All Come to Look for America

2006...

The street looked pretty much the same, he thought. He scanned the small shops before the honk from the SUV behind him brought him out of his reverie and he accelerated the Jaguar and found a place to park.

If you come looking for America - this was one place to find it, Jim Driscoll thought as he pulled himself out of the driving seat and stretched. He wouldn't have done, once but...

He was still thin, his long legs still made him look a bit awkward. Now, though, he felt his lower back creak and grinned to himself ruefully; well it had been near enough 40 years since he'd been here; a lot of things had changed. He ran his hands through his thinning brown hair and grinned philosophically again. A lot of things - and not just hair and fashions. A wife had come and now had gone, children had come and grown and now were phone calls and Christmas cards away.

Yes, even Carmel-by-the-Sea had changed, like everywhere else had changed, despite trying to hold back the tide. The chains were threatening to oust the family businesses, people wore high heels now without permission from the city he was sure - but still... To him it looked like it had back in '67. That made him feel better; it was what he'd come to find. He flicked the central locking on the car and went wandering in the early afternoon Californian sun, wandering into nostalgia, into a rose tinted past...

1967...

He laughed when Steve came out of the convenience store and shook his head. He was supposed just to buy some fast food for them but Jim took the sunglasses Steve had bought, whose frames where in the shape of stars, and tried them on, looking through the rose tinted glass.

"Nice," said Steve, "You should keep them on." He took a bite from the hotdog he'd bought and Jim ate his and then fired up the VW van. He was a bit worried by the knocking from the cam shaft but he thought the old lady could get them down San Francisco - it was only another 80 miles to Haight-Ashbury. He didn't keep the glasses on.

As they ran down the highway Steve pulled a bottle of cheap red wine from the brown bag from the store. Jim rolled his eyes and Steve laughed, not having to say about his friend's worrywort mentality coming out again, even though he wore the hippy regalia.

"What?" said Steve, opening the wine and taking a swig from the bottle. He enjoyed goading Jim sometimes to make him act like the geeky student his Mom and Dad had wanted him to remain.

"Nuttin," said Jim; Steve didn't speak knowing that Jim would have to.

"It's just - well, we're short of bread, y'know?"

"I traded our bread for wine, it's a spiritual thing." Steve laughed and slipped lower in his seat and sipped more wine, offering it to Jim who sighed, checked the rear view for cops and took the bottle. He smiled and grinned then looked over at Steve who pulled a pill from the pocket of his neon green vest.

"Hey man, don't get stoned now!" Steve laughed again and swallowed the pill with the wine. Jim shook his head; Steve had started calling himself Dean over the last couple of hundred miles.

"Don't worry about the bread, Jack," Steve said, slipping into his Kerouac fantasy. "We can get a job -" he waved his hand vaguely, "picking apples."

Jim looked over to his friend and laughed. "This is June, man."

"Whatever," said Dean/Steve, getting very interested in the fabric of his jeans all of a sudden.

Jim shook his head and drove.

They were 20 miles from San Francisco and Steve had retired to the back to sleep and Jim spotted four people and various musical instruments by the bus stop. He looked over and saw her, sitting barefoot on the guitar case. She waved at him and blew him a kiss.

He stopped to pick up the band. Flower Soup. He made sure she got the front seat.

This is an open thread, though you need to go to the OOC before contributing! It's at:

waiting my turn...

2.

1967...

"Groovy. How far you goin' man?" she asked him, laughing as she climbed into the front seat of the brightly painted minibus, the three guys piling into the back through the sliding panel door.

"San Francisco."

"Karma," she stated solemnly, nodding her head as if that could be the only explanation for his stopping to pick them up.

Jim took his first good look at her as she pulled back the sheer, gauzy expanse of her skirt and propped her ring-spangled feet up on the dash. The dark, puffy nipples of her small breasts were visible through her peasant blouse; pointing at him accusingly as he broke his stare. She laughed again, lifting it defiantly to give him a better look. "You like?"

He turned away quickly, embarrassed that she had noticed where his eyes had wandered, and eased the psychedellic caravan back out onto the road, grateful for the momentary distraction from... "You guys. You're a band?" He said awkwardly, swallowing his objection and suddenly feeling about thirteen years old.

"Flower Soup," she replied, laughing again and gesturing toward the labelled guitar cases in the back. "Eight, Kestrel and Thorn," she added, offhandedly and he glanced back in the rearview as they nodded and murmured, holding up their fingers in the universal sign of peace. "And you?"

"Jim," he replied after considering what it was she was asking. "Jim Driscoll. And my friend is... Dean." Jim didn't know why he hadn't used Steve's real name. Somehow he felt as though he needed to impress her after offering his own quotidian moniker.

"Magellan."

"What?"

A sweet/acrid scent, not unlike burning rope, filled the van as someone lit up a joint. She clapped her hands in delight, reaching back, her fingers wriggling impatiently for someone to pass it to her. Taking a deep drag, she held it and then exhaled, blowing the daydreamy haze in his direction as she leaned over.

She smelled of patchouli and sandalwood, earthy and exotic, and it made him even more dizzy than the heady smoke that permeated the bus. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her combing her fingers through her long, blonde hair that she sat on, like a silken pillowcase, her clear blue eyes fastened almost disconcertingly on him.

"Your name."

"What?" Jesus! He was beginning to sound like a pre-pubescent, pimply faced kid or a...

"Hundred watt light bulb," she chirruped as he blushed, laughing again, though there was no trace of meanheartedness in it.

"Magellan. Your name is... " She held the joint up to his lips and he inhaled, choking as the harsh smoke entered his lungs. She steadied the wheel while he recovered, explaining simply that Magellan had been a navigator and the first person to circle the earth. "One day," she added pointing skyward, "we're gonna be up there. A giant love-in. Saturn or Pluto or having cheese and wine with the Man in the Moon."

"Thanks," he finally managed, not wanting to interrupt the sound of her voice. It was mellifluous and her laugh bright and sunshiney, like lead crystal or birds singing. Jim, now suddenly dubbed Magellan, was entranced.

"It's all cool," she replied, her fingertips tracing the line of his jaw. "They call me Amaranth."

He quoted Milton's Paradise Lost without a second thought as she pulled a pen and a composition book from her shoulder bag and began to scribble:

"Immortal amarant, a flower which once
In paradise, fast by the tree of life,
Began to bloom; but soon for man's offence
To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows,
And flowers aloft, shading the fount of life,
And where the river of bliss through midst of heaven
Rolls o'er elysian flowers her amber stream:
With these that never fade the spirits elect
Bind their resplendent locks."

1967

Let's go to San Francisco,
Where the flowers grow
So very high
Sunshine in San Francisco
Makes your mind grow up to the sky...

The VW crawled along Haight and came to a stop near a place Amaranth pointed to. It had a crumbling facade, on the steps of which sat people clad in peasant outfits, some wore approximations of togas. There were people wearing bells around their necks, beads and flowers.

Amaranth went over to a thin white man with tattoos of eagle's feathers down his arm. They kissed for a long time and Jim sighed and busied himself helping the band unload their gear from his van. Dean was already in conversation with a tall guy who Jim heard say his name was Merlin and he was offering a lesson in acid tripping to his friend.

Voices surrounded Jim, friendly voices and he found himself inside the house in a kitchen where the power still hadn't been turned off by the landlord and food was cooking. A blond woman Who called herself Aphrodite was talking to him he realised, saying something about vegetarianism.

He had lost sight of Amaranth but was surrounded by people who made him welcome.

"Cool van," said a young man with the sproutings of a beard. "What they call you man?"

Jim was about to reply when he smiled and said, "Magellen."

The man doing the cooking poured something onto a plate; Jim never really found out what was in it but it was palatable enough despite its appearance and didn't seem to contain any drugs.

Later, there was nother room, filled with candlelight and incense and Kestrel took up an acoustic guitar and began to play the songs that were cutting through time, opening up life as it had never been lived.

Jim lay back and let a woman pour wine into a jar that they shared and drank from. He kissed her lips as he was aware of other music starting and a hand sliding into his hair. He opened his eyes, the candle light's soft glow filling the room and he saw Amaranth's face. She reached over and took the jar and drank some wine before lying beside him her head on his chest listening to the music.

He was floating then, on some sort of magic carpet and he wanted to tell her a tale from the Arabian Nights but instead his lips touched hers and he felt her hand slide down between his legs.

He did his light bulb impression again but this time she didn't see it but felt him wriggling in embarrassment.

"What's the matter," he could hear the giggle in her voice as her lips played on his earlobe, then her tongue in his ear.

"Not here," he said, lamely, not loking around at the other couples who had begun to do it "there." The guitar played on, voices sang.

"Over here then," she whispered and moved towards the corner of the room, "I want to hear the music while..." she kissed his neck. He reached down to the peasant blouse and lifted it over her head; she sat back on her thighs and let the soft light flicker over her.

""You like?" She said it again as she put her arms around his neck and laced her fingers together there, her eyes on his before he bent to her shoulder, moving in closer to her. His hands slid up her sides, over her ribs as his mouth slipped down to her small breasts and sought out the hardening dark peaks of her nipples.

Around the room now soft cries and moans added to the music that still played across the bodies that grew close, made love. He no longer cared where they were, she was here, he was here, that was all that mattered. Clothing fell away and nudity was natural. His mouth was on her skin wetting her belly as he slid down her, tasting her as he kissed every inch of her as they listened to the music.

His tongue playing on her clit and her moans, in time with the song and with the more insistant beat of a bodrhan someone was accompanying Kestrel with, filled their corner of the room. As she spasmed, her hands running in his hair he moved up over her. She clawed at his pale skin, at his ass as she welcomed him with her open legs as he slipped inside her and she exhaled through gritted teeth and pushed her hips up to him.

She moved sinuously under him, accomodating the thrusts that kept time with the music. He felt her body moving too, moving with him as his mouth again lapped her small firm breasts and then went to her own mouth to plunge his tongue in her. She could feel him moving faster and harder as she heard the sounds of sex from around them. His fingers clawed against her arm and her waist as he pressed close and she felt the heat of his seed filling her, felt him panting against her breasts as she again came, more slowly, more deeply.

She pulled him into her heart right there.

