn't explored yet. The "friend" of old was only too happy to give him the proper way clear through the facility. Yet the prescribed path was as complicated as it could get and Jerry found himself asking for the directions for a second time. No problem for the officer was only too happy to repeat the proper maze trail.

Jerry thought he had it this time around so he thanked the officer and promised to stay in touch. They parted with jovial goodbyes and Jerry set off on his new course.

He recounted to himself every twist and turn that he was supposed to make: first go around the main living quarters, then go between the armory and training buildings, then up the steps to a platform centered with a commemorative statue of some revered hero of one war or another. Then down the stairs once more to make several left and right turns through walkways and building gaps. Somehow he managed to remember each turn correctly and eventually he found himself facing the backend of the military site. But what was beyond was not what he anticipated—an expansive park area with vibrantly green grass lay before him. Skewering the outer perimeter of the park was a lengthy and high-reaching fence, chain-linked and stretched straight by support poles. The metallic barrier appeared tiny from the distance Jerry stood, but he knew that once he got close to it, it would tower at least fifteen feet in the air. And even from this distance he noticed the hooked through and spikey spirals of barbwire topping off the entire distance of the fence. Jeeze, he thought, it's just a park, why would it have barbwire, much less a fence. But then he remembered where he just came from and mentally kicked himself. Of course there's a dangerous barrier between the outside, normal world and a military base (school?). Yet in this rationale he neglected to work through the contradiction that he (or any other regular citizen) could simply walk into the front door of the establishment without raising suspicion. It simply wasn't his focus, he only wanted to figure a way through his latest dogging—the fence. He decided to run to it hoping that when he got there he would notice a break in the fencing or a more apparent gate door. It seemed now to be arduous keeping up a good running pace considering the physically and psychologically draining ground he'd already covered. The time seemed to drag and he was constantly pulled away from his goal of the gate by people who were simultaneously playing some unknowable, abstract game while asking Jerry how his day was. Fine, good, he would always reply but with haste despite the unreality of time's delay.

But time didn't bog him forever and he eventually made it to the ominous and threatening gate. Now that he was substantially closer to the barrier, he recognized that it did, in fact, possess a framing of a gate door. But it was clearly locked by a chain which was fastened snugly together with a thick padlock. For the hell of it, he moved closer to the lock to see if by some small miracle it was unlatched from the locking hole. But no, it was indeed firmly clicked into place. A bend in the fence perhaps? He searched the length of it by just turns of his head. Nothing visible from this range, so he took a bracing breath, hung his head, sprayed the breath out, and started his way along the fence. Since he was primarily in the middle section of the fencing, he knew he would have to double back if he couldn't find a gap in the direction that he walked.

He reached the end of the one side and found a tiny bend in the base of the fence. It was evidently too small for him to inch through no matter how hard he tried to pull it up. He surmised that it would be no better on the other end so he didn't bother with the backtrack. Instead he craned his vision to notice the adjoining structure, which was not a connecting fence but a similarly heightened brick wall. But beyond it and visibly taller was a gray painted apartment building. Now he had a feeling he could scale the fence most of the way up then reach back to clasp onto the top section of the wall (which oddly did not have barbwiring). Once he had a good purchase of leverage, he would hoist himself over and try and find a clear path out.

He put it into action and within a matter of seconds was over the wall and traversing the walkways of the apartment complex. Again, it was a damned maze, left and right turns that appeared to lead to more left and right turns. This went on until he finally had no choice but to climb a flight of stairs or head back. He had no intentions of backtracking so he went ahead with the stairs. When he reached the top his only option was to turn right for a small path straight to a door. A door to someone's apartment. Yet again his dream state afforded him the delusion that it would simply be acceptable to walk right in, because whoever might be in there would inherently know that Jerry was nonthreatening. He entered the apartment without difficulty (no locked door) and found the place empty thus far. It was a typically decorated housing, no standout features, just the status quo furniture, electronics, and pictures framed and hung in neat order. The people in the photos were nondescript and Jerry didn't bother with looking closer at them. He was far more inclined to search more of the apartment's rooms, hopefully find a backway—even though that would be wholly implausible in the waking life. He found the kitchen area and it, too, was your garden variety setup: dining table, stove, refrigerator, cupboards, and sink.

Except for the wall.

The wall was different.

The wall was disturbing.

In a rather sickly orangish-red, a large circle was painted on the wall. It was perfect without any signs of crooked wavering of the tiniest of applied splotches from a paint brush. In fact, it looked prepainted from the manufacturer of the wall itself, part of the wall's consistency perhaps. It was totally smooth and mutely reflective just as the wall was.

Jerry stood there ogling it with squinted, troubled eyes. A large circle on the wall...why? What sort of aesthetic statement was this? Almost immediately after he had asked himself this perplexing question, he discovered that he really didn't want to know the answer. He actually had a growing desire to want to move on as hastily as he could. He looked away from the wall and plodded forth into the next adjoining room, which turned out to be the laundry room slash exit way to...to the outside—

_Hey!_ a voice behind him barked.

Jerry whipped about to witness an old man in his late sixties staring him down with fiery eyes. His ragged and worn skin was predominantly infected with masses of disfigurement hideously grown forth. The bulbousy swellings were the same color as the man's normal flesh, which consisted of pinkish hues, some almost red in patches. The growths instantly reminded Jerry of chemistry class whereby two chemical substances were joined to form a bubbling, rising globules. They would heighten and bubble only so far and then quickly harden. That's what this man's exposed body parts looked like to Jerry. And it struck his senses just as shockingly as being caught trespassing.

_Get out of my damn house, you filthy poacher!_ the monstrosity of a man roared. _Get gone before I use my tongs on ya!_

_Tongs?_ Jerry queried his fluttery mind quite rapidly. Rapidly because a split second of curiosity was all he could muster before the walking abnormality began storming toward him. Jerry's head recoiled an instant before the rest of him followed suit in hastened fashion. His eyes widened in revulsion and fear. He hit the door with his back and, realizing that he didn't even have a full second before the freakish tenant would be upon him, he jerkingly spun about, fumbled for the doorknob, opened the door with a slam, and exploded out of the place.

He leapt down the porch steps and sprinted toward the sidewalk and the street beyond. Once he reached the edge of the curb, however, he joltingly halted his run to twist about. He had to see if the human wretch was following him out into the open.

He was not, strangely, he stood at his doorway, tense with his entire form, his posture and expression (what was visible through the growths). He opened his mouth to growl, _You don't wanna know the TONGS, boyyy!_ And then the creature shot out his arm sideways and slam the door shut. Jerry heard a slight echo of the slam and then nothing else but the tweets of a few aerial birds. And of course, his own heavy breaths.

He took a huge relieving "whew!" breath to let loose and then ventured a look around his current environment.

And then stopped breathing for a brief moment.

This couldn't be what it is, he uttered as his mind went reeling.

But it was. He was back where he had started. On the very same street.

Now he started to question his spatial logic, and even in his dream state he was able to deduce that there's no possible way that this could be the street he started out on.

Before he had much longer to ponder the obvious contradictions of his predicament, a group of five boys on fast-rolling skateboards began approaching him. As they whizzed by, their board wheels clacking loudly on the concrete's slim dividers, the end trailing boy looked excitedly at Jerry and announced, Party on the cliffs, man! You up?!

Of course he was. He was Jerry Nesmith fresh out of high school and always looking for the next drink fest.

And suddenly he was coasting on a board himself, rolling along on a fair pace behind the boys. And a few dozen divider clacks later they had arrived at a beach just as the sun was turning in. Compared to the cragged demon he just encountered and escaped from, the vast ocean line sparkling with the orange of a downing sun was a welcome tonic for his senses.

The boys had run closer to the surf with their boards in hand. Once they stood just short of the foaming, thin spread of seawater, they positioned their boards in both hands and began swinging them as deadly weapons at one another. The boards would frequently bash into each other, occasionally locking their wheels together, creating an odd tug-of-war for the board owners. Jerry quickly figured there was no real malice to their actions, just general adolescent fun and recklessness.

One of the boys, while still swinging and blocking, turned his attention to Jerry and bellowed, Go on up to the cliffs, man! We'll meet you there!

Jerry nodded with a courteous, good-natured smile and rotated his vision to the towering, rocky, and black cliffs a quarter mile down on his left. He pivoted that direction and headed towards them. Towards the party.

Would she be up there? Would Sandy and all his old friends—all of their old friends—be there, partying down like it was 1999? He had a feeling they would be, and he had a feeling that they were waiting for him. To really get the festivities under way. God, it would be so good to see everyone again, he raced his mind with, particularly after what I just went through.

His pace quickened, and soon he found himself sprinting toward the high-rising, darkened walls of rock. And this time, there was no lag in perception of passing seconds, no wading through spatial mire. In fact, time was skipping, flitting smoothly in and out—like a film or a TV program showing only the most poignant moments of a past event, fade in, fade out, fade in, fade out...

...And before he knew it, he had scaled the proper jagged path to the roof of the cliffs.

Where everyone was visible. The whole crew from the post high school era, the early days.

Early days? It was now, and there were no traumas, no major concerns about the state of the world or where their lives were going. Just the now, and the pure enjoyment of being with good friends, endless alcohol, and almost constant bursts of laughter.

And Sandy. Sandy as Jerry was first to meet her, only this time he could be the one to arrive late in the game. She was standing by the opposite edge of the towering cliff, arms folded over her chest to fight the chill, waist-length hair swept over her shoulder, nodding and talking with Adrienne. It was a light-hearted conversation about this or that to be certain, both tall and lithey women were smiling as they conversed.

And Jerry had to smile himself to see his love in such good spirits, careless of the loss of her family's support and respect.

Someone else smiled at Sandy as well.

And now Jerry took notice of that someone. Noticed because he could sense the smile on this other. It was someone who sat by the sparking, snapping fire pit, his back to Jerry's view. This figure who was turned away from him was not anyone from the group that he knew, not Gabe, not Nicolas, Toby, Russ, or Peterson. Certainly not Aidan with his trademark, never cut, long hair. This man's dark trails of hair only went so far as his shoulder's met his neck. Yet something was familiar about this new edition to the crew. Something strikingly familiar.

It was his shirt. Jerry had seen it before—a denim, long-sleeved dress shirt that, even from the back, he could tell was unbuttoned all the way down.

He knew this shirt. Because he himself used to wear it before it finally wore out just three years ago, too frayed and ripped at the seems.

It was then that he noticed another quite out of place peculiarity of the scene.

No-one had acknowledged Jerry since he arrived.

Clearly, he was in view of several of his friends and they should have waved, nodded, or hollered a greeting by now. None of them saw him. It seemed that none of them wanted to...or simply couldn't perhaps.

But why wouldn't they, he threw forth in his thoughts with supreme annoyance and confusion. Don't I matter to them? And who is this new guy with my shirt on, or at least one that looks amazingly like my old one?

Jerry was determined now to steadily walk a curved path across the rock floor to bring this bizarre stranger's face into full view. Jerry was halfway around his set walking arc when the man's profile was exposed. More became familiar about this man's appearance—his nose, which had a slight hook to it, his eyebrows' thickness, his fairly prominent and clefted chin. Only the cheeks were a departure from immediate recognition to Jerry. The cheeks filled more roundness and smoothness to the man, as though the babyface of youth yet claimed a hold of him. Still quite typical, of course, for one in his early twenties.

As Jerry completed the semicircle of his curiosity stroll, he now had a complete picture of the man's countenance as it continued to smile in Sandy's direction. Jerry witnessed the wonderment that engrossed the man's eyes, less sunken and intense than they would appear in the years to come.

Yet indelibly and inextricably familiar to Jerry.

He supposed he should be monumentally enraged that this oddly familiar figure should be staring so enamoredly at the woman who would become everything to Jerry.

But of course, considering the fact that somehow he was staring down his own younger self, rage didn't enter into his present range of emotions.