2006

Jim walked along the neat streets of Carmel-by-the-Sea. He smiled to himself as he looked down to the recently rainwashed sidewalk, remembering Amaranth, the month in San Francisco with her, the band, the summer of love. He was glad to have been there, glad to be able to give her a lift back home, here, when she got news her grandmother wasn't well.

It was odd what you remembered, he mused, thinking of when they had just met and he slipped into geek mode and quoted Milton and how she had scribbled down the words. As they got to know each other over the days that followed she told him she was going to UCLA after the summer. "Maybe English Lit," she shrugged and he smiled telling her he was going to Princeton to do engineering. She scrunched up her nose at the thought until he told her his dreams of making spaceships.

He remembered how she had sketched the old houses on Haight in that book and he had scribbled down fragments of beat poetry he had remembered and how they'd written their own poems.

Different coasts, different lives. He looked around - somewhere near here he had dropped her off. He gave her his address, she gave him hers. They kissed and he watched her head off towards a conservative looking sedan that had stopped to meet her. She looked around and waved and smiled, a flower, a yellow one, still in her hair.

He never saw her again.

****

The bookshop made him grin; synchronicity, he thought as he looked at the faded psychedelic paint.
Reincarnation, Second Hand Books, the hand written sign said. He walked in and his grin grew bigger at the smell of incense on the air and the sound of sitar music on a CD. He wandered through the rickety shelving looking at the rows of paperbacks with well used spines and yellowing pages. No one seemed to be there; he thought it was fitting - some old, trusting hippy owner - not even a CCTV camera in sight to spot anyone making off with the stock.

He looked up to the wall near the counter and spied a photoframe. Inside was a photocopy of a page from a writing journal, with two poems written in different hands and a heart drawn in red crayon and the letters A and M inside it.

4.

She took care of her gran until she finally passed away eight months later. As for Magellan, well they wrote for a while. Their letters came and went, bits and snatches of news and poetry and silly little drawings that eventually grew fewer and fewer and further and further apart as their magical summer in San Francisco faded into white, and soon, became just a memory.

Missing her first semester at UCLA, she opted to start the following year, 1968. By then she was back to being Sarah Jane Bridger though in her heart of hearts she would always be Amaranth, a flower which once in paradise, fast by the tree of life, began to bloom.

She got married in '69, and he got called up in '70. SSG Robert F. Scherdin, USSF. He never came home but she still wears the bracelet with his name on it.

Funny how people do things like that -- clinging to tattered remnants of their past as if to keep it alive somehow. Like notebooks, with flowers pressed between the yellowed pages. There were nearly sixty of them now, lined up chronologically from first to last on shelves above her desk.

Every now and then she would take one down and open it, remembering the times and the places that inspired her to write in them. Memories. Photographs and memories.

2006...

She was standing behind the glass bead curtain that separated the inner office from the store itself when he walked in, immediately backing away so that he wouldn't see her. She wasn't young and thin anymore, but he had aged nicely, she thought. Still handsome as ever.

If she ever doubted that he would remember her, that thought quickly faded as he ran his fingers along the edge of the picture frame.

"For those who come to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there

If you come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there"

Amaranth sang softly as she stepped through the glass bead curtain that had suddenly become a portal from the past leading to their now. "Hello, Magellan. Long time."

The End
or is it just déjà vu -- all over again?​

He supposed it could have been worse, but dammit, why out here in this god forsaken dust bowl? He pulled a jagged piece of metal out of the tire and the remaining air hissed out of it He barely resisted the temptation to kick the bike into the ditch he had parked beside. The tire plug kit was at the bottom of his saddlebag, he remembered. A bead of sweat formed on the side of his head under the hot Oklahoma sun. There was just enough breeze to stir up the dust and plaster it into the sweat that was rapidly forming in the heat. He cursed under his breath and kicked at the dirt. Even if he plugged the tire, he didn't have any compressed air to fill it back up with. The only thing more miserable than pushing a motorcycle in this heat, he reckoned, was pushing one with a flat tire.

"A can of that fix-a-flat shit would be nice." He muttered to noone in particular. He scanned the horizon with his one good eye. The terrain was flat as a pancake, and he saw nothing but a ramshackle trailer about a quarter mile away. Probably abandoned, from the looks of it. He muttered a few more curses and sat sidesaddle on the seat of the bike, contemplating his predicament. "Stuck in the fuckin' desert- again" He muttered. He shook his head at the irony of it all.

His last visit to a desert had ended badly, almost a year ago. For the thousandth time in that year, the scene replayed in his head.

Four man stack, lined up against the wall as pretty as you please, just like they had been trained. Army Sergeant Lorenzo Durham had peeked around the corner to the right, and assessed the situation. There were targets down that street. He ducked pack in and flipped out the small pocket mirror that he used to see around corners. He counted five or six insurgents manning fighting positions along both sides of the street. He began relaying their positions and plan of attack to the men behind him. The trail of the four man stack was his SAW gunner, a big burly kid from Detroit. The SAW was a Squad Automatic Weapon, and 'Motown' was skilled in its use. He began telling Motown where to bring the gun to bear once the stack rounded the corner. Motown listened, and in the moment where his attention was on the fireteam leader instead of the left flank, an insurgent popped up in a window and fired the RPG at them. The rocket started its track across the street at the same time Motown cut him down with the SAW, but it was too late. The grenade hit the wall just infront of Durham, sending shrapnel and shards of cinderblock ripping into him. His vest helped a little, bit his right shoulder was wrecked, as was most of the right side of his face and head. Two of the other squad members were hurt as well, one by Durham's Kevlar Helmet smashing into his face.

A total of eleven surguries, four on his shoulder, the rest on his face and head followed. The Army surgeons in Germany and at Walter Reed had more or less pieced his face together, but the scars were horrific. They couldn't save the eye. The ocular implant they made for him was okay, but since the orbital socket had been mostly destroyed, it remained fixed straight ahead. He preferred the patch to the realistic looking glass eye that stared sightlessly straight ahead. His right arm moved slowly and was atrophied a bit from disuse. His shoulder didn't really work quite right, so he had learned to be a lefty. His jaw hurt most of the time, and the skin of the right side of his face remained mottled and disfigured.

The first time his ex-wife had seen him without the bandages, he knew from the look in her eyes it was over. Her family had money, and when her father had offered him six figures to fade away quietly and not make the divorce messy, and worse, public, he took it. Upon his discharge from the Army, he bought a bike, pointed it down the road, and headed for points unknown. He had been riding for almost three months now. His disability, along with the money his ex-father-in-law had given him, might serve as a ay to get his shit together someplace.

Where he was going, he had no idea. but this shithole in the middle of the Oklahoma dust bowl sure wasn't it. He had thought about the mountains, or the coast, or maybe even Alaska. Wherever he was supposed to be, he decided, spitting into the dust beside the bike, it damn sure wasn't here.

Off in the distance, he spotted movement by the lone structure in sight. There was a person by the trailer. Man or woman, he didn't see...Woman, probably, since it looked like she was hanging laundry on a clothesline. Perhaps there was a phone there he could use to call a flatbed, haul the bike into whatever served as a town around here and get the tire fixed. He thought for a moment, then shoved himself off the bike and began walking toward the trailer in the distance.

It was a woman, he saw drawing closer. She had seen him, too, by the looks of it. She went into the trailer, and emerged a few minutes later with a shotgun which she leaned against one of the poles that held the clothesline. Pausing to look at him for a moment, as if to say, "You can keep coming, if you want, but I dare you to do something stupid." then urned back to hanging the clothes on the line. Durham maintained a slow easy gait, keeping his hnds in sight. The girl kept looking at him, more and more frequently as he drew closer.

He walked up to where a square of rocks ringed what may have passed for a yard, had there been any grass. He paused outside this defined space and crossed his arms and waited for whatever response she was going to make to his approach. She stoicly ignored him as he looked the place over.

He was heartened to see a beat up pickup truck parked next to the trailer, and behind that a Motorcycle parked under a few sheets of corrugated aluminum perched atop four poles. Perhaps there was a sympathetic biker living here, he mused. He waited until she finished hanging her clothes and picked up the shotgun.

He stepped over the row of stones and held up his hnds as if to show he meant no harm. The second his boot hit the ground, the shotgun flicked up slightly in is direction. He stopped, and brought the other foot alonside the first and tried his best to smile, turning slightly so his left side was toward her, hoping to obscure the disfigured right side of his face, at least for now. "I'm 'Zo Durham. I got a flat, and I was wondering if maybe I could borrow your phone?"

2.

"Don't take another step!" Cait tightened her grip on the shotgun, her hand shook slightly with its weight, and her finger trembled over the trigger. As the wind blew her brown hair fluttered at her back. She stood still as the wind ruffled her skirt against her thigh.

She had seen the bike speed by just minutes ago headed for some far off place, but then just as quickly it had stopped. At first she hadn't been worried, but then she saw his head turn her way. She had thought it best to get the shotgun out for protection, lucky for her Jack had forgotten it behind in his haste to leave. You just never knew what a person was capable of these days, especially when that person was a man.

It had been Cait's unfortunate experience to learn that no man could or should ever be trusted. First her daddy had cut out on her and her mama for another woman. Then when her mother had been stupid enough to take on another, he did nothing but drive a wedge between them. It had been about six odd years since they had last spoken. And then there was Jack. Sweet smooth talking Jack, with eyes as blue as the clear skies above. From the moment she had laid eyes on him he had stolen her breath away. But she had learned the hard way about giving too much of herself and expecting him to do the same. He'd left her high and dry in the goddamned Oklahoma desert, as soon as some new adventure had called to him.

The sound of the earth shuffling beneath his feet snapped Cait out of her reverie. She looked him over, trying to decide just what it was he was after. She didnt believe that "I got a flat" story of his for one second. He was turned away from her so she couldn't get a good look at his face. But she saw the way his lips quivered as he smiled, and she didnt like it, not one bit. Just what I need, she thought to herself, another drifter looking for trouble.

"I dont have a phone and I'm not looking for any trouble. So I suggest you get back on your bike and keep riding." she kept the shotgun steady as she spoke.

"Ma'am, I swear I don't mean you any harm. I just need to get my bike fixed."

There was sincerity in his words she realized but she been burned too many times before to pay it any mind.