It was more along the lines of utter shock and supreme bafflement. With a side helping of realization that he, himself, was not his younger version. He was the one of now, the one who faced every bit of life's debilitating and torturous pressures. The one who had already experienced the fairly inconsequential loss of the rounded cheeks from his early twenties' heyday.

The one who was soon to face real soul-raking and wholly detrimental loss.

And then another jolting possibility of reality further blasted his mind: what if I died? Died in my sleep of some hidden, undiagnosed defect in my vital organs. Maybe a brain aneurism. Wouldn't that be the ultimate cosmic irony for my comical existence—my wife is dying of an aggressive and malicious brain tumor and I go before she does.

And he felt this had to be death, because it was far too potent and sense-real to ever be a dream.

This is death and it must be hell that he ended up in. Or at least a level of it. And with that distinct option on his mind's table, he now had a good notion of what the circle meant on the old freak's kitchen wall. And why it was painted in Jerry's most abhorred choice of color, orangish-red. And why his friends and even the love of his life would not acknowledge his presence here.

Because this was his own particular space in the annals of damnation, tailored just for him. He would see his better times but never be able to truly be apart of them. To never talk to and feel accepted within his old group, his crew as he knew them.

To never talk to and hold close the younger and healthier (and so vibrant) form of Sandy. Never to touch her again.

But she would know him. The younger version in any case. She already had because she finally turned her laughing, beaming face from Adrienne to gaze eyes upon Jerry's youthful self—the one who still held the entranced smile of his lips and eyes toward her. Even looking away at Sandy, the Jerry of now could sense that longing yet satisfying grin on his younger double.

But he didn't have to sense the return smile of deep warmth that Sandy showed young Jerry. He was looking straight at it, admiring it, feeling his own longing that the sweetened smile wasn't directed solely at his own older self.

Her glimmering, fire-lighted eyes showed the fulfillment of her heart as she mouthed the words to her twenty-something beau, _I see you_ ...

Jerry of now sensed his other self's smile broaden, a swelling of adrenalin flushing through the boy.

Instead of filling the older one with the same warming euphoria, sensing this only made things worse.

This is hell, to be certain, he told himself, and I'm doomed to it. But what did I ever do that was so heinous to have deserved this severe of a punishment? Was I too aimless, did I not do enough for the world, did I not live up to my potential? Was that it? Did I betray my family's faith or not devote enough time and attention to it? Was I not charitable enough to others?

Or maybe it didn't even matter what I did. Maybe it didn't matter what anyone did? Maybe it was just going to be a treacherous fait for us all despite our best efforts. There was no hope. Not in the end game of it all. And wasn't that the true deep core of what hell was, the real root of madness—the dissolution of hope? And the fruitlessness of all our words and deeds?

This was Jerry's hell. And he would relive his greatest and worst moments without actually being present. A pointless, tortured ghost in his own looped existence. A sickly, giant circle he would despise for the rest of infinity's retracing.

Although he could clearly sense his own former self's highly flirtatious grin towards Sandy, he still chose to look at the boy, feeling a different kind of lament for this blind, naïve soul. So much deluded spirit and enthusiasm for the future gushing forth in that stupid smile of his. How older Jerry wished he could just walk up to the runt and smack the smile right off his face. He almost tried but for his strong intuition that he merely would pass his swinging hand clear through the love struck boy.

So he turned away in disgust, back towards Sandy's direction.

Yet something had changed there. Adrienne was no longer standing anywhere near her, she was alone next to the cliff's edge.

And one more thing had changed.

Sandy had turned away herself to face the night beyond the precipice of which she stood; a night devoid of stars and bereft of radiance. Visible to both Jerry's was her waist-length and billowy thick of auburn hair, no longer hung over one shoulder but draping down her back. Near the skull, tiny and mutated sprouts of crooked hair peered at random through her normal flow of hair growth. Almost invisible they were at the distance Jerry stood. But noticeable nonetheless.

And then she spun herself about. And stared rigidly at Jerry—but not the youthful one, the Jerry of now. And he was stricken with heart-ceasing shock and soul-crushing fear. Not because of any stark surprise that she acknowledged his presence.

But because she stared straight at him with her eyes missing from their gaping sockets. What replaced them was complete and utter black, a total void, as if the nothingness of the night had hollowed out the back of her skull and was peeking through her separated lids.

Peeking at Jerry.

Peering into him. Boring into his stripped and brittled soul.

He screamed. Or tried to. No sound exploded from his stretched open mouth. So much fear and madness electrified his widened eyes.

The eyeless beauty continued her dead stare directly at the muted howling face of the older Jerry. The tiniest of sadism's smile crept on her lips before they parted and moved to mouth the words, _I see you too_ ...

The full blast sound of Jerry's shrilled and horrible screaming cut in and served to instantly electrocute the core of his being, injecting every molecule of his mind with pure venomous insanity. Surely, his heart would violently and mercilessly rip itself apart within his lung-shrunken chest any split second; the final result of that minute yet poisoned smile—

****

Jerry erupted a sharp scream that shocked and bolted him upright and awake. In the midst of it he twitched and flailed about before coming to an odd, slumping position in his chair. His breaths were fast and heaving in his chest. With crinkled and squinted eyes he stared ahead, disoriented, still attempting to bring himself to the full realization that his vivid and caustic dream of hell had been a fantasy of the mind, a trick of the synapses.

A sick joke of the subconscious was his preferred diagnosis.

Popping his eyes, he drew in a deep cleansing breath then let it out. It fluttered in its exhalation as his nerves were still a bit jumbled and frayed. Even so, he was coming around to the calm and relieving sensation that the nightmare of nightmares was over and he was in the serene of tangible reality. After a moment of mentally winding down, he felt considerably better in his mind and in his soul.

Until he darted his eyes over to Sandy.

And noticed her chest was still.

And the hell of his mind returned tenfold.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Edna pulled into the hospital parking lot and rested her car in a parking space. She left the engine on and sat in silence, contemplating whether or not she really was going to exit her car and walk into the hospital. She had been debating it ever since she talked to Jerry hours earlier. Of course, she had wanted to meet Sandy out of a strange sense of curiosity, but she had now. And had gotten more than she had anticipated or bargained for. She could safely say that need to discover who Sandy was had been satisfied. What was Edna doing here again, attempting to further drag her spirits down into the despair pit? Dying from cancer was an extremely depressing thing to see, particularly since Edna knew the quantified severity of Sandy's condition. Solve one problem, remove one tumor—or maybe even two—and it simply wouldn't matter. The girl was going to die and likely before the year was out.

And particularly since Edna had her own hell to endure as her family, which, naturally, was her life's blood outside of a healthy passion for photography, crumbled around her.

How much more could she take before she snapped her mind into a meltdown of the nerves?

She favored heavily the option of putting the car in reverse to then forwarding herself out of the hospital parking lot and finding a restaurant that served wine.

That would be quite nice, she admitted to herself. Track down a quaint, out of the way, family owned eatery with low lighting and just order a bottle of red. And perhaps some highly fattening, red alert on the cholesterol appetizers. And simply not think. Eat, drink, and forget. That's exactly what I should do, really. Why should I even involve myself in this special brand of nightmare for people I hardly know, despite how decent they are? I shouldn't, it's really none of my business anyway. Jerry was just being polite when he offered to have me come here, obviously. Truth is the two of them likely want their privacy to deal with this...this...thing they're forced to deal with.

And what if she takes a turn for the worse, slips into a coma or has a horrible seizure? Am I supposed to stand there and witness all that? Witness my new employee lose it because the love of his life is slipping fast? It's not my place. I'm going to get on my phone, punch up the net, search for hole in the wall bistros in the area, and steer my car to the nearest available one. Eat, drink, and forget. I certainly need to.

She turned the ignition off and got out.

****

What am I doing? she grilled her mind as she traversed the halls of Berrenger towards the Cancer Ward. Why didn't you go get drunk and help out the hardening of your arteries? What's pulling you in the direction of more strife than you'll be able to deal with? Are you having a pint-sized mental break here? Turn around, you don't owe these people your personal time. Get the hell out of this house of beeping equipment, echoed announcements, and the damned smells of the dying! Turn around now!

But she kept walking forth, plodding along the correct paths to where the cancer patients were held. Her legs propelled her closer and closer to a situation she may not be fully equipped for handling. Sandy reminded Edna so much of Janine—same sort of spirit and same sort of beauty of heart. And imagining Janine in Sandy's shoes was purely unthinkable. And yet she moved forward, closing the gap between herself and Sandy's room...and Edna's possible further slip down the sanity rope. It occurred to Edna now that she was doing this because of her trademark stubborn and rebellionistic personality. The independent outsider in her centric self that was willing to revolt against her higher forms of reason and prudent judgment. Of course, she informed herself, naturally.

Damn fool, she berated herself as she walked on.

****

Third door to the right, Edna remembered, will be Sandy's room. She was twenty steps from it and closing in. last minute trepidations shot through her mind: what if Jerry's not in there and Sandy's asleep? What do I do, just hang out in the hall, go to the cafeteria, what? And if Jerry is in there and is helping Sandy through a bad bout, do I stick around? What if, what if, what if as she took her few remaining steps toward the room. And as this happened, she could hear the soft talking of a female voice. It had an informative yet soothing tone to it. Her words as Edna heard them were, "—range for her to be moved to our morgue and if you'd like to see her down there, we'll assign you a pass—"

Edna froze in her tracks just short of the doorway. She was not yet visible to what was inside.

"—to check in at the desk. But remember to also to show your driver's license if you do."

"Thank you," came the flattened, listless voice of a man within the room. Edna, of course, knew it to be Jerry's.

Oh God, her mind gasped. I can't go in there now...oh dear God, that poor boy...but I have to go in there now, don't I? He's got no one...or does he? I don't know, it doesn't sound like any of his family or friends are in there. He didn't mention that anyone else was stopping by—but that doesn't necessarily mean anything, Edna...maybe you really should just go because clearly this situation is none of your business at this point...Jerry, you poor, sweet boy...

The nurse, who had been the one speaking before to Jerry, spoke again to him. "Once again, I'm very sorry for your loss. Sandy was a sweet girl and we all liked her very much."

Again, the dead reply from him, "Thank you."

And then Edna could hear footsteps slightly heightening in sound as they came near the doorway. Edna's heart caught in her throat at the sudden realization that she would be discovered. The nurse appeared out the doorway and naturally halted when she came upon Edna.

"Oh, hello," the nurse blurted to her. "Are you here to see them?"

Edna was mentally and visibly stumped for a brief moment before she ultimately replied, "Ah—yes, yes, is it all r—?"

"Oh, please," the nurse said and gestured her arm for Edna to enter.

Hunching her shoulders a bit in sheepish embarrassment, Edna slinked past the nurse (who was in the process of moving on) and showed herself in the frame of the doorway. She stared tensely at Jerry, who was seated in the chair and looking off into nothing. He was slumped a bit and his hair was oily and wrecked with odd outcroppings. His eyes were ringed with pinkish-red hues that signaled horrid sessions of heavy tears.

It took a second before he finally flicked his eyes to see and acknowledge her presence.

In a slightly detached and surreal tone, she uttered to him, "...I'm...sorry..."

Once again the robotic and darkened, "Thank you," slid from his mouth.

Edna switched her gaze to the lying statue of Sandy's form; the body was covered by the blankets all the way to her neck and close to the chin. A chin that was now a bit sunk into her throat. Her lips had parted slightly as a result. Her eyes were closed. And even in her cancer-emaciated and lifeless state, she was still a beautiful child, Edna thought with some pebble of positivity.

"Do you know," he began in his continued soul-drained voice, "that they have a water fountain here?"

She raced her eyes back to him, a bit of shock spinning around in her chest. "...I-I didn't, no..."

"It's nice...arty and all that...it's in the central garden of this place, outside..."