"Well you picked quite a spot to get a flat, next town is about two miles off. I suggest you get a head start pushing that bike of yours, if you wanna make it there before night fall."

With that she turned and walked inside the trailer shutting the door behind her. Hopefully he'd get the point and leave her in peace. Peeking outside through the small window, she saw that he hadn't moved. He just stood there, like he was rooted to that spot, looking at the trailer as though he expected her to come back out. Goddamn it, why wont he just leave, Cait thought furiously. After a few minutes she stormed outside, the keys to her truck in hand.

"Can't you take a hint? Fine, you win! I'll drive you into town, there's a garage where you can get your tire patched up."

Scowling in his direction, she walked around the truck and climbed inside.

"Well ... are you coming?" she yelled to him. He still hadn't moved an inch from where he was standing.

Slowly he walked towards the truck and got in beside her. Starting the old pickup she sped onto the roadway pulling up next to his bike. She sat quietly as he got out to load it onto the tray, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. As he turned the bike around, she caught a glimpse of the right side of his face. The disfigured planes of his face did little to ease her discomfort. Atfer all she was a woman, all alone in the middle of nowhere, helping a stranger was not exactly wise of her. Worse still with that patch over his eye he looked like some sort of pirate of the open road. She chuckled at the mental image. He looks harmless enough, she thought to herself, and besides if he were gonna try anything he'd have done it already. She waited until he had settled next to her again before driving off.

The heat of the afternoon sun was merciless. It seeemed every inch of her was covered in perspiration plastering the thin material of her t-shirt to her skin. They drove in without speaking for quite some time, unable to bear the unending silence any longer she spoke.

"So what kinda name is 'Zo anyway?"

He glanced over at her, blinking as though in shock.

"Excuse me?" he said.

She turned her head to him briefly "You said your name was 'Zo, is that short for something?"

"Lorenzo" was all he said before looking out the window again. "And you? Whats your name?"

"I'm Cait. Caitlyn Monroe" she took one hand from the steering wheel and extended it to him.

He looked at her hand for a minute before shaking it briefly.

"Pleasure to meet you ma'am and thank you again" he said more out of necessity than genuine feeling she sensed.

As they drew closer to town Cait felt herself grow tense all over. She hated coming here unless it was absolutely necessary. She couldnt stand the constant stares and whispers she'd hear as she walked past. She hated it almost as much as she hated the constant heat and desolation. She pulled up in front of Harper's garage and hopped out of the truck.

"Hey Harper!!!" she yelled "I got you a customer."

As the portly gray-haired man came out front Cait quickly explained the situation and left 'Zo to fend for himself. She decided since she was already there she might as well pick up some basic supplies. When she did return, more than 2 and a half hours had passed and the light in the sky was beginning to turn to dusk. She walked slowly back to her truck and saw that 'Zo was still there tightening the bolts on his tire. As the evening shadows began to fall, she wondered where he was headed next.

"Hey there, looks like you got everything all sorted out" she said

He looked up at her then stood and straightened "Yep sure did."

"Just out of curiosity, where are you gonna stay tonight? I mean it's not safe for you to ride in the dark."

"Dont know" he shrugged " Didn't figure I'd still be in this part of the state tonight."

She looked at him and considered for a second. He had probably been riding all day he must be tired, not to mention hungry , a man his size must be famished by now. She sighed, her heart going out to him, no matter how much she tired she just couldnt be a cold-hearted bitch. She'd been raised better than that, she knew what her daddy would say. It was always better to lend a helping hand than to turn your back on someone in need, especially when that someone was a weary traveler.

"Know what, you can spend the night at my place. I mean its small, but it's better than nothing, right?"

She watched as surprise and confusion clouded his eyes. She must seem crazy, one minute she had him staring down the barrel of a shotgun and the next she was offering him a place to stay for the night.

"Look I'm offering you a hot meal and a warm place to sleep. What have you got to lose?" she asked.

He hesitated, searching her face.

"If you're sure you wouldnt mind, I'd be most grateful."

It was nightfall when they finally arrived back at her humble trailer. As they pulled in, the headlights of the truck illuminated her classic motorcycle.

"Nice bike you got there" he murmured

"Thanks, it was my Dad's, only thing he ever gave me before he left." she said as she got out and walked to the door.

Stepping aside to let him pass, she gestured for him to come in.

"It's not much, I know, but its a place to rest my head." she said. "Sit down, I'll fix us something to eat."

His eyes swept over the scantily furnished living space. He sat down heavily on the fade out sofa, glad to be off his feet. He watched her move swiftly about, she was uncomfortable no doubt at having him there. He saw they way she eyed him warily, and couldn't fault her for her cautiousness. He wondered what had made her open her home to him.Trying to break some of the tension he spoke.

"You said that bike was your dad's?"

"Yep, he taught me to ride when I was twelve."

"So where is he?" he asked hoping to make small talk.

"He walked out on me and my mom when I was sixteen." she said forcing a smile to her lips as she walked over to him. Handing him a bowl of thick beef soup, she sat down next to him.

She smiled as he shifted uncomfortably obviously not knowing what to say.

"It's alright. You couldn't have known" she said. "He left a note saying it was the only thing in the world that meant almost as much as I did to him and he thought I should have it, haven't seen him since."

"And your mom?" He didnt know why he asked, but for some strange reason he wanted to know more about her. Putting a spoonful of soup to his lips, he sighed as the warm liquid slid down his throat.

"Last I heard she was in Florida, we dont speak much" She said watching him as he ate.

"So you're pretty much on your own out here." he frowned at the thought, even though he was pretty sure she could handle herself.

"What about a boyfriend?"

For a second she considered lying to him, but what was the sense in that she thought.

"He's gone." she said flatly.

"Let's just say I'm used to being on my own. I learned to depend on myself a long time ago, it's better that way." she smiled bitterly.

She tried her best to keep the emotion out of her voice. She didn't want to admit to the pain she had felt over the years. Eventually everybody leaves, and in the end you have is yourself, she sighed inwardly. For the life of her she couldnt understand why she was tellling him all this, she barely knew him.

"What about you?" she said quietly. "I hope you don't mind my asking but ... how'd it happen?" she asked her eyes flickering briefly to the scars that covered most of the right side of his face.

He had wondered how long it would be before she got up the courage to ask him that very question. He watched the subtle play of emotions that crossed her face as he shared the memory of that god forsaken day.

"Damn." she said expelling a harsh breath "Tough break."

"Yeah I'd say" he chuckled mirthlessly. Suddenly no longer hungry he set the bowl aside.

"And that ... ?" she asked softly nodding towards the pale band of flesh around his finger on his left hand.

"Oh that" he looked down at his hand, she saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. His fingers rubbed absently at the ring of light skin.

"She couldn't take it, asked me to walk away." And he had, no questions asked.

Suddenly, acting on pure impluse she leaned over and brushed her lips against his. Cait couldn't explain why she did it, maybe it was the hurt she heard in his voice. A hurt that could only have come from knowing the woman he had once vowed his life to had left him when he needed her most. Or maybe it was because she was lonely. It had been more than two years since she had been with a man. Two years since Jack had left her without so much as a backward glance. Two years of craving to be touched, like he was touching her now.

Cait shivered as she pressed her lips against his softly. The fact that they were strangers didn't matter. All that mattered for now was the moment, and in this moment Cait needed him. By morning he'd be gone, and she'd be alone again.

Cait was shifting gears faster than Lorenzo could comprehend. He tenatively brought his hands to ther sides as she gently kissed the scars on his cheek, then enveloped his lips in a tender, almost sorrowful kiss. Other than the ministrations of the medical personnel he had endured for the past few months, he had not enjoyed the bliss of human contact since before he had been deployed. Something in him wanted to yeild control, match her passions, and take her right then and there. In his mind's eye, he saw them coupling almost violently on the floor of the trailer. But he willed himself to remain as still as possible, gradually flattening his hands along her flank, thenn gently pulling her onto his lap. The couch beneath them creaked loudly, threatening to collapse under them. After a long moment, she broke the kiss, and stared into his one good eye. She cradled his head in her hands, the thumb of her left hand gently stroking the uneven ridges and valleys of his face.

He held her gaze, almost afraid that if he looked away, she would take that as a sign that he couldn't be trusted, lump him into the same class of man that she had been cursed with before. He was keenly aware that he had only one eye to return her look with, and this was the first time he had ever been at such close quarters with someone since he had last been with his ex-wife, before he had gone to war. Her eyes had been an almost colorless blue, where Cait's were brown. He searched them for some hint as to what to do next. She provided the answer, standing up and peeling her t-shirt up over her head. Zo sucked in a quivering breath as he gazed up at her, remaining almost motionless except for lifting his arms as she removed his as well, which she deposited on the floor next to hers. silently, she took him by the hand, and led him into the small chamber that served as her bedroom. Without another word between them, they undressed between slow lingering kisses, then twined together, igniting fires both had thought long gone and far out of reach.

Long into the night, they held each other, an unspoken agreement formed between them that enough pain had been endured, enough hurt had been felt. A kinship of heartbreak and bad luck blooming into a sort of mutual trust. Each sensed that the other had been on the recieving end of a raw deal, and would not lightly pass that kind of pain on. At first, he had been almost afraid to touch her, as though she was a mirage that would evaporate into the desert air. He touched, and kissed, and tasted her, his fingers gently spreading her lips to explore the wetness between, slowly dipping a finger into her, captuing her breath with his kiss as she trembled at his touch. He too, was unacustomed to being intimate, and gasped as she wrapped her slender fingers around his shaft, guiding him into her. The absitinence each had endured led to an almost immediate climax for both of them, powerful and heartfelt, after which they collapsed side by side, her head on his chest. Zo could feel her tears, hot on his chest. One rolled down the side of his head as well. For a moment, both retreated into their own private places, quietly purging their minds of the past, daring to succumb to the comfort of the moment. After their breathing had returned to normal, Cait shifted her body, at first intending only to be closer to him, then gliding up and over onto him, straddling him, and again, they were as one.

After their third bout of passionate coupling, as Zo lay on his stomach, Cait traced the scars on his shoulder and back with her fingertips, she asked, "Where are you headed from here?"

"Dunno, exactly. Maybe Colorado, Maybe Montanna. I'll know it when I see it. Someplace where there's not a lot of people, where life is slow enough that I can start getting my shit together. Someplace green, with woods and maybe a lake or a river or something." He shrugged. "I guess I want to build a place of my own. Clear some land, start over. Someplace that doesn't look like this...I've seen enough brown to last me a life time."

"Alone?" Cait bit her lip, realizing full well that with that single query she had left herself more open and vulnerable to him than when she had lay beneath him just moments before.

Lorenzo sighed, then rolled to his side, facing her, and took her hand and guided it to the wrecked side of his face. "I didn't really think it was realistic to think anyone else would be coming along for the ride."

"Just about as realistic as any thinking someone would hang around this dump." Caitlyn rolled over, facing away from him, and listened to the wind blowing outside, and to the sound of his breathing as it slowed, then deepened. Her tears silently ran down her face, and soaked into the pillow. Sleep overtook her too, but it was long in coming.

4.

Morning had come all too soon for Cait's taste. She lay on her side watching the steady rise and fall of Lorenzo's chest. The memory of the night before still fresh in her mind. It had been nothing short of amazing, every sigh and sweet caress filled her senses. She sighed heavily, lightly brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. It didn't make sense to think of all that now, in a few hours he'd be gone, and her life would be back to the way it was. For now she'd let him sleep. He looked so at peace she didnt have the heart to wake him. She could only imagine when last he had slept so deeply. She sat up and eased herself out of bed. Draping her robe over her shoulders, she quietly made her way outside. As the the soft morning light spilled into the trailer, Cait looked around in disgust. Her eyes scornfully scanned the small space, she hated this place, this way of life. Never would she have thought that this was where she would end up. Living from day to day in abject squalor. The only thing that was worth a damn, was her bike. A classic 1947 Indian Chief, with smooth rounded lines that ran like a dream. She had spared no expense in having it restored to it's former glory, and it had been worth every penny. Riding her bike provided her with the last true taste of freedom and abandon she could she could ever hope to feel. That was until she had lain in Zo's arms last night. Once again she shoved the thought from her mind, not wanting to succumb to the inexplicable need she felt growing within.

Cait quietly went about preparing breakfast. Lorenzo would be up soon no doubt, she might as well send him off with a hot meal. As though he had heard her thoughts, Zo appeared in the doorway of her bedroom. He looked absolutely rugged, his chest still bare, his pants hanging low on his hips.

"Mornin'..." he said his voice heavy with sleep.

It took her awhile to realize her had spoken. Dragging her eyes from him, Cait set a plate filled with eggs and bacon on the table and motioned for him to sit.

"Morning. Did you sleep well?" she asked sitting opposite him.

"Mmmhmmm" he yawned, stretching deeply. "How 'bout you?" he asked, though he didn't have to, the dark circles under her bloodshot eyes spoke volumes.

Cait merely shrugged her shoulders in response. She watched him in silence as he ate.

"You must be excited." she said after some time. He looked at her slightly puzzled. "To be starting over I mean." she explained.

"Feels good to have a second chance." he smiled "It's all anybody ever needs."

"I wish..." She longed to ask if she could go with him, make a new life for herself. She just couldn't bring herself to say the words. She clung tightly to the last thread of her dignity.

"I wish you the best, Lorenzo. Wherever life takes you." She reached across the table to lightly stroke his cheek. She didn't see the scars anymore, just the man. They said nothing more to each other after that. There was not much they could say to each other, despite the bond they both knew they shared. After he had eaten and washed up, Lorenzo gathered his things and headed outside. Cait thought it best not to follow him, she couldn't bear to see him pull away. She closed her eyes as she heard the engine of his bike roar to life. As he pulled away, the sound of his motor fading into the distance, a single tear slid down her cheek. She wiped furiously at her cheek. Get a hold of yourself, she scolded herself inwardly, you're better off alone. That's what she had always said before, but then why did the thought of never seeing him again broke her heart.

She stood unmoving in the tiny living area,feeling more alone than she ever had before. What was she doing, she wondered. Was she really going to let this man slip through her fingers, all because of her stupid pride and wounded heart. Not this time, she decided even as she hurried to throw on a pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt. She scrambled out of the trailer, starting up her bike. As the mechanical beast between her legs whirred to life she felt a sense of calm and purpose wash over her. She sped off in search of Lorenzo. She knew it was a risk, to open herself up to someone again. But it was a risk she was willing to take this time. Maybe they could start over together. She looked at the trailer in the mirror as she rode ahead, she knew that no matter what happened she wouldn't be coming back. There was nothing here for her anymore, everything she needed lay ahead. She gunned the motor and sped forward. She knew these roads better than anyone. If she hurried she just might be able to catch up with Zo at the county border. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted him, a flash of black and chrome glistening in the morning sun.

"Lorenzo!" she yelled desperately above the deafening roar of the motor. It was useless, he couldn't hear her. There was only one way to get him to stop. Cait took a deep breath as she sped forward. Suddenly she veered left, cutting sharply across Lorenzo's path, forcing him to stop. Taking off her helmet she tossed her hair to the side. For a moment they looked at each other, both breathing heavily. His gaze searched her face, and finally Cait spoke.

"You said maybe Montana right? Big sky country?" she rushed, her breathing still ragged.

"Sounds nice" her lips quivered into a smile, "I'm coming with you." her voice hopeful.

Zo didn't say a word, he just sat there staring at her. As though he were unable to believe what he had just heard.

"Please..." she whispered, afraid that his silence meant rejection.

He smiled then, a soft smile that lit up his eyes, and tugged at Cait's heart.

"I was hoping you'd say that." he said softly.

Cait's heart swelled with joy.She quickly dismounted her bike and rushed to Zo's side. Throwing her arms around his neck, she pressed her lips to his. As his arm slipped up her back and tightened possessively, she sighed blissfully, knowing their adventure was just barely beginning.

Big River - 1959 - Post 1

Below him, the dark water moved sluggishly. Just the sight of the ugly brown surface brought a number of old adages to mind. Ignore "Grandfather of Rivers". Stick with "The Big Muddy". Or "Too shallow to swim, too deep to ford, too fluid to farm, too thick to drink". A mile wide as a loose role of thumb, and thousands of miles from headwater to the Mississippi Delta. America's lifeline for more than two centuries. A reminder of times far more primeval, the last evidence of an ice age that had formed not only the wilds of Canada, but the rolling farmlands of the American Midwest. The single largest ongoing project by the Army Corps of Engineers. Hated during dry seasons for the speed with which it narrowed and shallowed, feared during the wet seasons for the way it could rise beyond the loosely defined banks and spill into the lands where people lived, it was loved only during the small mid-season, yet used constantly.

The experience was more than just the water itself. The sun managed to reflect off of the water, creating a second wave of heat for someone down close to the surface. Numerous bugs were evident, enjoying the bounty offered by the water. The water itself had a smell, the odd fertility of soil combined with dead fish and what plant life survived in the environment. Life along the river, despite technological advancements and the advancement of time, had changed very little since pioneers and immigrants had started establishing communities in the area. To sit and watch the water slide along was to step back into the writings of Mark Twain.

Numerous types of craft flitted about on the water. Fishing boats were always around, ranging from low two man skiffs to craft seemingly more suitable for open ocean expeditions. Sports boats, whether designed for water skiing groups, or for speeding the length and breadth of the water at reckless levels, were everywhere. More sedate private craft, slow open sided tour boats, or blocky houseboats, were evident, whether prowling along the shallows, or tied in the endless number of marinas and docks that dotted the river. More fundamental vessels also plied the waters, massive barge assemblies of individual cargo units lashed together and propelled by a single pusher unit in order to move anything from grain to tractors to beer between any two points along the way, or the flashier craft that sported the flags and emblems of government agencies - support boats from the Department of Natural Resources or the Coast Guard, making sure that life was maintained carefully in the gray area of the river's fuzzy lines of authority.

The trip was an informal tour of some of America's least known places of great importance. St. Paul - home to mills and factories that churned out huge amounts of the nation's most mundane needs, as well as destination for so many immigrants. Galena - primarily an artist's community and tourist haven, historical home to one of the nation's greatest generals and presidents. Davenport - another riverport known for equal parts manufacturing industry and religious tourism, actually part of four communities grouped neatly together. Hannibal and St. Louis - the most romanticized section of the river, famous whether you were seeking the simplicity of Mark Twain's writings, or the challenge of the Gateway to the West. Even further south would come the somewhat darker sections, those made famous for their roles in other industries or from the war of over a century before. Memphis and Vicksburg - sites of lengthy battles that reclaimed the river for the Union. Baton Rouge and New Orleans - seemingly exotic communities of food, mysticism, taboo indulgences, and music, as well as poverty and corruption of levels hardly believable in any other section of the country. And, connecting it all along the length of the river was a series of ingenious locks and levees designed to assist with the capricious spirit of the water - lifting and lowering the water traffic between various water levels along the way, keeping the excessive waters from washing out onto the sections laughingly known as "land". Communities along the river had learned to adjust to it's surprises - some were built into the upper bluffs of the river, allowing room to retreat if the water rose, others simply built up, placing the buildings on massive stilts, creating the illusion of groupings of Baba Yaga houses during the dry seasons.

The craft he rode on - the Mud Skipper - fit into the tourist sector - a more modern riverboat than the numerous revamped paddlewheelers of romantic design, this vessel normally carried people from more landlocked sections of the country. Her captain was a bent little man of indeterminate years, more comfortable with worn utilitarian clothes and completing his journeys safely than shiny uniforms and flashy jumps to touristy locales. He charged a seemingly low fare, offered simple food and lodgings, and spent his off time entertaining the passengers with stories and songs. He was unabashedly in charge, happily telling those that offered advice exactly where they could go as he took his bearings with an odd single-eyed glance through his binoculars. He had spent his life working the river, and it's secrets and unusual ways were his to know and use. The hidden shoals and twists posed no surprise to him, and he could spot the signs of a submerged log or a sandbar with a skill that confounded those ignorant of the river's true manner.