"...Oh..."

"...Give me a bit of time..." His eyes lowered as he finished, "...and I'll meet you over there..."

Blinking in the mental unexpectedness of his proposal, she fumbled her lip movements before getting out, "Oh, all-all right...sure, I...sure." And then she averted her eyes from him in jittered anxiety before turning to awkwardly leave the room.

****

Oddly enough, Edna was seated exactly where Jerry had placed himself hours before on the squared frame for the fountain. And like him, she was faced away, not even allowing herself a visual and emotional shot in the arm by admiring a functional work of art. She simply stared opposite the arcing splatters of water and shielded herself in her own detached thoughts.

Being outside did have some cathartic effect on her, however. She fully realized that it wasn't so much her rebel's flair that persisted in her showing up at the hospital. It had more to do with the ironic fact that Edna had no one to lean on in her time of horrid despair. Of course, she had good friends and family relatives that she could go to. But as much as they loved Edna, they also loved Bill. And she didn't even want to have the slightest risk of revealing her sins to any of them. Some or all of them might already know—and being called a whore again by any of them (particularly Aunt Jean—who was Gammy Christine incarnate) was the last thing she desired.

There was, naturally, Pang who would have been her "shoulder" as he referred to it. But wasn't he the ultimate source of her being called a whore in the first place? No, that was too uncomfortable an option now.

And Janine wasn't going to return her calls or likely open the door for her if she visited. Probably knew about the affair by now—infinity plus one of the things Edna wanted to have happen in the world.

So, strangely enough, it came down to her stripped of emotional vitality and hopelessly despairing new employee—the undeserving of torment, Jerry Nesmith. Another tortured soul.

That was the true reason why her body's actions took her to this place, to face what she had. Sad but true, she admitted.

Edna had been out by the fountain for a little over twenty minutes when Jerry finally appeared. He walked in a slightly mechanical and disconnected manner; he didn't look at Edna as he came forth to ease himself into a sitting next to her. Even when seated, he didn't allow himself to acknowledge her, choosing to stare blankly at nothing in particular. For a moment they were silent, Edna wanting him to start.

At last, he did, but not before a small fatality of a breathy laugh escaped him. "It's so...funny, really..." A hint of the deathly laugh remained on his lips as he spoke on, "...You know it's coming...your mind tells you, you have to prepare for the eventual time...so you brace yourself and gather all the strength you can, all that you are, what everyone means to you and all that..." Now the trace of irony's grin disappeared as he pursed his lips oddly, angrily. He slowly shook his head. "...But when it finally does come...it's like all that effort was for absolutely nothing..." A manic frenzy hit his eyes, an uncomfortable lunacy that was unmistakable in his glazed stare. "...And you just get ripped apart anyway..." And suddenly the maelstrom on his watered gaze became more restrained, less apparent—as if a shattering numb had taken over. He glanced at her briefly, shrugged as if to morbidly imply, whatever, and then looked ahead again.

A silence emerged between them for a brief time. And then Edna calmly, monotonely put forth, "In...in the days when Bill and I were madly in love...if I had lost him somehow...it would have devastated me, cut me deep to the bone...as I'm sure Sandy's death has been to you...you must be feeling like this is the worst thing that could ever happen...and that you'll never be able to live again...but I tell you this, Jerry, and I mean no exaggeration...after Bill I would have found a way to go on...maybe even love again...but if I ever lost Janine...well, they would either have to commit me or kill me...my daughter's the air I breathe...so, even though you're imagining this to be the worst thing to ever happen...I guarantee you it's not." She looked upon him on her last statement.

But he did not return her stare. Another silence darkened the moment, and Edna began to wonder if Jerry had even heard a word she had just said. But finally he did speak—though not to retort on anything she had spoken of. Merely to say, "It's probably a good idea for you to start looking for another assistant...I don't think I'll be much good to you right now."

She looked away from him in rueful contemplation, but then turned back a few seconds later. "If you quit, that's one thing...but I won't fire you..." She spit a depressive laugh before revealing, "You might find this odd but, in point of fact, you may be the last friend I have after my husband gets through with me..." She eyed him more intensely now, allowing some of her true self to come trickling out to him. "...And I know that we don't know each other that well but...I do care about you, and if you'll let me..." and she reached out her hand out to place it softly onto his as it rested on his knee. "...I'd like to help you through this..."

In Jerry's mind and body, he felt as if a snake had materialized within him. And immediately upon its formation, it had tensed with, it seemed, a million pounds per square inch of constricting self-defense. Of revulsion towards a foreign enemy attempting a vicious attack.

But he didn't recoil from her or remove her hand from his. Because he had sworn, hadn't he? That if Edna wanted him, he wouldn't turn away. If she wanted to comfort him, "help him through this."

If Jerry ever felt an ultimate encounter of the catch 22 phenomenon, this had to be it.

If she wanted to comfort me, his mind raced with. If she wanted to comfort me...if she wanted comfort me—

"It wouldn't be a good idea for either of us to be alone right now..." Edna continued as she kept her gentle hand rested on his. "...It would be best if we—"

And suddenly he was on his feet. Her hand was immediately taken off of his. "I got stuff," he blurted forcefully, "I gotta go, I got things to—I have to go..."

"Jerry, it's all right, don't—" she tried, almost getting up. But Jerry was already walking away, and quite briskly, as if he had an appointment he was already late for. "Jerry!" she called after him, hoping he would at least turn his head back. He continued to hurry himself away without any acknowledgement of her plea. A second later he disappeared into the hospital.

"... _Dammit_ ," she almost whispered, disappointment, frustration, and shame all mixing into her voice and her flushed face. She found herself nervously shifting her eyes all about, caught in a mental trap of what to do next.

One thought, clear and sure, however, came back to her. She should find that restaurant. And a bottle of red. Or two.

Chapter Twenty-nine

It was night again and Bill dreamed. It was the same dream that jarred him awake a few nights ago. He was in the midst of his show as he always was with this particular mirage of the mind. This imaginary scenario of supreme discord varied only in the people that appeared within it as guests to be grilled and degraded.

Bill likened the experience to his college days when he would persistently dream that he was one class shy of graduating—even when he was already set to walk down the aisle to receive his degree along with every other graduate of his class. Always something missing, something still not right, despite the completion of so much accomplishment. Only now with the show dreams, things were much more intense, infinitely more disturbing.

This time around the hallucinatory guest was Paula Ezran—only not the same one from the waking hours. This one was worn, haggard, and sucked clean of any delusions of making it big in tinsletown. Instead of the casual, fairly conservative outfit she wore in the waking interview, Paula now insulted herself with a highly revealing, plunging neckline of a blouse. Her pants hugged her lower half with such form fitting that the chance of a fabric fold was little to none. Her shoes were streetwalker standard spiked high heels. Her eyes were framed with a sickly gray. She sat not prim and proper this time with legs crossed in humility but spread-eagled, laid back, and careless of any respectable demeanor.

As before, with all of the other versions of this same dream of shame, Bill was announcing their return from a sponsored commercial. "We are back," he started, looking at a nonexistent camera, "with Paula Ezran who has been to 'Hellywood' and back and currently lighting up the world of porn." He faced Paula, who casually turned to him. "Now Paula, tell us, sweetie, what happen to you?"

In a "I don't care, what of it?" tone, Paula responded with, "Well I partied—"

Hissing a bit of a laugh as he cut her off, he said, "I would say so. Go on."

"Fell in with the L.A. drug scene—heroine, crystal meth, X, mescaline—"

Jovially, he interjected, "Not all concurrently, we hope."

"No, but sometimes I would overlap, mix, that sort of thing."

"And you also fell in with a lot of guys out there...fell into bed, I should say."

"There were guys, yeah."

"And explain what you did with them."

Paula's eyes wandered off to the ceiling as she replied, "Well, a typical date would be us going out to a rave or a nightclub, getting high, then we'd do it in the bathroom stall—"

" _Juicy_ ," Bill remarked with blood thirst in his eyes. "Go on."

"And then we'd dance, go back to my place, drink, do it again—"

"Do what again?"

"Have sex—"

" _Ooh_ ," he blurted as he leaned toward Paula, "let's get into that for a bit, shall we?"

Paula shrugged, unfazed by his lecherous request. "Okay."

"What sort of sex are we talking about?"

"Weird stuff, rough and kinky, bringing in third parties."

"Right, right..."

"Filming the whole thing, we really got into it."

"I see, I see. And what got you into the exciting world of porn?"

"Well, let's see. The sex tapes got out to the press which ruined my chances at a legitimate career. But a porn producer saw them and offered me a contract for fifty thousand a film, so hey..." She shrugged again, her expression one of malaise and boredom.

"An honest sum. Now, how many porn movies would you say you've done so far?"

She squinted her eyes and pursed her lips in a half-hazard attempt at concentration. "...I wanna saaay forty...forty-five maybe by now—"

" _Over forty films_ ," Bill belted with excitement. "Wow, all right. And who do you like to work with, who's your favorite porn actors to... _do_ as they say?"

"Welll..." Her eyes traveled north again. "...I like Brandi Boots, she's fun and always a professional...there's Zack Diggins who's a tickler, ummm...Marla Mountains, oh-my-God, she is sooo stacked, and they're natural too. That's rare in the biz these days."

"And what're your favorite directors in the porn industry?"

"There's Danny Zantini, who makes me feel like I can do anything, ummm, Paulie Pearson, Corky Tibbs, and Brandi Boots."

"Oh, Brandi's a director now?" he inquired with raised eyebrows of genuine interest.

"M-hm. And she's good too. She has so much vision, I mean she's the only one I know who takes the money shot to a whole new level."

"And that's a double payday if she also stars in the film, isn't it?"

"Damn sweet, it is."

"All right...all right, well you just finished your new film for No Clothes Productions, and what is it called, sweetie?"

"'Ben' Her Seven.'"

"A classic title to be certain. And did Brandi direct this one for you?"

"No but she did star in it with me along with Zack Diggins and Christy Mounds. Zantini directed this one just like he did for 'Ben' Her's One' through 'Six.'"

Some sort of insectile euphoria was etched into Bill's eyes as he said, "All right...okay, well...we happen to have—and may I just say that you look absolutely delicious, Paula..."

"Thanks."

"...You're welcome...you're welcome...so we happen to have a clip of 'Ben' Her Seven,' let's go ahead and take a look, shall we?"

"Let's do."

They both turn to look ahead and slightly above the main camera (or where one would be) as if to look at a "clip" monitor.

AND FLASH! As the film clip begins, it shows a nude Paula being forced violently down on a bed. She's pressed to the mattress on her front side and two shirtless men (one of them, Zack Diggins?) are keeping her there with the full strength of their steroid engorged, muscular arms. She was grunting and wheezing in desperate agony. Zack(?) produced a long length of rope, thin in size but durable, and began to tie her wrists together behind her back. Once done, he pulled the remainder of the rope's length upward, forcing the bound arms up at an extremely uncomfortable angle behind her. He then brought the rope remainder toward her head to tie it securely around her neck.

The two men backed off, stood, and commented on the scene before them with, "Ooh yeah's" and "That's nice, that'll do..." and then both proceeded to undo their pants. As they did, one of them asked the bound and tortured Paula, "May we enter through the back door?"

And right on queue, as before, Bill explosively jackknifed himself awake in his hotel room bed, barking frighteningly, "OH GOD, NO!" His breathing was hoarse, desperate as he rambled on with, "...Don't...please, please, please, no, don't, don't...don't...please..."

Soon his pleas became muddled and incoherent as he did his best to keep his mind from unraveling. With time and calmer breaths it became an easier task. Yet it was evidently clear to him that it would be hours before he would find sleep again.