Rory had secured passage on the Mud Skipper with no more idea of where he was going than he'd had about his last several choices. He had some money, quite a bit, actually, but his work ethic demanded that he maintain a job. If only he could find one that was.. rewarding. The delivery driver position for the ice supply house. (He'd left that after six weeks, suddenly realizing that keeping a time table simply to guarantee that water stayed frozen wasn't a long term career.) The lake mail delivery job on Lake Geneva. (It had been fun, but it was only a summer job, it hadn't paid enough to keep him in beer, and the routine of "jump off of a boat onto a wet dock, neatly place the mail in the mailbox, run along the wet dock, jump back onto the moving boat" for six days a week, all summer long was really for kids.) The brief stint at the iron mine. (He'd been hoping to get to use some of the massive equipment - the cranes, the trucks, even perhaps the sluice system. Instead, he'd been handed a shovel.) The rigger's job at the tent and awning company. (Sure he got to travel and see people and places, but who needed large tents these days? The circus, which offered only sporadic work, and churches, which tended to demand that the day help stay for the sermons and revivals.) The resort gig up in Door County. (Sure, the money had been good. Door County drew a summer crowd of affluence from the cities, all with a desire to give their families a summer of fishing and swimming in Wisconsin's unspoiled "frontier". But the magic of a weekly fishboil quickly dissolved away, especially after repeatedly having to explain that getting the fish head was considered lucky.) The installation position with the home siding company. (He still didn't know why he had taken that one. He knew why he left, though. Not one person who had worked there for more than a year sported all of their fingers in original condition.) The harvester job, a rather nomadic job, crossing the heartland with a group of similar workers, a convoy of dilapidated flatbed trucks and massive dusty orange combines moving from farming community to farming community, following the grain as it ripened.

That last job had been different. More than the constant change of scene. More than getting to handle a large piece of angry farm equipment, crossing an open field of waving plant life, ripping the stalks from the fertile earth and separating what would feed people from what would be returned to the earth. More than rising before dawn to make sure his equipment was prepped for the day, shutting down the hot engine well after the sun had gone down. More than getting paid at the end of a month by a sullen foreman and a tired farmer checking your work record from a worn ledger, and counting off bills from a massive roll. More than spending Sundays listening to the farmers that had rarely finished college argue agronomy, meteorology, chemistry, forestry, and theology with equal parts zeal and knowledge.

There had been her. Lisa. Lisa Campbell. The daughter of one of those farmers that he'd been working for. One of those unusual women that stood out in the farming communities, where most women considered anything beyond maintaining a house, church work, hair styling, or working in the local diner to be of "questionable character". A woman of fierce Scotch-Irish heritage (Rory still wondered where the term had come from. It seemed less indicative of rustic British background, and more of drunken barfly. His mind kept pushing at Scottish and Irish, or simply British Island.), with a nature both independent and mercurial. She could easily have worn the top fashions from the big cities, but seemed far more comfortable in old shirts and worn blue jeans. Where women in these towns had their coffee meetings and afternoon teas (laced perhaps with a dash of something from one of the state liquor stores), she'd been known to kick back on her porch with a bottle of beer, waving to the cars and trucks that passed. And, when the dealerships in the town were showing off the latest sedan or station wagon for the lady of the house, she'd been proving that she could put a farm truck through it's paces. She didn't seem to be part of this life, beyond the fact that she lived there. Her family had money, but she'd never commented upon it. She'd shown that she had completed many of the expected home economics courses and church groups of her area, but nothing about them seemed to be an overwhelming influence upon her life. If anything, she seemed to be searching for something in her life as much as he was.

Maybe that was what had drawn them together. His group had gotten a seasonal county contract, basically putting their vehicles at the call of all the farmers in the county. A bit less money over the long run, but it did mean not having to move every night or so, following a camp arrangement like some modern "Hell On Wheels". The time frame was fairly tight, as the job relied upon the cycle of nature, but many of these farmers were following a crop rotation cycle, keeping the land from being depleted by changing out what was or wasn't grown on the land year to year. It also meant that he would be working with a multitude of grains - corn, rye, wheat, oats, beans. Farms in the area were models of efficiency and compromise with the lay of the land. Further south, farmers had made use of big equipment to flatten the prairies, but the rolling hills up in this section of the country meant that man made allowances. Almost all of the farms here had some degree of angle to them, and crops shared space with roving livestock. It was a mix of the romantic and efficient, old world dedicaton combined with pragmatism. Most directions in the morning had included something like "Take this county road the corner with the "Big Chief" sign, turn left, drive four miles, turn right on gravel, drive two miles to white house with red silo, all tractors Allis Chalmers, beware of dogs.", a system he had gotten used to after a bit. They had been quartered in an old railroad hotel, with their vehicles stored at an elevator nearby. The sheriff's deputy had introduced himself five minutes after they had checked in. The local radio station had announced their arrival. Two different church wives groups had brought food over. ("There are three types of people in this county, dear. Catholics, Lutherans, and drunken infidels.") The explorations of the town had taken about an hour, and that included most of the residential section. He'd been heading down to the grocery store to get some food for carrying in the cab during the day when he'd seen her.

No beehive hair, no pony tail, no pastel barrettes. Just long black hair flowing as she walked. No make-up applied with all the skill of a stone mason. A hint of tan, a smattering of sun freckles. No fancy jewelry or pastel polyester fashion. A set of purely functional and durable clothes more appropriate to most of the farmers he'd dealt with. (Although he couldn't remember a farmer filling them out quite like that...) And, in place of either the vapid, schoolgirl evasive giggle from behind a hand, or the cold appraising stare that was meant to dig out your deepest sin and force you to announce it in front of God and everybody, there was simply a look that connected directly with his eyes, a moment in which his gaze was locked into her her green eyes. She struck him as older than the usual crop of as-yet unmarried girls so common to these towns, but her hand didn't show evidence of a ring.

And then she was gone. Around a corner, and gone. He'd found himself taking a moment to shake his head and reorient himself.

He'd seen her again a couple of days later, when he had been assigned the task of hauling the latest load of grain in to the elevator. Four tractors, each pulling two wagons of grain, moving down the road at a blistering twelve miles an hour. In order to guarantee that the credit for the grain was given to the proper farmer, an escort was sent along that knew not only the safest way to the elevator, but could also confirm the fields of origin and the workers at the elevator. As Rory's tractor had idled in line, his group's escort had parked and disembarked, ready to go sign the receipt.

It was her. The same hair, the same eyes, the same walk. She'd barely looked about as she ran into the office, but he'd recognized her, and wondered of her relationship to the barrel-shaped man that owned the fields he was working.

He finished off-loading the grain, a nasty task that involved him in the hopper, grain scoop shoving at the golden nodules of grain, his legs bent to balance himself against the current as the wagon emptied itself. Once the wagons were both finished, he moved his tractor ahead, and moved back to assist the others in his group. By the time he was finished, sweat plastered his hair and shirt down, his bandana was coated with the dust that it was working to keep from his lungs, and he had to pause to pull his boots off one at a time, to empty out the last several kernels that had tried to find the soft flesh of his feet. He'd been in the awkward position of trying to resettle his boot when she'd reappeared, waving slightly to him as she ran back to the truck. There had been something there, a challenge, perhaps. Without a word, she cranked the old truck's engine over, and pulled out of the lot, heading back to the farm, obviously trusting the workers to either follow her at speed, or know their way back.

It had been that way for a week. She'd appear near where he was working, assisting with the harvest in some way, then disappear without a word. He'd found himself becoming intrigued, but didn't want to risk angering anyone by seeming to be overly infatuated with a local woman, especially if he was only a bit of seasonal help. While his contract didn't sport a moralities clause, it did speak of respecting not only the farmers they were working for, but also the communities. If she was a daughter of one of these farmers, then he'd best be careful. It wasn't like he was planning on staying, and she seemed comfortable with her life here. A brief encounter might be one thing in the big cities, but here in the Bible belt, risking a family's anger by possibly ruining the reputation of one of their daughters was pretty much considered a form of suicide.

It all changed at the end of the week. Like all farm communities, there was a bar thinly disguised as as a veteran's association. (For some unknown reason in these areas, putting an American flag above a beer cooler made it invisible to the local church groups.) It had taken several of the workers in his group about ten minutes to sniff it out, and they had managed to congregate there after they had finished for the night on Saturday. Rory had been sitting at the end of the bar, high-backed plastic gold stool shifted to allow him to hear the radio (one of those more powerful stations that could crank out the music after sundown, launching music not normally heard in these parts into the high atmosphere.), when she'd walked in. Without a glance around, she'd moved to the seat next to his, tossed her money on the bar, and accepted a cold bottle of Hamm's in return. They sat for a bit, not acknowledging each other, but not really ignoring each other either. Finally, Rory had screwed up a bit of courage, and introduced himself. She'd nodded, taken a sip from her bottle, and fixed him with another of those looks.

"So, Rory Dewitt, is this a common thing with you? Come into town, start getting some work, and spend your off time staring at the local ladies?"

"I wasn't aware that I'd been staring at the ladies." He finished his own bottle, and dropped it neatly onto the bar. "I thought I'd only been staring at one." In truth, he was running on pure impulse, never one to normally have this much calm when faced by both a beautiful, and forward, woman. Normally by now he'd have been stumbling over a glib line, or just working on another drink.

"You should be careful. In this town, people notice these things. You could get yourself a nasty reputation that way." She smiled, and he found himself wondering about her intentions.

"Okay, so how do I go about keeping myself from a nasty reputation?" He hated how awkward it sounded, but being chatty was hardly a skill with him.

"It depends upon what you really want." She offered another smile, then drank down the rest of her beer. "If you were to really want to get to know me better, I'd recommend that you find religion." Stepping off of the stool, she reached into her hip pocket, and withdrew a folded piece of paper. Without another word, she dropped that on the bar by her empty bottle, and walked out, never looking back. Rory waited for a moment, then picked up the paper, unfolding it one handed. It was a flyer for a church social the next afternoon. The highlight listed would be an old fashioned basket sale. Rory dimly remembered something about these affairs, a way for the singles of the community to socialize under somewhat controlled conditions, as well as raise some money for the church. A potential suitor could bid on a picnic basket from one of the ladies in the congregation. The winner would then not only learn about her cooking skills, but also have the option to introduce himself to her family when he came by to return her basket to her.

Perfectly innocent. Sure. And at the bottom of the flyer were a pair of drawings, one of a basket of somewhat unusual design (complete with minor notes added to indicate color, size, and the types of hasp and hinges), and the other of a strip of what he assumed was cloth (again, with notes about colors and pattern).

The next day he had dug his most decent looking clothes out of the bottom of his bag, shaken them out enough to make them presentable, then gone to the social. He'd introduced himself to several of the matrons running the affair, made some non-commital remarks about his religious background, and kept an eye on the table with the gathering box lunches. By the time the scheduled potluck meal was underway, he'd spotted the basket that matched the description, and managed to keep up his lines of conversation with two local couples. The women wanted to talk about the church and the joys of the town, the men wanted to talk weather, war, and the world beyond the county.

Finally the auction began, and he could concentrate on the real purpose here. He threw in a couple of bids on baskets obviously under heavy interest, but carefully bowed out of them before he really risked winning them. The basket he'd been looking for finally came up, and he was grateful to only have one other interested party bidding against him, but that guy dropped out fairly quickly. With a poker face he hadn't been aware he had, he went up to collect his prize, then settled back to watch for her. He finally caught a brief glimpse of her in the church kitchen, working on the dishwashing detail.

The lunch itself in the pack was decent enough farm fare - not exactly restaurant quality, but far better than some meals he'd gotten in farm towns. A couple of sandwiches (chopped ham salad), some pickled vegetables, hard boiled eggs, a peach (where up here had she gotten a peach, especially at this time of year?), and a couple of rhubarb bars. And, best of all, under the handkerchief at the bottom of the basket was a carefully placed note, starting with "Lisa Campbell" and a rural route address, and ending with a list of driving directions. He recognized it after some mental searching as across the road from the farm with the barrel shaped man, and he smiled.

Luckily, his work assignment the next day was in that area, and he arranged to have his lunch break close to her place. With a calm he didn't truly feel, he parked the tractor in her driveway, and walked up to the porch. His rap on the door was met by the appearance of the barrel shaped man, who was finally to be seen without his grimy shapeless cap, revealing a well-tended flat top haircut. A quick introduction gave him the name of "Merlyn Campbell" and the knowledge that the man worked with his hands, and could likely crack walnuts with just those hands. As he explained his business, Lisa appeared, that smile on her face. With a calm demeanor, she accepted her basket back, and thanked him perfunctorily. "See, dad? He's proving that he's a gentleman, and an honest one. Now go finish your lunch. I'm not reheating that cornbread."

Thus began one of the strangest times in his life. Once Merlyn had proven his concern over his daughter's safety, and Rory had jumped through the couple of hoops necessary to prove that he wasn't just another drifter, the father simply seemed to disappear. These two lived apart, but were obviously still firmly aware of the value of family. The primary concern had been to make sure that he was aware that she did have a protector of sorts, then she was left alone to deal with her own life. Merlyn explained briefly that she was old enough to live out of his house, and was smart enough to take care of herself. But, should Rory decide to do something stupid, such as injure her, he should be firmly aware that Merlyn would be pleased to call down all the thunder of God to deal with him.

It wasn't really a courtship. They had a couple dates in town, then she showed up one night at the hotel, and offered him a bit more comfort in his living conditions. He moved his few belongings out to her place, concerned at first about how his co-workers might take it, but they seemed to pretty much ignore the situation. If nothing else, it meant one less person waiting for the shower, the sink, or the laundry.

He'd spent the first night in the guest room, enjoying the feel of a mattress that hadn't been used by untold numbers of transient visitors, as well as real sheets that were meant to show respect for a visitor.

The second night she'd slipped into the room as he was shutting the lights out. He'd been surprised to realize that she was in there with him, and started to ask about it when she silenced him with a single finger across the lips. "Sometimes a farm girl has to take the initiative." A slight shift of her footing, a turn to press herself against him, and he was aware that she was quite nude. After a moment of some experimental fumbling, she pressed his hands to her breasts, and whispered a simple request to him.

"I'd really prefer that you come to my bed. Somehow it feels wrong to do this in the guest bed."

The lovemaking had been something wonderful. In turns, it could be slow and passionate, or frantic and energetic. It wasn't simply the couplings of lust, but the explorations of something deeper between them. There was nothing about it that reminded him of his own early encounters, instead it had a suggestion, a trust. After the first week of their affair, they had found a common ground in their sexual needs and likes, and had established their own set of limits and wants. There were no spoken requests or instructions, but a language just for themselves. A kiss could suggest a change of position, a touch would speak of a change of pacing. And the bed was not simply a place of lovemaking. Once they were comfortable with each other's sleep habits, it was a place of comfort. Falling asleep spooning together was wonderful, but they had no trouble dealing with each other's little foibles. They discovered that each snored, although quite differently, and both took turns being blanket hogs.

It was wonderful.

If anyone knew for sure what they were doing, no one let on. Farming communities had their share of busy-bodies, but they also had a quiet code of honor about themselves. It was simply accepted that they were enjoying each other's company, and the conversations ended there. They spent their time together where they felt like, whether in town, or at the house. It was equally comfortable to visit the businesses in town together as it was to simply sit on the porch and wave silently to passing cars.

Of course, the unspoken parts had issues also. The end of harvest was starting to loom in the near future. Rory was spending more hours in the field, crawling back to her house more eager for a bath and bed than for a sexual tryst. Several pieces of the group's equipment were being packed away for return to the storage facilities, no longer needed as the crops they were specific to were completely removed from the area. The foremen were putting up notices about off-season work, as well as making more hints about "come next year..". The hints of the seasonal changes were more evident as the sun made obvious changes to it's cycle, and the more delicate plants started showing signs of pushing into dormancy.

And Lisa started showing changes also. Her meals became a bit more elaborate. She experimented a bit with her hair. The various mail order catalogs were found opened to more fashionable clothing. She began asking him about his likes in food, in places to live, in entertainment, even about his youth. She asked about family. Not just about his immediate family, but his extended family, his relatives that he only saw at the largest reunions and ceremonies. She asked about his ambitions and education. And she asked about his opinion of this very community. He recognized the signs. They had moved past comfortable arrangement, and were heading straight into a relationship.

It scared the hell out of him. It was unknown territory for him, and he made a frantic, fearful decision. As soon as the last tractor and combine were loaded, as soon as the last payment was handed out, as soon as the last of the good-byes were exchanged among the work crew, he packed up and ran. He ran from Lisa and her vision of family, he ran from Merlyn and his promise of doing critical damage to the bones of any man that hurt his little girl, he ran from the collection of small town mentalities. He ran from himself.

The work group's bus had taken him out of the county, a train had taken him to Minneapolis, and a bit of searching had eventually found the Mud Skipper. The vessel was on a slow trip to the Delta, and the change of scenery had initially been helpful. There was no hurry, no nagging concerns, and no written record of him leaving the city. He had time to sit back, and think about what he wanted to do with his future.

Not that it helped. He'd never had great luck in deciding upon a career for himself, he didn't have a plan in mind about what he really wanted to do now. Then the dreams had started.

He'd shrugged the first one off to nerves. It had been a quick series of images, almost incomprehensible. Memories misfiring as his mind tried to make sense of his problems. The second one had been more intelligible, but still fragmented. Then they became actual dreams - stories played out in his head by those dark crawling creations within him. The house. The old truck. The barn with the numerous farm implements. The berry patch in the back yard.

Lisa.

Lisa in various clothes, flitting into his view in various activities. Driving the truck. Moving livestock across the field. Laughing at one of his jokes. Talking to her father. Napping on the couch. Reading a book. Curled up next to him, snoring as he brushed her hair back. Talking on the phone. Whispering to him as they made love.

He finally gave in and went asking for suggestions. The old captain of the Mud Skipper shook his head, and smiled in an understanding manner. "Only one thing to do, I'm afraid." He went to the river map on the wall, and traced a finger down it's length for a bit. "Memphis. We'll be stopping over there shortly. I'm sure you can find a return run. Maybe one of the barges, maybe a sternwheeler. I'll look around for you. Should be a few old cronies of mine that owe me a favor or three."

Big River -- 1959--- Post 2

“Excuse me, but are you the Dock Master?” Lisa asked politely. The grizzled man turned with impatience, a clipboard in his hand and a unlit cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, lady, whatcha want?” he growled his response to the black haired woman standing in front of the counter of his tiny office. He had been working on the dock his entire life and his gnarled fingers showed the hard labor found on the dock. When the arthritis got so bad he couldn’t hold onto a rope, he had retired into this position, one that didn’t settle well with a man whose life had been spent on the river, not next to it. While it wasn’t his or anyone’s fault that didn’t change the course of his life, one that had become more irritating now that his dearly departed Hilda was gone, God rest her soul. He suspected Hilda wouldn’t have appreciated the way his behavior had become but since she wasn’t here to fuss at him about his behavior or his late night drinking, then who was Samuel Hubbard to fuss about his own behavior. Watching the girl take a deep breath, he was suddenly reminded of Hilda when she was about to do something she wasn’t sure she really wanted to do, the memory softened his pale blue eyes and he walked to the counter and put down the clipboard.

“All right, Missy, what is it you don’t want to ask me?”

Lisa started. How had he known of her inner struggle? For weeks now, well actually nine weeks and two days, her mind had been at war with her heart. He had been gone now for ten weeks and for five of those days she had tried to convince herself that she was fine, that she had expected him to go, that it was the best thing for both of them. On the sixth day, her heart had kicked in and the battle had raged ever since. What hurt was the way he left, as if they had nothing to say or discuss. He just left one morning before she was awake. At first she had assumed he had gone into work one more day although he had been mentioning for the past week that guys were starting to leave the area for the southern farms, where the growing season went past the first week of October. She knew that meant he would leave soon, but somehow, during the summer her heart had convinced her brain that he was different, that he cared enough to stay. When he didn’t show by bedtime, she knew he was gone. All day she had avoided looking in the closet or bureau because she didn’t want proof that he had left without a word. It was such a typical male thing to do, but she had thought that Rory Dewitt was different than the typical male. Foolish her.

Realizing that she hadn’t answered the man, she took another deep breath and let it out slowly. Sliding her tongue over her bottom lip nervously, she inquired, “If a person, a man, was looking for a job downriver, would this person, this man, would he come to you or would he ask one of the captains of the boats directly?” Her green eyes looked directly into the man’s eyes as she waited, almost holding her breath.