After fifteen minutes of transition from a heart-pounding mess to a normal heart rhythmed mess, Bill lumbered his legs to a slow swing around to position himself into a sitting on the side of the bed. His arms extended straight down to press their hands into the springy bed, helping him stay upright in his seat. His head hung low, his face wrecked with regret, guilt, and most certainly fear.

He stayed this way for a moment more, then he looked up to eye the nightstand drawer. The one with a particular piece of paper resting inside. Trini's resume.

He reached over, pulled open the drawer and took out the resume to bring it fairly close to his face. He began to mouth a series of numbers: "32374240..." and then trailed off in his recount of Trini's cell phone number. He stared at the paper—and the number—for a silent moment.

Then he placed it down face up on the top of the nightstand. No going back in the drawer this time.

Again he sat there in a moment of silent inactivity, contemplating whether any future activity would take place. Would he call her or not...

He shot a hand out and grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand and, instead of punching in a whole group of numbers, he pressed only one and the green "call" button. Then he placed the phone to his ear and cheek. The rattling ringing sound was heard three times, almost four before—

_Tutit_ —"M-hello?" came a groggy and out-of-it female voice.

"It's me," Bill said, distress thickening his tone, "I need to ask you something important."

" _Bill_?"

" _Yes_ , it's me, just answer me a question."

There was a pause on the line before the woman's voice said, "What is it, Bill?"

"...Have I wasted my life?"

"You're asking _me_? The whore?"

Agitatingly wanting to redirect, Bill fluttered his eyelids as he stated, "Look, just...put that aside for a minute and answer me... _Have_ I wasted my life?"

Edna took a few seconds to answer. "I really don't know what you mean. Jeeze, Bill, it's two in the morning, can't we talk about this later—?"

" _No_ , now."

Edna was getting a bit irritated herself. "Well, in terms of what, Bill? Your lost dreams and ambitions? Your marriage with me? What?"

A morbid sarcasm entered his voice as he answered, "Oh, I don't kn—let's see...how 'bout the last twenty-five years of my life wrapped up in these mindless popcorn talk shows that probably didn't make much of a difference to nothing or no one."

" _That_ bothers you, the shows...?"

" _Yeah_ , that bother's me," he said with his frustration almost spiking, "always asking real personal questions so that the ratings will float...and for what? What did it prove? That I was witty? I was a master of conversation? So what?"

"Come on, Bill, you're doing our cold perspective thing again. How about this for perspective, you raised a daughter who has her head on right. If you're searching for meaning, look no further than that."

Bill expelled a deep, frustrated breath. "But I still keep thinking, maybe there was something more I could have contributed to—"

"To what? To famine relief in some foreign country where they'll blow your head off for trying to help? Or here where they'll take your money and go shoot up? Chain yourself to a tree? What?"

"I don't know! All I know is that I feel like a failure when I'm one of the biggest success stories in the entertainment industry. And what does that really say? It says I play the game and part of me likes it too much to quit. It means I sold out and fell back on something that comes natural to me...when—when I could have been so much more."

"So what you're telling me is that we're both the whores of this family, is that your general statement on our lives and level of commitment to the worl—"

" _Yes_ , that's it, that's the very thing, right there."

"Bill..." She took a breath and let it out fast, "...Okay, look, let me ask you something. Does the world make much sense?"

Bill hiccupped a laugh. "Rarely."

"Is it a giant, silly mess most of the time?"

"Mostly, yeah."

"Filled with a whole bunch of people who are so wrenched up emotionally that, most of the time, they just can't see straight?"

"You know it is."

"And at the end of every soul-crushing, migraine-inducing day, do these poor wrecks need some sort of mindless release? An _entertainment_ show maybe?"

"...All right, I see where you're going."

"You have more value than you think, you know, ya silly old whore."

He laughed briefly and rubbed his forehead. "You know I don't like it when people talk that way."

"Oh, I know it, I must have sent you through the roof the other night to make you say things like that."

He gave a half smile to himself while hissing a stunt of a laugh. "Not my finest moment...not the best moment in my life of restraint, no..." Then he pursed his lips in a thin, morose smile before saying, "What's his name...this guy?"

"...Pang...Pang Choi."

"So you were determined to keep it cultural, weren't you?"

"That's me, culture girl."

Another hiss of a tiny laugh from him. Then his demeanor turned back to pensive, seriousness. "Did he treat you okay?"

"...He wasn't a bastard or anything."

"Mm..."

"...Bill, I have to ask, did you tell anyone ab—?"

"No. Not family, not friends, not Janine."

A generously deep sigh of relief fissured from her mouth. "...Thank you, Bill...thanks."

"Sure...although I can't say it will stay hidden forever, my boss does know so..."

"Right...right..."

"...But maybe I can talk to him, maybe..."

"Good luck," she commented with a hissed laugh of her own.

"You know Jack."

"Yeah, I know Jack..."

"...Edna?"

"Yeah?"

"Hey, uh...thank you..."

"...Your welcome...try and get some rest and we'll talk more later, all right?"

"Yeah, all right. Night."

"Night." _C-click_.

Bill hung up and placed his phone back on the nightstand. Then he simply sat there and stared straight ahead, feeling better having talked to his soon-to-be ex-wife, yet still troubled about another matter entirely. There was still Trini.

He turned his gaze to the resume again.

He wasn't going to call her, he knew that. But he had just made a firm decision about her.

He reached for both his phone and the resume, and proceeded to punch in the right buttons that would allow him to put her number into his "contacts."

And then he would try and get the resume back into the files.

And hopefully not get caught.

Chapter Thirty

Janine had not visited Nestor Beach in little over eight years. Once she had entered the assignment overload of university life and the various internship jobs, lazy days sunning on Nestor's sands turned out to be a serious implausibility. There was, of course, always the freedom of Saturday night rest and recreation hours, yet Janine had never been one for suffering the biting chill of Nestor at nightfall. True, she had been out of college for two years now and there had been scheduled get-togethers for the beach. But, as usually happens when people's lives become more complicated and busied, circumstances prevented her from frolicking frivolously with her old classmates. Rainchecks were always forthcoming, naturally.

And then Janine met Charlie, and a whole new sphere of social magnetism affected her life. Charlie, himself, had never expressed any interest in beach activities, frequently preferring to spend quality time with Janine at home or a nightclub.

Why Janine chose Nestor to meet Charlie and talk out their glaring problem wasn't entirely clear to her. There could have been easier (distance-wise anyway) places to hold their meeting, but for some odd reason, the old beach haunt of Nestor popped into her mind. And once it did, it seemed as if she didn't want or feel the need to consider any other location.

As she was waiting near the beginning section of the very aged, wooden pier, she began to strongly analyze why she opted for the beach for what could potentially be a life altering event. The obvious answer, the surface reason, would have to do with the open airedness of the locale—where there would be less of a chance of feeling confined, where everything wouldn't feel like it was compressing in on her mind and body. Where she wouldn't have another emotionally corruptive panic attack. Three of them so far since I last saw Charlie, she recounted, maybe I should start a panic log, she morbidly joked.

But if she was diving down deep into her motivations for Nestor, she supposed the root of the decision came from the simple yet disturbing truth: emotionally, psychologically, maybe even spiritually, Janine was running home to mama...without _actually_ running home to mama. That was a reality she was not yet ready or willing to accept at this point.

If she had the beach's good old mind and heart buoy to keep her mental and physical core afloat, she may just have the courage to get through the meeting. And she might—and this was a big might—be able to talk some real sense into Charlie.

Nestor Beach, she reflected with wavering confidence, good plan. I can already feel a new surge of potentially hyperventilation-inducing anxiety assaulting my senses, open air or not.

Charlie had arrived.

And she could feel her heart thumps rising in her throat; suddenly it was hard to breathe.

He came nearer to her, softly crunching the sand with each forward step. He stood before her. With braced and pensive eyes, he turned his gaze from her to the surroundings. "This is nice...believe it or not, I've never been here before...never was much of a beach/ocean person...but it's nice."

Flatly, she revealed, "I used to come here all the time with family and friends." She glanced about herself, feeling a small frown form her lips. "A little dirtier than it used to be..."

"Of course, I wouldn't know the difference, so I'll take your word for it...not surprising though...as your father pointed out to me at the party...things rarely stay the same."

"I guess..." Still with the formal tone in her voice, she faced him again and said, "Thank you for...taking time out to meet me."

"Well, real estate is nothing if not flexible hours..." Still looking about, he announced, "Missed you anyway..."

"Missed you too," she admitted, some feeling finally inching its way into her speech. "A lot...but where does that really leave us...?"

"It has to be that legal piece of paper, some...outdated, archaic official contract that defines how we feel about each other..." Then he finally found the guts to face her. _"...or nothing?"_

"Why would you ever see it that way?" she interrogated him, with more emotion rushing into her voice.

"How else can I see it?" he shot back with greater intensity now flowing in his tone.

"How 'bout it's a symbol, a heightening for what we feel for each other. Which, if you hadn't noticed, is more than I ever thought I could possibly feel for anyone. And, you know, silly me, I thought that's how it was for you too."

"Of course, Janine, God, of course."

She became physically animate with flushed emotions, crying tears threatening to stream from her manic eyes. "Well then why don't you want to marry me?!" she belted breathily, whistingly, desperate.

"Look," he tried in his own anxious plea, "if it's a symbol you want to show how much we mean to each other, then I'll buy you a ring that like, I don't know, makes your eyes pop out of your head. I'll one day buy you a house that you can decorate and fill with as many kids as you could possibly ever want. I'll support you in your career. I'll be there for you when times are at their shittiest..." He took a bracing breath, let it out through his nose. "...But I won't chalk our love up to some formal license that's easily filed away in some drawer or on a frickin' hard drive. The results of that shit nearly destroyed me the first time! Why, if I'm in my right mind, would I ever potentially put myself in that position again?!"

"Because I'm worth it to you!" she blurted out flutteringly yet forcefully.

"Okay, we're worth it to each other! Now! But what about twenty years from now, thirty years from now?! Will it be worth it then?! Can you guarantee that?! Let's take a good look at your parents and what they're—"

"Leave them out of this, I don't want to talk about them," she cut him off angrily, "They don't have anything to do with this, this is our situation."

"But is it any different?!" he asked with persistence dominating his voice. "Do you think for one second that what they felt for each other in the beginning is anything less than what we have?!" This actually made Janine blink and avert her eyes. He continued, "And now look at them! And look what it's done to you!"

"I'm fine," she attempted with great effort.

"Bull, it's tearing you up inside and don't think I hadn't noticed! And then you've got this bastard at work putting the screws to you—"

"Not anymore," she cut in with a lowered but wrecked voice. "I quit, I got out. I don't know what I'm going to do now, but that whole thing is just...over."

He lowered his speech to match hers. "...What happened there?"

Screwing up her face with frustration, she issued, "I don't wanna talk ab—I blew up at him, all right? I just—lost it, I couldn't take it anym—anyway, it doesn't matter, it's done, I'm moving on—"

"To what? You know how tough it was to get what you had. And the economy is just plain crap—"

"Charlie, it's not your problem, I'll handle it, so don't worry about my job st—"

"Well, I _will_ worry about it! I worry about you! You think divorce was the only thing that your father and I talked about that night?! He also told me how concerned they were about you when you were younger, and I don't want you to fall down that hole again. Don't cut me loose when I could be helping you, just because of this marriage thing."

A festering rage was now sickening her mind and body. Her face went taught; her lips pushed upward, hiding the gritted teeth beneath. "I'm gonna crack up, is that it? Well, let me tell you something about me: after I went through my shit as a teenager and came out the other end, I swore to myself that no matter what happened in the future I was going to keep it together. So you or anyone else don't have to worry that I'm going to go squirrely in the head and slash my wrists or some stupid crap like that. I'm going to be fine no matter what."

"So you're set then, and that's it?" he challenged with a measure of his own anger.

And suddenly a shift back to desperate longing came to her. "Charlie, I _want_ to be your wife, so much it hurts. I'm not saying we would have to do it now or even next year, but I would want it soon and for the rest of our lives." He drew in another oppressive breath to almost immediately expel, yet she pressed on. "I want to call you my husband and to be known to everyone as Mrs. Janine Baker—and to be proudly known as that." he started to look away from her, feeling pinned, but she positioned her head to maintain his eyesight. "Don't you see how much you would honor me and how much I would _want_ to be honored by that?"

"It isn't enough to just be with me, and me with you..."

And then the tears were through with idle threats, and began falling in earnest down her reddened cheeks. "...I want to marry you...I can't get past that... _please_ , Charlie—"

"I can't," he muttered softly as he stared at the sand before him, escaping her shattering, tear-streaked face. "I swore to everything that I am that I would never do it again...it would poison everything we could be...I-I just can't, honey..."

"...Then we're back to where we started..." She then lost her strength to hold back the full force of sobbing, convulsive to her upper body and loudly gulping from her throat. She brought a hand to her mouth in a vain attempt to barricade her cries. Losing her equilibrium, she wavered her self back and forth somewhat. She grabbed onto his coat at the chest area and drew herself into him for balance.

And to foolishly, against better judgments, feel him close. Her head found his chest.

He brought his arms around her and rested his head on hers. Fatalistically, he added, "Things never stay the same forever."

Buried in his chest and through her jerking, horrid sobs, she managed, "Let's hope so."

And they held each other for as long as they could that day.

****

Three hours later, Charlie had pressing work appointments and simply had to go. Once they had finished kissing passionately (almost painfully), they tore away from each other and went their separate ways.

Janine had made it back to her car without buckling to the ground and hunching over into a blubbering mess. When she was finally secured in her seat behind the wheel, she turned the ignition on but kept it in park. She worked the appropriate knobs for the air conditioner and made it go full blast on her. She took several deep and shiveringly expelled breaths. Then she merely sat there staring out the front window, unwilling to allow herself any semblance of the emotions she just endured with Charlie. Or perhaps was unable to, too overloaded and shell-shocked to function on a real human level. Now just a being inside a thing, inanimate.

But only for approximately forty-five minutes as she then produced her phone, chose a speed-dial number, and pressed the green. She moved the phone to her ear.

After a single ring, the phone answered.

"Janine?" came a frantic, treble-heavy voice through the device. "Baby?"

After a second's pause, Janine answered flatly and without enthusiasm, "Hi, mother."

"Sweetheart, oh thank God. Listen, honey, I'm so sorry, please, I never wanted to hurt you ever—"

"I know...I...don't like that things have to be this way...but I guess I know that you wouldn't purposely try to hurt me."

"Never, baby, never. I just—I just hope you understand, your father and I tried everything we could to avoid this. We just couldn't do it anymore."

"Yeah, well...neither can I, it seems."

"...What are you talking about?" Edna asked with a tightened tone of alarm and panic. "You're not thinking of—"

"NO," Janine interceded with an undercurrent of anger and frustration, "That's not..." a breath let out, "...It's Charlie and I, mom..."

"Ohh shit, honey..." an audible breath could be heard through the phone, "...shhhit, I'm—I'm so sorry, baby...can you talk about it?"

"...Not right now," she stated with a firmness bordering on a command.

"...All right, honey."

The solidness of Janine's voice remained as she said, "One thing though and I want you to be totally honest with me..."

"Of course."

Suddenly, a sternness materialized in her eyes as she asked, "Do you regret marrying dad?"

"Of course not, honey. Despite how things are now, we still had twenty incredible years together. And, God, honey, we had you, how could I ever regret that?"

Halfway through Edna's explanation, Janine somehow found her way back to humanity in full capacity. Her faced wrenched itself in a horrid haze of silent crying. Her eyelids were pressed tightly together in several interwoven wrinkles of manic distress. Her sobs came out intermittently in high-pitched gasps that jerked from her strained lungs. Tears ran river-fast down her tremoring cheeks. She did her best to wipe them clear. Through all of this she managed, "...Thanks..."

"Thank _you_ ," Edna stressed with all that she felt for her wounded daughter. "for being who you are, and what you've yet to be...God, do you know that I couldn't exist without you? You're just too much of who I am...do you know that?"

Janine was nodding vigorously, hurriedly before she finally cried, "...Yes..." And her sobbing heightened.

"...Baby, it's okay...it's gonna be okay...somehow at some point," the mother soothed to her child.

"...Okay..." and more sobs ensued. Yet soon, Janine feared that if she continued her overflow of emotions played out physically, she might not be capable of coherent speech. She therefore made a focused, concentrated effort to quell the harried rush taking over her mind and body. Ten seconds later, she had centered herself enough to continue on with what she needed to say. "I have to tell you something, mom...I've made a decision, I'm leaving California for a while."

"...When?"

"Don't know for sure, in a few weeks maybe...I just—I just can't be around for your divorce...or be anywhere even close to where I could run into Charlie...I have to go."

Another hated breath from the phone. "...All right, uh...do you know where you're going to go?"

"Well, um," She swallowed to equalize. "Amber Daves is out in Arizona now and she said I could stay with her for a while if I find work in the first few months...hm, maybe I'll become a freelancer like you."

"Oh, honey, the pay is iffy."

"But liberating..."

"True...You will see us as much as you can before you leave, won't you?"

"Of course..." Janine couldn't see, naturally, but Edna had closed her eyes in a supreme gesture of relief. "Mom...why is it like this?"

"...I don't know, honey...maybe...to force us to see what we really have, and to cherish it more? I don't know, it seems like you and I are smart enough to have figured that out anyway, so...who knows...it's just the way things are."

"...Right...Talk to you soon..."

"Bye, baby. Call your dad."

"I will...Bye."

"Bye, sweetie."

Janine hung up and put her phone away. She sniffed some liquid back deep into her nostrils and rubbed at her cheeks to dry them from the annoyance of tears. When she had composed herself enough, she dialed down the air a bit, put the car in drive, and was gone.

Chapter Thirty-one

ONE MONTH LATER

Edna had the pen in hand and the document was before her. She had looked over the details of the dissolution contract twice, making sure that everything had been worded correctly and all parties mentioned therein were treated with the (more than) proper respect. Seeing that they were, she took a second's predominantly irrational lapse and then put her signature to the thing.

She then handed the pen to Bill, who accepted it and brought the document closer to him. The lawyer's desk was polished and darkened oak that allowed a wide spacing for two people to easily sit side by side. Therefore, Bill needn't have crowded next to Edna to make his own signature to the papers. But he chose to anyway, feeling closer to her than he had for a very long time. "Ah, community pen," he quipped and caused Edna a slight burp of laughter, to which he followed suit. "All right, let me see here..." he said, eyeing the specific spot on the page where he was meant to sign. Oddly enough (or possibly appropriately enough), Bill took a queue from Edna and paused briefly before signing his intent. Once done, however, he passed the fully-signed papers back over to their lawyer sitting opposite them. As he did, he commented, "Welp, there it is, we did it."

"And without stabbing each other profusely with the pen," noted Bill and Edna's lawyer of the past twenty-four years, Dorian Mesner. At fifty-eight, Mesner was a towering figure even as he sat. Bill, himself, was a respectable six-two, yet at six-five, Dorian simply required Bill to look up to him. Yet the younger man bested the lawyer by looking ten years behind his true age. Dorian _looked_ fifty-eight with his long hours-earned facial lines and receding strands of grey-peppered hair.

He took over the document from Bill and inserted it fully into a stylish ledger. After the chuckles extolled from Bill and Edna died out, Mesner added, "Okay, I will get this entered into official record, at which time I will contact the both of you. And then you two will officially be divorced." He gave them an officious grin then commented, "And I must say I'm impressed. I mean, usually these sorts of things are like World War Three with Nine Eleven and The Holocaust thrown on top for kicks."

Bill and Edna laughed briefly once more, both feeling a great sense of relief for the proceeding's results.

Mesner went on, "This went smoothly, guys, I'm proud of you two."

"You know," Edna said, "we do have the capacity to pretend we're adults every once in a while."

"Ah, don't we all," Dorian added with a jovial smirk.

Bill entered with, "Yeah, we kinda just mathed it out and uh, of course, we had more good years than bad, so..."

"Good way to look at it. I tell you guys, there's another couple I'm handling right now and—no names, of course—but, my God, you name it's flying back and forth: extramarital affairs, unauthorized draining of accounts, custody war over the kids, domestic disputes where the cops were repeatedly called out..." He threw out his hands and waved them as if to shun the whole sordid matter. "Extra paychecks for me, naturally, but still frighteningly depressing to witness."

"Well, we're just too boring for that," stated Bill as he turned to eye Edna. She stared back knowingly, contented in the knowledge that her extended indiscretion was to remain under wraps—at least from a legal standpoint. There was still Jack...

As the meeting ended, Bill and Edna shook hands with their lawyer and left out the building for their respective cars. They had parked quite close to each other and, thus, it afforded them the convenience of a chat before going their separate ways.

Bill began. "Well...was your pause the same reason as my pause? I was wondering."

Edna answered, "You mean before signing?"

"Yeah."

"Well, if your pause had to do the realization that we just said goodbye for good on certain things we've relied on for so long, being a little hesitant to let them go, then yeah, we had the same pause."

"Yeah, that was it." And he smiled a bit nervously.

"I'm gonna miss the house, of course. Oh, by the way, I should have the last of my stuff out by Tuesday or Wed—"

"No problem."

"Shouldn't be any later than that."

"Totally fine."

She nodded with a perfunctory grin then shifted her eyes about, realizing that a small lull in the conversation was about to ensue.

Fortunately, it was quite brief. Bill started up again, or tried to, with, "Well listen—"

But she cut in with, "Thank you again—for not bringing up the aff—"

He waved it off. "Aah, what good would it do? It happened and I'll never like it, but...Janine's well-being is always going to be more important than my wounded ego."

She smiled at Bill, showing genuine admiration and deep respect for him in her eyes. "You're a hell of man, Bill. You always were."

A smile of his own formed his lips and he offered, "Thanks," in a humbled tone.

And then, awkwardly at first, they approached each other and embraced closely, resting their heads on one another's shoulders. They stayed this way even as they picked up their conversation again. Edna said, "I love you, Bill. I hope you can find someone again. Someone who can help you become more of what you want to be."

"I love you too. And I wish you the same."

"Who me? Date at 52?"

"Well, apparently it's not unheard of."

"Well, it's not happening anytime soon, I promise you that. There's a lot about myself that I have to iron out."

"Yeah, same here."

And now she pulled away a bit to face him but kept her arms wrapped around him. He stared back at her as she announced, "And some of it's actually not for me...there's something I need to discuss with you."  
"Sure," he said in earnest.

"You know how, of course, I've always needed to have my career finances and earnings separate from what you make..."

"I know that you've always wanted to remain your own person, and I applaud that."

"Thanks...but now a certain matter has come up and I really do need your help on it..."

"What is it?"

"I have a new assistant and his wife passed away last month from a horrible battle with cancer."  
"Oh God, I'm sorry, that must be awful for him," Bill put forth as he winced with sympathy.

"Quite awful, yeah, and I would like to allow him to deal with his loss without having to deal with other things that he just doesn't deserve. He such a terrific guy and I consider him a good friend. Is there anyway that we could see to it that his hospital debt is wiped out and that his wife receives a more than proper burial?"

"Of course. How much would he need?"

"Well, that's kind of grey area right now. I know the funeral will cost roughly around ten thousand, but the hospital bills, while I know they're in the hundreds of thousands, I don't know the exact amount. Jerry—that's his name—hasn't gotten back to me yet over the phone. But I'm gonna find him somehow. Have to."

Bill shook his head slow. "...Poor guy..."

"Well, I'll let you go."

"Okay."