“Well, Missy, it could go either way. A body could ask here but if he was awantin’ to find a job downriver, as you say, well then, he would probably ask the captains directly. I knows about the jobs hereabouts, but restricted as I am to this here land, I wouldn’t know about the downriver jobs.”

Lisa nodded her head. She had been afraid it would be too simple to just walk down to the docks and find out where Rory had gone. Thanking the man for his help, she left the small shack and went to the end of the dock. Ships and boats of all sizes, what looked like hundreds of them, were coming and going or tied up to the wooden posts holding up the pier. How would she ever find someone that might have talked to Rory and would know where he had gone? It seemed impossible. Noticing a small bench a short walk away, she headed for it, she needed to think, to organize a plan.

Brushing off the bench with her gloved hand, Lisa brushed her hand over the back of her traveling skirt, before setting the small case down next to the bench as she sat. When she left her house she knew this might be more of a task than she hoped. She had made the decision two nights ago, sitting in the rocker on her front porch, listening to her mind and heart going at it again. After several “Go” and “Don’t go” discussions, she had finally clapped her hands over her ears as if that would stop the voices that were slowly driving her crazy with their constant arguing. The debate had been tilting toward the ‘Don’t go” side for most of October and half of November. But it was when she woke up one morning and dashed to the commode throwing up last night’s dinner, that she finally decided that she was going to stay home and move on with her life. It was ridiculous that any man, a man that hadn’t cared to stick around, should have such an affect on her that she had missed her last monthly and was now sick to her stomach. Enough was enough.

So Lisa had done what she always did when things didn’t go her way, she got up, got dressed and went out to the garden to gather up the last of the tomatoes and corn before the nights got much colder and ruined the plants. Lisa had been born in the farmhouse where her Pop still lived and, although she had moved into her own house when she turned 20, they were still fairly close. She worked his fields from spring to summer and he paid her just like he would any other worker, giving her enough money to support herself through the winter with the help of the vegetables she canned and sold on consignment at the general store in town. Working the garden brought her a sense of calm, allowed her to think and plan, as she dug at the weeds. Lisa had always been a planner and after her mother had died when she was twelve, her life had been one plan after another. Planning Pop’s meals, helping him plan the rotation of crops, planning on canning vegetables for the extra pin money, planning on living her life, her way. At first she and Pop had come to some serious arguments when she said she wanted to move out, that she needed more space, some breathing room. Pop wasn’t stupid, he knew she meant she wanted boys to be able to come over, but she explained her plan was to move into the old Simpson place just across the road and that he was welcome to come by anytime, and that she would still be there to make his dinner, and that, “Honestly, Pop, you know I planned out every detail, so why don’t you just give in and listen? We both know that eventually you will anyway.” And so he had listened, and she had talked and he had agreed. After all, he wasn’t stupid, she was going to be 21 soon and then he wouldn’t have any say legally, and wouldn’t it be better for the two of them to do this so that there wouldn’t be hard feelings? So Lisa had moved out across the street and things had worked out as she planned. Well, up until this summer.

Lisa hadn’t been a virgin when she went into her guest room and asked Rory to take her back to her bed. She had lost that title when she was seventeen to the son of the farmer two farms down the road. She wasn’t in love with him or he her, but she was curious and he was willing to show her how it was. They had met in his Pop’s barn one evening and done it and never spent more than a few minutes together after that. She had learned what she wanted to know and he had found some cute girl in the next town and the last Lisa had heard the two were expecting child number two. She was happy for them but didn’t figure children or a family were in her future now or even ever. She was different from the other girls and had always been so, even while in school. She had a few people that she would get together with for dinner or such but most of the girls were gone or married. For most young people, the future meant getting out of town, going to Minneapolis or St. Paul for college or work, some even went down river to St. Louis. But Lisa had always known that she loved farm life and she had no plans to go anywhere. She had been to Minneapolis a couple of times and big cities were not her style. She liked to walk in the mud barefoot, feel it squish between her toes, she liked the feel of the grain as it sifted through her fingers, she liked the prideful feeling she got when the stores asked for more of her canned fruit. She was happy where she was. Sure sometimes she felt a little lonely at night, and when she was 23 she thought she was in love, but that had turned out to be a disaster. Her father had had to intervene, chasing the guy down the road putting birdseed into the fool’s rear end. He should have known she wasn’t going to stand for any man hitting her and for sure her father wouldn’t. Lisa had given up on men, and decided she liked her life as it was.

Until she had been working escort duty to the tractors and seen him. Rory Dewitt. Although she didn’t learn his name until later. She had seen him about town but not clearly, until then he was just one of the hundreds of parttime workers that worked the fields all over the state during harvest. Her first sighting had been at the elevator, where she had been working escort for a bunch of the tractors. She had known instantly that she wanted to get to know him, wanted him. There was something in the way he moved, long limbs, fluid muscles, like a cat, wild and free that told her that he was different, like her, he didn’t conform to society. When he turned and looked at her her heart had stopped. His dark hair and blue eyes were enough to catch a person’s eye but it was the white streak that fell in a swatch over his eyes that made him seem even wilder. He was someone that had seen places, done things and that called to Lisa’s sense of adventure.

Lisa didn’t sleep around, but she saw no reason not to go for something or someone she wanted. After all they were both single, or at least she was. If he wasn’t single then the whole deal was off, but there was something about the way he looked at her, that made her hope he was. Well, he had turned out to be single, they had spent the summer together and then, just when her heart started fooling her mind into thinking he would stay, he left. And she had decided she was fine with it, but the daily morning sickness could only be intentionally passed off for a stomach flu for a few days, and when the daily run to the commode reached a second week, Lisa had to quit pretending and face the obvious truth. At first she pretended to be an ostrich, thinking that if she didn’t think about it, it would go away. But when her second monthly time came and nothing happened, there was no getting around it. She had done what she always thought would never happen to her. She was pregnant with some boy’s baby who didn’t want her or the baby. It was time to tell her father, something she dreaded.

That night she crossed the road, almost half hoping some truck would come by and put her out of her predicament but the road was empty for miles. It wasn’t that she wanted to harm the baby growing inside her, she just didn’t want to face her father. As usual when it came to something she had done that was totally outrageous, he surprised her, informing her that he had been pretty sure of it for a couple of weeks now. She had all the same symptoms her mother had had when she was bearing Lisa. But what really shocked her was when he had said,”How do you know he doesn’t want the child? Did he tell you that before he left?” And that had thrown Lisa into a tizzy. Just when she had convinced herself that she was going to have to raise the child alone, her father threw that idea out on the table. They had never spoken of it. And considering how many times they had sex each night, he couldn’t not expect that it might happen, could he? But how to find out if he was interested and did she want some guy that might come back only because of the child and not because he wanted her? At home that night, her internal war raged on worse than ever. Until she was worn out. Just as she finally drifted into her restless sleep, her logical part of her mind asked, how are you going to find out if he is or isn’t interested. It is his child also, he deserves the right to know, and then make his own decision.

So three days later, she had backed a small bag, her father had given her some money, and here she was in the City trying to figure out how to get a hold of the drifter whose child she carried. Lisa stood up and walked to the end of the pier and began methodically working her way from boat to boat asking if anyone knew of Rory. It was late afternoon by the time she had made her way down the pier, coming up empty. The only suggestion she had heard that made sense was to try down in St. Louis or Memphis. So she bought a ticket for a paddle boat heading south the next morning, and then found a boarding house for the night.

The next morning she boarded the ship, and with a bit of excitement at actually going somewhere, faced down river letting the air blow her hair. After awhile she had retreated downstairs, and sat in her cabin reading a book lent to her by the captain. She didn’t think anything of it when she made her first trip to the commode but by the time she had made her fourth trip she knew she was in trouble. Rather than try to make it back to the bed, she sat on the floor next to commode. She was into dry heaving when there was a knock at her door and a cabin boy called out that it was time for dinner. Her voice not much beyond a whisper, she cried out for his help and when he came into the cabin she was beyond being embarrassed. The young boy ran out for help and came back with the captain, who helped her clean up. Then he had insisted she come up on the deck. Lisa tried to explain that she was too sick, but he took her arm and practically pulled her up the steps. As soon as the fresh air hit her face, she immediately began to feel better. He sat her onto a bench, had the cabin boy go after a blanket for her. She spent the next two days on that bench, refusing to go below except for the commode. She even slept there curled up in the blanket. She had never felt this ill in her life. She had heard that childbirth was the worst thing a woman could go through but Lisa was sure that seasickness came in first.

By the time they got to St. Louis she was feeling more herself. Once the ship docked, she went downstairs, washed up and changed her clothes. Then she gathered her things and thanked the captain for his help. Once her feet were on dry land her first thought was, “When I find that man, I am taking the train back home.” Asking some passengers for a recommendation, she found her way to Mrs. Hucking’s Boardinghouse and rented a room. Once inside, she fell onto the, blessfully immobile, bed and slept peacefully for the first time since she left home. When she woke it was the next morning, and after her daily trip to the commode, she left her small bag in the room, and headed back to the dock. Once again she talked with the Dock Master and once again it was of no use.

Lisa began at the far end of the pier and slowly worked her way down, asking each person she met if they knew Rory Dewitt.

Big River - 1959 - Part 3

The return leg up the river was notably slower than the down river run. The change of pace was a combination of influences. The current was against them now, the steady pressure of water pressing against the hull of the vessel, the ancient power of the river slowing the steady, even beat of the ship's propellors. The Saucy Gull was hardly the showboat the Mud Skipper had been, and her slower pace was meant to be used for countering larger cargo loads that she might be carrying. But, most importantly, Rory had to admit to being impatient.

It wasn't a feeling that he was highly familiar with. Sure, he was used to being a flitting gadfly when it came to making his major decisions, and he had a reputation as a dilletante, but he recognized that this was something different. There was something back up the river, a something he was looking for. A nebulous something that refused to let him sleep. A desire that he had never run into before.

Lisa? She haunted his dreams. He fancied at times that he could hear her breathing, could catch that faint scent of her, could feel the faint pulse of her heartbeat, could even catch glimpses of her. Every woman that the ship passed required that he stop and look closely to see if it was her. Every old truck moving along the roads near the river called for his attention, as he fancied that he recognized her particular vehicle. But was that what he was searching for?