They hugged closer once more, then separated fully and made for their cars. As Bill was opening his door, he called out to Edna, "Call me with the amount and we'll get it all arranged, just let me know."

"I will, see you Tuesday. Or Wednesday."

"You got it."

They got in their cars, started them up and drove their separate ways.

Chapter Thirty-two

Pang Choi had received a call that he never imagined he would possibly get. The instant he answered it and knew who it was from, he felt both relief and trepidation working on his mind and chest. He had imagined with sobering finality that he was done with Edna Kirby when they had their lunch to end things. And after a few weeks of quietly sulking about the matter, he decided that he would put his late forties butt back on the proverbial dating scene. What came back to him in his social outings was a slinky, shapely young tool by the name of Sherri Duong. Sherri was sweet and accommodating and as flirtatious as anyone could be...when she was highly inebriated. When completely sober and lucid, however, she was prone to headaches and thus short-tempered and short on patience. Yet she was also a crack receptionist who had the ability to cut through the bureaucratic mire and get results. Late shipments on supplies? Good luck getting her company's business ever again.

Pang desperately needed a no-nonsense employee to answer his calls and keep things organized for him. And he also needed someone to keep him "occupied" at night.

In Sherri, he got both. And sometimes to his chagrin, a great deal more.

Sherri wasn't Edna, but she would do for now as far as Pang's personal and professional requirements were concerned. Truth is he still had a thing for the elder woman, a withdrawal residual of how comfortable the arrangement had been between them. No complications beyond keeping things on the downlow and no hassled arguments. Not like his current situation.

Pros and cons, Pang kept telling himself. Pros and cons.

He felt these principles jogging vigorously through his consciousness as Sherri directed the call from Edna (the very unexpected one, of course) through to Pang. Relief in that she had chosen not to ostracize him from her life—maybe there was even a chance Edna had totally changed her mind about things! Trepidation that, if that was so, Pang would have a devil of a time explaining things to his prickly new employee. He could stand doing without her as a lover, but as an employee, well...good ones were just too hard to find. Particularly since she was also good with the make-up duties for the bodies—though she always gave him hell for making her do it. "Once I find a good make-up person, then you'll be done with it!" he kept drumming into her. But it did little to curb her annoyance.

"Edna, surprises, surprises," he had talked to the phone after having the call transferred through to his office.

What came back through was, "How've you been?"

"Well...I was a little dodgy there for a while. But then I pulled a 'me' and came back swinging."

Edna had chuckled a touch. "I see you haven't lost your verve."

"Verve is blanket for nerve. How goes it on your end?"

"It's been terrific. Bill found out."

"Ah, of course, he did, girl. You think the whole thing was just gonna stay buried for ever and ever?"

"Mmm, not really, I suppose."

"So...do I have a death squad coming my way?"  
"Tut, don't be so dramatic, Bill's not a nutjob, you know."

"I know. But I'm guessing that it wasn't the most tame of conversations on the matter."

"No, it was not."

"What about your daughter, does she know?"

"No. I'm praying that it stays that way."

"Well, how did Bill find out?"

"His boss saw us together."

"Ho-ly crud, and so now there's no risk of this guy spilling the milk cart to Jan—"

" _If_ Bill can convince him to keep his mouth shut, yes."

"I see...so is that pretty much what you called to tell me?"

"That...and I wanted to send some business your way."

"I see...that's how we began things...is that how you're going to end them too?

"Look...I didn't actually expect myself to be talking to you ever again, and after this funeral is put together for my co-worker, I'm not sure I can again..."

"Buuut you happen to care about me so maybe it's not so easy."

"...Okay, yes, but again, I can't make any promises, all right?"

"Aah, we never had promises or commitments to begin with, so...Yeah, come on with your friend and we'll look at some options for the services."

"Thanks."

"Sure...nice to know you felt a little guilt for me too, I have to confess."

"Well, it's not like we never helped each other through some things."

"Ain't it the truth."

"Call you soon."

"All right."  
He had hung up, and immediately after, Sherri had opened up the door to his office and stuck her suspicious little head in. "What was that all about?"

"More business for us," he had half-truthed.

"Who's Edna?"

"Old friend from way back in the day."

She had eyed him with a poisonous expression. "...Mm-hm..." Then slowly retracted her head from the doorway and closed the door.

He dared not have told her the whole truth.

Chapter Thirty-three

Edna had left a detailed message on Jerry's cell explaining that her husband (soon to be ex) was keen to wiping out all of Sandy's hospital debt as well as providing funds for a funeral service. If Jerry was willing to accept.

Jerry had listened to the message and, again, was severely thrown into a state of mental conflict. If he allowed Edna to help him in this way, then that would imply that he was willing to accept her as a more involved person in his life. A deeper friendship could ensue, as a result, somewhere down the line...and then who knows what might develop...for Edna at least. There was no way— _no way_ that anything would ever turn more than just platonic for Jerry. Where Edna was concerned, where anyone was concerned.

Yet he knew that with the debts and the typically astronomical prices for a respectable funeral (and Sandy's memory demanded one), he seriously had to consider her offer.

Ultimately, it came down to what Sandy would have told him to do: take the damn offer, you self-involved idiot! It's not like I told you to sleep with her!

Or had she? Was that part of what she had implied? He couldn't and never would know for certain. Or so he had rationalized in his frenzied and combative thoughts.

Take the damn offer, you fool, her phantom order had repeatedly bombarded his mind with. Just take it and worry later.

He had called Edna and politely (but not with resounding levels of enthusiasm) accepted her more than generous offer.

A week and a half later, a small mass of mourners gathered at Pang's establishment—both inside the service hall and outside near the hearse garage. Some were still arriving. Jerry had been at the entrance of the hall to greet and welcome all those who had entered at this time. As he was still doing for those who had yet to make their way in. The next person to approach him was a familiar face from Jerry and Sandy's neighborhood. An elderly woman who used to meet them on the street when both parties would take their evening strolls. Mrs. Kemper was seventy-six and owned a family flower shop known as Flowr Powr. A vibrant and opulently huge bouquet of flowers from her shop was gripped by both of her hands and pressed gently to her chest as she came forth to meet eyes with Jerry.

"Jerry, these are from my very own store garden," Mrs. Kemper announced with a pleasant smile (yet her eyes communicated a deft sadness). "All of the ones she likes the most."

Jerry reflected her facial expression as he offered, "I see that, it's very nice. Very kind of you, Mrs. Kemper. Thank you."

"Everyone at the shop misses Sandy so much."

"Thank you. Please, come on in, things will be starting pretty soon." He motioned his arms for her to leisurely enter.

She came forth while replying, "Thank you, dear. Oh—" She held up the bouquet slightly, "—where do I..."

"There's a table on your left as you go in."

"All right, dear. I'll see you shortly inside."

"Okay."

And she sauntered in. He looked after her for a second more, then turned back around to prepare for the next guest.

Who turned out to be Edna.

She gazed at him with raised eyebrows of nerve-jangling uncertainty. She came to stand before him and tentatively uttered, "Hi..."

The briefest twitch of a smile afflicted his lips, but his eyes were challenged by painful confusion. "Hey...um...thanks...for all of this...never exp...thank you."

"...Certainly...my pl...I was happy to help." She stared down a bit, dejection affecting her posture slightly. Then she nodded at him as cordially as she could and turned to leave.

"Don't have to go," Jerry said, halting her. She turned back around to face him again, an uneasy hope written on her face. He went on, "Sandy would have, uhh, wanted you here, I think."

"Do _you_ want me here, Jerry?"

"We can...talk about that after. For now, though, please come on in."

"...Okay..." And she did as he requested.

He watched her go in and thought to himself, what in God's name am I doing?

He welcomed a few more acquaintances into the hall and then it seemed as though he had gotten everyone in. Seeing that his greeting duties were completed, he coursed a hand through his hair and let out a deepened breath. Time to get the whole thing started. He began to whirl about when a figure rounded from out the corner of the hearse garage. Jerry eyed the figure, a man, and almost didn't recognize him—particularly with the additions of a mustache, beard, and near shoulder-length hair. And the sullen, penitent eyes he kept.

Nicolas Bernard Boss, he was; no longer the slicker-than-grease, ultra clean-cut, corporate barracuda he forcefully exuded a month and a half earlier.

He came to Jerry and stood in front of him yet kept a fair distance.

" _Nick_?" Jerry asked. Even more so than Sandy's family, Jerry couldn't have imagined Nick showing up for his wife's funeral.

"Hey Jer," Nick began in a friendly yet jittered tone, "Been a serious long time, huh?"

"Been a while, yeah."

"How've you been—God, stupid question, I'm sorry. My head's been a jumble lately."

Jerry's brow furled. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah...yeah, just been through the personal ringer lately...doing some soul searching and all that..."

Nodding a bit, Jerry said, "I see..."

"Maybe you have a little bit of an idea of what that's like."

"I'm familiar."

They both chuckled with an undercurrent of moroseness.

"You, uh, you mind if I join you guys?" Nick asked in earnest.

"Ummm...what's the password?"

"Drink all night."

"Nnn, so you remembered."

Another laughing bout, yet, this time, without the despair.

"Sure, man, come on in," Jerry entreated. And they walked in together.

As they did, Nick asked, "We're not actually seeing Sandy, right? I can't take the whole open casket—"

"No, no. Closed casket like she wanted."

"Ah, good...whew..."

As they walked into the front section of the service hall, Jerry unstuck the doors and closed them shut.

****

The service hall mirrored the structuring of a small church in practically every conceivable way. There was a walkway that bisected the two rows of seating benches (predominantly now filled with attendees) that led to a pulpit and a podium just beyond it. Resting solidly in the center of the pulpit was a stylish and polished wooden casket with its lid firmly sealed shut. If one were to open it, however, they would find the still body of Sandy Nesmith, preserved for the time being so as to facilitate the appropriateness of the event. As per Sandy's request, the lid would stay closed throughout the entire ceremony—and into her burial within the next few hours. At least one person in attendance was severely grateful for that.

Jerry stood at the podium and stared out at the crowd before him, they back at him. After thanking everyone for coming and honoring the memory of Sandy, he said, "Instead of, uh, me standing up here and saying a bunch of things, which I've never been too good at, I'm...going to go ahead and let Sandy, herself, do that sort of thing, if you don't mind too much." He then walked over to an audio/visual cart which featured a video disc player and pressed the play button on the machine. In the next instant, a large projection screen which had been framed against the wall behind Jerry and the podium flickered to bright life. Sandy's radiant (if slightly peaked) face appeared and signaled the start of the video message. Her long hair, which had recently turned ropish and oiled during her sicker hours, was now vibrant and pleasantly uniformed in the animate image.

Almost immediately she spoke. "Hey everyone—or as Mrs. Ying and I used to say to each other: ni hao." Mrs. Ying and her twenty-two-year-old son, Bao, were, in fact, in the crowd. Both smiled. Sandy continued. "Firstly, I would like to thank all of you for coming into my life and making it better than I thought it could be. When, uh...when I met my husband and we starting falling for each other, I had thought to myself—well, this is my family now, and not any more happy could either of us possibly be. And then we met all of you incredible souls and Jerry and I realized that we could have a bigger family. That we could trust others. Mrs. Kemper, Mr. Phillips, Mr. and Mrs. Jenner, Mrs. Ying, I hope you're all out there watching this or I'm gonna look kind of silly talking you guys up." She smiled.

And, indeed, all those Sandy mentioned were present, all smiling heartedly back at Sandy's image of five months past.

Sandy spoke on. "And if you're all here then I have a task for you, since you're our family and we are yours, something crucial to all of us, I think. I know that your lives are very busy, but if you could find the time, please be with Jerry for as long as he feels raw about all of this. Take him out and show him that there's still fun in life, that it's not so terrible and living does go on.

"And after a time, if you can get him to do it— _and be very persuasive_ —get him out there dating again. Find some bubbly and cute girl that shares his passions in life. But remember now, and this is also crucial," she warned mockingly, playfully, "not too cute. I should always the cutest and coolest girl he was ever involved with." Instantly after this decree, she breathed a devlish "tee-he-he" and grinned toothily.

A small ripple of restrained laughter ran through the crowd.

Sandy's visage composed itself. "...Well, I guess that's it except to say to my mother, father, and brother that I forgive you. For your prejudice, your ignorance, but mostly your arrogance. I may be already gone for you but you'll never be gone for me.

"And for my true family, the ones watching now, I guess the only thing I want to say is, take care everyone, and...I don't know, hopefully I'll see you one day. Be good." She waved and smiled with genuine sincerity despite a tiny blot of sadness tainting her eyes. "Bye for now."

Then the image cut out and was gone.

****

Several people who knew Sandy and thought fondly of her came up to podium to speak. Some of them laughed with bright eyes as they recounted treasured memories they shared with Sandy. Others were teary-eyed and almost hysteric in trying to get through their speeches of honoring tribute.

When the ceremony had concluded, everyone had driven their cars over to the cemetery four miles away. Once they were all gathered again, it was to encircle to the grave site for Sandy and her Oakwood coffin.

After she was lowered into the hollow and rectangularly welled grave, a minister graced the amassed with a speech that was well rehearsed and said with feeling. Not to be insulting to the man—because he was only doing his job—Jerry did his best to listen to the words that were being said. Yet his mind kept racing away to all that was said at the funeral home. All the words of extreme praise, love, and honor that the people (who all still surrounded him now) had revealed either in exuberance or with sobs. It was an eye-opening experience of a sorts in that some of the remembrances and stories were occurrences that he never knew of. And because he now was aware of these instances, it almost gave him the sense that he was there for them. It had the strange, though stunted, feeling that Sandy still existed within the waking world; she was alive and breathing.

The time that Sandy scaled a tree to nab Mrs. Jenner's Siamese cat and bring it down safely to the ground—even though the damned thing did not appreciate being handled one ounce—Jerry certainly knew that story. He had witnessed the resulting scratch lines of blood red all over Sandy's arms and shoulders. But he didn't know anything about the time she came into Mrs. Kemper's flower shop and verbally defended her friend's honor against a few of the town punks.

Three teenage boys had come into the shop looking for corsages for the homecoming dance or prom or something to that effect. But in the process, they thought it would be fun to let fly highly lewd and derogatory statements toward the elderly Kemper woman. In disgust, she told them to respect her and her shop—but naturally that only made the taunting more salacious and euphoric for the young devils.

Halfway through the embarrassing scene, Sandy walked in to say hi and encountered the boys spouting their expletives and crude hand gestures at the old woman. Aghast, Sandy launched into a tirade of her own and told the youths to get lost. They either ignored her or flipped her the middle finger. She had then proceeded to threaten them with pepper spray. As well as promising them that when they were screaming blind from the searing pain in their eyes, she would go through their wallets, find out what school they went to, and notify the administration—who would surefire notify their parents.

The three "hoodlums" as Mrs. Kemper described them had taken their time leaving the store, cursing and insulting the two women. But they _did_ leave. And Mrs. Kemper was eternally grateful to Sandy.

There were other stories, of course, that enlightened Jerry about Sandy's time with others, but it was Kemper's flower shop story that stuck with him the most. He had almost always known his wife to be a fairly unassuming type and not one for stark confrontational behavior. For a second, he considered that Mrs. Kemper might have made up the story or misremembered it. But then he dismissed the notion altogether and accepted the story outright as the truth. He knew Mrs. Kemper, and knew she was quite "with it" in her mind—not someone prone to gross exaggeration.

And he had, of course, seen some of that forceful nature in Sandy here and there over the years...even (and most notably, he agonizingly recalled) near her end when she barked at him to avoid at any cost being alone after her death.

Yet this more "colorful" aspect of her being was not what he admired most in his beloved wife. For him, it was her more subtle ways of influencing people, in talking up their strengths and confidences. In listening to them when times were either stellar or tragic. In trying to help in any way she could to keep the neighborhood a community experience.

They—everyone Jerry saw around him—had been altered as a result of Sandy's influence on their lives. As he gave an awkward glance at all of them (and noticed that most of them were eyeing him as well), he could see a little bit of Sandy in all of them. He could sense the betterment of their hearts and souls because of her. And knew that she had become a part of them.

Yet he also knew one unequivocal fact about Sandy's sphere of influence and love. That he had felt these things far above what any other possibly could. For Sandy, his wife and most revered and cherished partner in life, had saved him from himself. She had rescued his lost soul from a pit of aimlessness, from a life that had almost no value or purpose.

She had changed him, infinitely for the better. And he would undoubtedly never be the same again.

Chapter Thirty-four

When the funeral had ended and most of the attendees had left for lighter, less depressive activities, Jerry and Edna had agreed to find a place for lunch. Checking her phone, Edna found a highly rated diner for them to drive to and meet up. Once there, they were seated by the kindly waitress and allowed to order their beverages—iced tea for Edna, cola for Jerry. The waitress returned with their drinks then left them alone to decide their meal choices.

Both stared at their menus in hand yet Jerry was unfocused in solidly searching for the proper food selections. He appeared zoned out and disconnected. Edna had made a quick decision for a tuna melt when she looked up and noticed his frozen gaze, one that signaled he was far away in thought.

"Jerry," Edna tried.

Her voice jolted him out of his mental drudgery and he blinked as he focused on her.

"If you don't want to eat," Edna suggested delicately, "we can just sit here for a while with our drinks—"

"No, I'll order something," he announced but then looked downward, blinking.

She looked away, herself, feeling a burst of uncomfortability spill out to her whole being. She retrained her eyes to him. "Jerry, listen, I really want to apologize for that day. I was trying to...because my situation was the way it was at that point, I felt you were the only person I could reach out to...and you obviously weren't ready to have someone...you weren't ready for that so I do wanna say I'm sorry, okay?"

He pursed his lips as a frown shaped his face. Eventually, he explained, "It's not your...you didn't do anything. It was totally—it wasn't you."

"We don't have to talk about this—"

"No, we probably should or it's going to just rip me up."

" _Oh crap_ , Jerry, what is it? Are you sure it wasn't something I d—"

" _No_ , no, okay?"

"Does this have anything to do with why Sandy wanted to meet me? Did you... ever even find out why?"

Looking down again, he blew a long and mentally bracing breath. "Oh yeah...yeah, I found out..."

"Should I know? Honestly, if we're being straight with each other, I would really like to know because I wondered quite a bit about it."

His eyes blinked repeatedly, giving away his horrible uncomfortableness with the subject. The slightest quiver affected his lips. "She..." He began squirming in his physique. "...God, I can't do this, I can't do this—okay...she...she wanted to find out what kind of person you are. If you were...someone who had the...caring—God, I-I really am not doing this too well—how do you—?"

She reached over and gingerly rested her hand on his. In a soothing voice she said, "It's okay, whatever it is, you can tell me and I'm not going to freak out or fire you. Just...try to relax and just let it out, whatever it is, just tell me and we'll figure it out."

Deftly trying to find the words (along with his courage), he got out, "She wanted to know...if you were a very caring person, you know, big hearted and...that type of thing..." His blinking and lip quivering sped up. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of a very steep and towering cliff.

Edna's eyebrows formed a V over narrowed eyes. "Asss ssociological...curiosity? Or is it that your other boss is a total dirt bag or something—?"

"No, no..." Holy God, holy God...

"Well then what, honey? I'm afraid I'm not following—"

"She wanted to know if you would...if we..." And then he pushed his head forth slightly, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes with loaded intensity. Hoping so damn fervently that she got his meaning with these implicating gestures. _Please_ , he begged in his mind to her, _get my gist! I don't want to have to say it out loud for Godsakes!_

At first, her expression didn't change, for a full two seconds she just kept staring at him in total bafflement.

And then it finally clicked in her head.

And she sat back a bit, looking away with her own expanded eyes as she breathed, " _Ooohh_ ..." She looked back at him then away once more, repeating, "...Ooohh..." in an inflection signaling her absolute, full understanding of Sandy's intentions. And Jerry's emotional torture over the matter.

Now neither of them could look at each other.

For an interminable moment there was a pressing silence hanging awkwardly in the air between them.

Then she spoke.

"Well..." she began, still looking off, "...Jerry...I hope you don't...share her intentions, because I really have no desire to comfort you that way..."

It was as if a tightened, taught, and grinding mass in the core of his being had instantly unknotted and went slack, releasing a mountain of tension. His posture sunk a bit while a relieving breath hissed from his mouth. There was such relaxation in his eyes as he spouted, "Thank God...you have no idea how good it is to hear you s...not that you're not—I didn't mean to impl—"

She held up a hand in a kind manner to stop him. "I got what you meant, Jerry; relax, it's okay."

"...Okay," he replied and laughed breathily and nervously.

"Listen, Jerry, here's our deal...I am going to be there for you, as your employer and your friend. Hopefully, more as your friend, because I think friends are seriously what you need right now. So I'm here for that...if you want me to be."

For a second, he gazed indeterminately at nothing, silent, troubled wrinkles surrounding his eyes.

But then he fixed on her and blurted, "Yes, definitely, of course..." and another nervous and breathed laugh shot from his mouth. His eyes softened though they still held the darkened hues of long, wracking anxiety. "...Why would I have a problem with that?"

She shrugged and offered good-ribbingly, "Why would you?" and they both shared a small fit of laughter. After it ended, she put the serious face back out on display again—though this was clearly a false front. "But now I'm afraid that we have to address the other elephant in the room, Gerald."

His eyes shifted briefly under confusedly lowered brows. "That beinnng?"

"The hair," she announced without consideration for tact on the matter. "Now if I recall, you're only thirty-six, and you're going to allow this grey to stay in you're..." She stopped her self mid-sentence to bob her head forth, getting a better look at his head of hair. "...Oh, no, I guess it's actually white patches...either way, you're just a kid as far as I see it, and I'm recommending you get your butt to the store for some hair dye."

"What, I'm not Clooney enough for the peppered look?" he jokingly threw her way.

"You're telling me you _want_ to look older?" she asked with false alarm. "You wanna be like one of those pseudo-intellectuals who wears a smoking jacket and stands by the fireplace?"

"And discusses the market with his fellow brokers while we all raise our martinis to our uber-successes, _hell_ _yeah_ ," he mocked with gusto. She gutturalled a giggle and he joined in on it.

But as that died down, he turned to a seriousness on the matter. "...But yeah, I'm...going to keep it for a while..." He offered up pursed-lip version of a smile but his eyes gave out an odd mixture of sadness and satisfaction.

She thinned a smile of her own and nodded an approval of his decision as she said, "...Okay...now, are you ready to order something?"

He dipped his vision to the menu and said with a measure of actual enthusiasm, "Let's see what we got..."

Chapter Thirty-five

"Okay, so are you ready for this?"

Bill stood in the studio quite close in front of Gail; the two were a fair distance away from the main set. As always, crew activity (this time, show prep, not clean up procedures) was rushing about them.

Bill replied to Gail's entreat. "Yeah, okay, hit me with it."

"Okay, so this is how it happened, believe it or not. Now she has the gun cocked to her head and she just waiting for the sun to come up so she can see it one last time. And she is literally just about to _squeeze_ the trigger when she gets a knock at the window, startling the bejesus out of her. And it's this old lady, this old, sweet recluse who had a house out in the woods. Well, she taps on the window again and Tara finally decides to roll down the window and talk to her.

"The old lady asks her, 'Why would you want to do such a crazy thing?' and Tara's reply is, of course, 'None of your damn business.'"

Nodding knowlingly, Bill remarked, "That sounds like Tara."

"I know, right? So the old lady says right back, 'Well, I suppose you're right, but, you know, I have plenty of fixings for breakfast if you want to eat first. And then you can do your sweet bye and bye business.'"

Bill spit a disbelieving breath. "You're kidding me."

"No, this is true, this is true. So Tara decides, all right, screw it, one last good meal before my final bow.

"So they drive back to the old lady's house and have one of the most incredibly delicious meals that Tara's ever had. I mean the old bag can cook, right?

"So the meal's over and Tara surprisingly says thank you to the lady, and she, in turn, says, 'Wouldn't you stay just a bit longer? You see, I've been very lonely since my grand nephew skipped town with his smutty little girlfriend.' Apparently, the kid's girl had won some local lottery or something and figured he didn't need to mooch off the geriatric any longer.

"Anyway, Tara is so grateful for the sweet meal that she says to her, 'All right, I'll stay for a day. But that's it.' She figures she can always blow her brains out the next day, right? _Wrong_. She ends up staying with this lady for a solid three weeks. Long story short, the codger had wore Tara down and convinced her not to kill herself. Imagine that, she saved two lives in one swoop."

In confusion, Bill asked, "Who was the second?"

"Dan, of course. He was getting a bit suicidal himself. I mean I love and he does me right, but..." Gail rolled his eyes then shook his head slowly in annoyance. Bill laughed a touch.

"Anyway, Tara will be back soon," Gail revealed, "And she's agreed to speak at the AIDS benefit. You and Edna are coming to that, right, splitsville or no?"

"We'll be there. But you have to come to cancer on the thirtieth."

"Anything for the star of the show, baby."

Bill grinned. But then he averted his attention to far off. "...Hey, that Alvarez girl is still here," he commented with a false front of nonchalance. Trini was near the cables again, yet unraveling them this time around.

Gail followed Bill's gaze by a turn of the head. But soon he refocused back around to Bill's face. "The intern? I don't know, I guess she decided to stay on for a while longer to cover for "The Donald" who just up and quit last week. No call, no notice, nothing, just split...Well, I think we're about ready for the second round..."

"I'll be right there."

Gail nodded and walked off to head to the control room. Bill stayed where he was and kept surreptitiously looking Trini's way. But only for a moment longer.

****

In the parking lot of the studios, a brisk wind was kicking up the early evening air. Flipping up the collar of her coat, Trini braved a path to her car to prepare to leave, her studio tasks done. Bill casually pulled up in his own car on Trini's left. His passenger window was fully down so that he could openly call to her. "Trini, hi."

She turned to acknowledge him with her trademark coolness. "Oh, hi, Mr. Kirby."

"Long day for ya?"

"Sure, I guess. This is actually going to be my real last day so, might as well go out with a bang. Or whatever."

He nodded slowly, pursing his lips in a listless smile, averting his eyes briefly. "Well...if this is your actual last day...I guess I would want to say to you best of luck in wherever you land yourself in the future. A spirited kid like you would be welcomed in a lot of places. That's my feeling anyway."

"Thanks," she said and gave him a customary, officious smile. Then she turned back around to begin walking toward her car again.

Bill, somewhat hesitantly but forcefully bellowed, "You know, good judgment..." She halted to turn back and face him once more. He said on, "Good judgment dictates, of course, that you should never get into a car with total stranger. You're risking...perverts or psychos or cannibalistic cultists or..." He laughed with a twinge of nervousness. "...I don't know..."

"I've seen enough PSA's. I'd like to think I'm good on the whole thing." And she nodded absently a few times. Then went to turn again when—

—Bill announced, " _But_ , seeing as how you know me..."

Through the passenger window, Bill could see Trini eye him with a meaningful stare for a brief moment...then simply march directly toward his car, open the passenger door, get in smoothly and quickly, close the door with a slam, put on her seatbelt, shift twice in her seat for comfort...

...And turn to face Bill. To grin widely. Dimples galore.

Bill gazed upon her with generous hesitancy as he revealed to her, "You know, I think it's only fair to warn you...I have problems with impotency in the bedroom..."

She stared on him for a second more before shifting her eyes out the windshield. But her eyes didn't stop there as they darted mischievously all about. And as they did, she soon replied, "We'll see." And a tiny devilish grin crept upon her lips.

Suddenly, it was hard for Bill to catch his breath. His brows rose over blinking eyes. He attempted speech with, "Uh—Tommee's Coffee House?"

"Should you even ask?" she shot playfully at him as she turned her eyes whippingly back to his.

He shook his head in a miniscule but tight manner as if coming out of a daydream. "Right, silly me..." Then he faced forward out into the translucent sheen of the front windshield.

And muttered with a hint of trepidation mixed with anticipation, "...Here we go..."

Then they drove off together.

Chapter Thirty-six

The Arizona winds danced with Janine's hair, swaying the strands from side to side in gentle flight. She gazed leisurely out at the flowing, reflective lake before her as she stood at the start of a promenade. Leaning forth a bit, she rested her elbows on the white-painted wooden rail. Her hands were folded together. Her expression, particularly her eyes, revealed a longing, a lament for things that hadn't come to pass as she'd anticipated or hoped. Yet something else existed amongst the wanting in her troubled stare. A determination existed which sprung from her relocation from so many damning and oppressive factors in her life. A resolve to stay above the mental mud that had all but literally enveloped her as an adolescent. Paradoxically, being so far away from some of the things she held dearest motivated an independent solidarity within her being. She was becoming Janine Kirby, a stand alone entity, slowly but surely accepting the fact that she would likely never become Mrs. Janine Baker. Much as that still tore at her mind, body, and soul. Regardless, she was set on a course of personal strength and confidence regeneration. She would find her sure-footing again no matter how long it took—both professionally and otherwise.

At the moment, however, both of those end-roads appeared to be nowhere in sight.

She checked her watch: 4:34 pm. She would have to leave soon, Amber would be working late and would want dinner right as she got to their apartment. Janine had offered to cook all the dinner meals for the two of them, since Amber was the one working and Janine not. And Janine hadn't minded a bit for Amber, when both were teenagers in grade school, always cooked the tastiest dishes for the two of them. In point of fact, Janine got most of her recipes and cooking experience from what Amber had instructed her on.

And, of course, Janine was quite grateful that Amber had been so generous as to float Janine financially...at least for a certain amount of time. It was firmly agreed that Janine had to find something quite soon, which worried her considerably. There had been temporary assignments that she had picked up here and there—but they amounted to one or two day's worth of work at the most. Something more substantial would have to crack soon for her or she might find her treasured friendship with Amber to be in dire straits.

And Janine most definitely did not want to move back home. Perhaps when she was on more solid ground emotionally and financially, she might consider visiting California again. But she knew that wouldn't be transpiring anytime soon.

From the parking lot thirty feet away and Janine's peripheral vision, a man approached her. Too lost in her own warring thoughts, she ignored the fact that this man was coming closer toward her backside. Someone who she, ironically, would recognize clearly at even the slightest of side views the eye would allow. But again, she was not focused on the closing figure, absently assuming he was a sightseer heading out to whatever distance the promenade would give. Just another troubled and conflicted soul wanting of some solace and centered direction in life.

She was right about the troubled part. But he was by no means just another person. Not to her.

"Somebody get me a camera," said the man as he eased to a halt a few feet away from Janine.

She whipped about, startled not only because she was unexpectant of being spoken to, but because of whom was speaking.

Charlie Baker.

" _Charlie_ ..." she got out in her stunned and electrified state. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

"Your mom and Amber helped me out. I hope you won't be mad at them, I explained that I wasn't attempting any hidden agenda by seeing you."

"No, it's fine," she began with widened yet blinking eyes, "it's just—I never expected to see you here..."

"And yet it's happening," he jovially quipped, briefly spreading his arms out to his sides, palms out.

She stared at him frozen for a second more, then launched herself at him for a hug, blurting, "Well hey!"

"Yeah! Come here," he said and they embraced tightly for a moment.

And in that moment they both had a flash in their minds of what could have been for them.

But then it was over and they slipped from each other's grasp.

"Well you just look terrific," Charlie regarded her with vigor.

"Thanks, you look amazing, of course."

He waved a hand absently, saying, "Naaaah, getting old and rickety—"

"Stop it, oh my God, come on," she chided him, smiling. "You're still 'spring in your step' enough to date, if I recall."

"Here and there, nothing serious. Not really ready for the whole 'real relationship' thing—how 'bout you? Any young graphic artisty types caught your eye?"  
"I went out on one date because Amber had a friend come into town," Janine announced with not much enthusiasm. "But as he was only in town for a week..."

"Right. Well, you never know."

Almost matter-of-factly, she slipped in, "And then there's the fact that I'm still in love with you and all."

As if discussing a news issue of the day, Charlie concurred, "Ah, there is that problem for the both of us..." he put a slight grimace to his face complimented by pursed lips, "Sort of puts a damper on either of us fully moving on, doesn't it?"

She pursed her own lips and nodded emphatically. "Yyyyeaaah..."

And then they both grinned at each other, almost laughing. But their eyes were stricken with a restrained sadness. Neither of them was interested in totally breaking down; enough of that had occurred in the first few months of their break-up. First the break-up then the breakdown, Charlie had, at one point, morosely joked to himself at the heights of his depression over losing Janine.

"So, still no permanent work yet, huh?" Charlie asked with genuine regret.

"Nooo," she replied in a down tone, "just the temp gigs like I'm guessing my mother told you. Like I told you about three months ago."

"I'm so sorry to hear that, I wish there was something I could do for you."

"Can you teach me real estate?"

"In a day, sure!"

And they both smiled again but with serious eyes.

Janine asked, "So you only have a day here, is that what you're saying?"  
"Yeah, I've got meetings up the wazoo tomorrow, so I've gotta go back tonight."

"Mm...Well, do you wanna go to the store with me? I've gotta get groceries for tonight's dinner—you're having dinner with us, right?"  
"Sure, yeah, I'll help if you want in making it. What're we making?"

"Casserole."

"Casserole," he repeated with gusto, "very good, then."

"It's gonna be, I guarantee it," she added with determined eyes. "But we better get going 'cause Amber gets home at seven."

They started off together for their cars. Charlie said, "You'll have to lead, of course, you know where the store is and all."

"I should hope so after six months!" she joked.

"Hey, this is your territory now."

****

That night, Janine, Charlie, and Amber had dinner together and talked about old times and current ones. At one point, Amber commented from a general perspective that things never stay the same—which flickered a moment of despair for both Janine and Charlie. The two, however, were loathed to reveal their turn of feelings openly so they suffered individually in secrecy. Regardless, the night was predominantly an upbeat affair and the formation of new camaraderie had taken place—particularly with Amber and Charlie who shared similar interests in music and food.

Soon, however, it came time for Charlie to drive himself to the airport for his flight home. Janine offered to follow him there and see him off and Charlie felt relieved (as he, himself, was just about to suggest she accompany him).

Once at the check-in stations inside the airport, they offered each other fond and meaningful goodbyes with the obvious promises to keep in touch whenever possible. But neither felt it was necessary to avoid the fact that the night had went too well, so they gave into their feelings and held each other firmly. And with all the love that they clearly still had for each other, they drew their lips together and let their frantic tongues take it from there.

Hating himself for checking his watch, he noticed that time was pressing on him to go. So they let go of each other, not with tears but with smiles.

The next day, after Janine had put in another round of resume and application dispersal to various businesses, she returned to the lake and its view from the promenade. Despondency still had its play within her mind's workings, yet a new understanding of herself became clearer. That her determination to become a singularly defined person had not been just a delusion brought on by good intentions. She indeed _was_ handling herself better regarding her impasse with Charlie; she was not crumbling under the weight of his presence or absence.

In a strange sense, she realized, the two things—her feelings of loss and the pride of self— had married into each other and were slowly but surely giving birth to something new and electrifying. Exactly what that new presence of her being would become, however, she was still uncertain. But she had great ambitions to find out.

###