The way of life? Farming was hardly his imagined future. Not only did he not fancy the thought of the massive amount of regular labor involved, the concept of being tied to the land, to be counting upon the whims of nature, the stated value and durability of your equipment, the delicate mix of willingness to try to bend the farm to your will while repecting what it stood for and what it could do for you. To risk everything that you and your family relied upon for the profits of a single year's production. The horrible demands of knowing how the land and weather worked with the crops, and still being willing to go to church and ask the Lord for aid in your endeavors. As much as he detested the idea, he had to repect those that made the decision to dedicate their lives to the work.

So what else was there? Lisa was part of that life. She was as rooted into that work and community as the trees that formed the property line to her land. If he was to return, he was going to have to consider that she meant that life. If she had managed to worm her way into mind and heart, then he'd better be considering setting up in exactly that life. Tractors, in all their sizes, with all their sounds, smells, and problems. Crops, with their potential bounty under attack from the weather, from insect life, and from other plants. The ground's needs for moisture and fertilizer in specific ratios. Animals, whether cats and dogs for their service as rodent and intruder control, or larger animals as potential food and manure sources. The springs spent prepping the land and planting the promise of the seeds, the summer fighting those forces out to destroy the plants, the fall spent harvesting those plants and dealing with the concerns of the buyers, and the winters preparing for the next year. Was that what he wanted?

Or was there a chance he could convince her to move on, to come with him? To leave her family home, to leave her community, to leave her father? And for what? He couldn't even lay claim to a career, unless he wanted to sign up again for another run at the harvesting crew, and that was barely something that he could claim to enjoy. His education was decent, but not something that would cause companies to come begging him to work for them. While he could find it within himself to return to school, it would mean that he would need to actually chose a career before going to school. And what else could he offer her? He had some money, but not much more than his annual wages. Hardly enough to start a life. Beyond that, pretty much nothing. His family had long since forgotten him. He owned nothing of material value. And his normal life style could pretty quickly eat up what little he did have, if he didn't make a decision pretty quick.

And, to top things off, he'd have to explain himself. To Lisa, to whom he owed an apology and explanation. One hell of an apology and explanation. Things that she had no reason to accept. Things that he wasn't sure how to make, since he was't sure how to voice them, or how to fully express where his actions had come from. How did he explain running from fear of something he didn't fully understand? Or what about to Merlyn? Rory had no doubt that the man would be eager to do as much damage as possible to him, should Lisa have explained what had happened. How did he explain an apology over a relationship that had started out as purely physical reaction between himself and Lisa? How could he even apologize for slipping out, for running away from her based solely upon his own fears? Especially when he didn't even know what those fears were in their entirety. He looked like nothing less than exactly those horrible people that the community leaders had been on the watch for when his crew had come to town. He had little doubt that if he and Merlyn were to cross paths, and the father carried out every dark nightmare that danced in Rory's mind, the legal authorities in the area would find reasons to turn a blind eye to the incident.

So what was he doing? Running from his fears? That little voice in his head wasn't allowing this. His heart had suddenly spoken to him, and he had turned himself around, heading back to present himself to Lisa and her father, to ask for forgiveness. If she would allow it. And nothing was telling him that she had any reason to.

Still, he had to try. Whatever he had found within himself wouldn't rest until he did. If she rejected him, well, that was her right. If Merlyn elected to vent his fury upon him, then that was that. For once he had made a serious decision about himself and his life, and he had to follow through.

He was still musing when the Saucy Gull found it's way into St. Louis' harbor area. The area was historically important, a major river trading port that dated back to before the Louisiana Purchase. A major expedition had left from here shortly after that historic event, heading out to discover the fabled water route across the country. Many pioneer expeditions had left for California from this city. Numerous railroads had made this a major hub. Automobile companies were building factories here. A beer company had made this the heart of their corporate empire. Colleges were springing up around here. And, down by the river, the area was a mishmash of docks and warehouses, a mix of ships loading and offloading, and the miasma of people wandering around. As with so many of these communities, the people down in this area were a combination of rich and poor, of effete and laborers, of the honest and the wicked. Rory muttered to himself, then stepped back to his cabin, checking on his meager belongings. The captain of the Gull had already explained that he intended to dock at St. Louis, to refuel and to take a night to enjoy the city's unique nightlife. While Rory wasn't sure about it, he did agree that a night on land would be a good thing. He packed his bags, knowing that to leave them behind, even secured in a locker, would be an open invitation to the less scrupulous characters in the crew.

The streets were everything that he had imagined. The corners were equal number preachers and prostitutes, the open areas musicians and marketeers. Children raced the streets, carrying everything from toys to ice to coal in their hands and wagons. Vehicles labored on the uneven roadwork, straining against their loads to climb streets still built to the specifications for horse drawn wagons. The air reeked of the river smells and foundries, as well as the faintly sickening odor of alcohol being brewed.

He'd started scouting the area for suitable rooming houses when he spotted the group of street toughs. They would have stood out in almost any other environment, creatures of these streets. They might have been workers at a nearby warehouse or factory, or crew from one of the numerous ships. In any case, their faces were sharp and weasel-like, their movements almost coordinated. Rory had seen their types before, and steered clear. So he carefully stepped around to the far side of the street, and kept his pace steady. Their eyes briefly met, and an unspoken arrangement was reached. Ignore each other, and nothing happens.

He'd headed up the hill for a block when he felt an urge to look back. The toughs were assuming what he could only describe as a predatory circling, starting to track a figure further down the hill, practically on one of the dock approaches. His eyes took a quick measure of the mark, and he felt something stir in his stomach. It was one thing for him to note and avoid these idiots. It was something else for him to stand by as they attacked a woman. With a new energy, he stepped off at full speed, his mind trying to gauge the options. As they started their attack, he yelled, calling up a scream from deep within himself. Even as he started the yell, his mind blanked. He might have been calling for the police, he might have been screaming a challenge, he might simply have been venting a primal force. In any case, he only knew that he yelled as he moved. His bags were dropped to the ground, and he stooped briefly to retrieve a bottle, breaking it against the stones of the ground as he moved.

Maybe he seemed to be a wailing maniac. Perhaps they feared his calls would catch someone's attention. Perhaps they were simply overly cowardly, and a single show of force was all it took to spook them. In any case, they took to their heels, and ran. He allowed them a couple of minutes, then dropped the bottle, and moved back to reclaim his bags. Once he was sure of them, he headed back down the hill to check on the woman.

And got the surprise of his life. The woman in the simple dress looked back to him, he started. He knew those eyes, that hair, that face. Her skin was wan, perhaps from being so surprised, perhaps from the coloring of her clothing. Her expression was likewise surprised, but he couldn't tell what the true source of that was. Him? The toughs? Something else?

His bags hit the ground for the second time in as many minutes, and he ran forward. His lips dripped a running litany of "Lisa! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!", until he caught her in his arms, and stopped his words with a crushing of his lips to hers. He stayed like that for several minutes, kissing her and whispering his apologies, barely giving her a chance to reply. Finally, she managed to elbow him enough to get him to pull back slightly, and he simply found himself smiling, glad to have found her. Again, he shot full into his apologies, trying to beg her forgiveness as he also tried to explain his stupidity.

Big River---1959---- Conclusion

Lisa was tired, very tired. She wasn’t sure if it was the pregnancy or the fact that she was losing hope. She had been in St. Louis for two days and had talked to, what felt like, hundreds of people. She could understand that Rory might have gotten onto a boat in Minneapolis without being seen, but surely that boat docked in different ports as it wound its way down the river? St. Louis was a major port. The gateway between the east and west halves of the country. Trains, planes, boats all came through this bustling city either unloading their fare or picking up more. Any boat the traveled the river surely must stop here. And yet, no one had heard or seen anyone that even resembled him With that shock of white hair, he was easy to spot and yet, nothing.

She was determined to do what was right. To let him know of his child’s existence, and then to return to her home, to the farm, to raise her child as best she could. At least she lived on a farm, and didn’t live in one of the cities, working in an office or school or hospital. As hard as it would be to raise a child alone, it would be easier when she could take the child with her to the fields, or carry him on her back while she worked the tractors. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible. Despite the strictures of society, that young girls be virgins at their weddings, human nature being what it was, she wouldn’t be the first unwed mother or the last. Besides, it wasn’t like she wasn’t already looked down by most of the ladies of the town anyway for her rebellious nature. Still, should she need help, her father would always be there for her.

It was getting late, and she was heading back to the boarding house, deciding as she walked that she would give St. Louis one more day and then catch a boat and head down river to Memphis. If she couldn’t find him there, then there was Nassau and then, if necessary, New Orleans. She had enough money to get to Nassau and home but if she needed to go all the way, then she could have her father wire her some money in Nassau. She hoped it didn’t come to that. She was more tired than she had realized she could be. So tired that maybe she would skip supper and just go to bed. At least the morning sickness seemed to be easing up, she thought gratefully. Still, it was ridiculous to be this exhausted just from walking. She worked much harder and longer during the harvest than this. It was a good thing the baby would be here by next harvest season, she couldn’t imagine trying to do that work when just walking exhausted her.

She was almost to the end of the pier and about to head up the hill towards her room, already imagining how good the feather bed would feel. Mrs. Consom ran a quiet house and put out breakfast and supper for her customers. Perhaps she would get something to eat after all. She needed to keep up her strength and she did need to take care of the baby. It would be pretty ironic if she spent all this time trying to find the man and then lost the baby. She put her hand down low on her stomach and rubbed gently, She really wasn’t far enough that it showed, but still the idea of losing the baby was not acceptable.

Had she been paying attention to her surroundings and not thinking of the baby, she would have seen the group of men coming her way. The shadows were long as the sun set, and she should have been gone an hour ago. But she had only one more boat to check and so she had pushed her luck. She stopped for a moment and looked around to see what her options, if any, were. There was no one else around, the dock master’s office was dark, and she knew that meant the door would be locked. She bit down on her lower lip as her mind rapidly processed her chances of getting by the ruffians and left alone. They weren’t good. They might not be after something as rough as rape or robbery but they were definitely looking for some fun and she was their target.

Deciding it was in her best interest to keep moving, the closer she got to the main street, the sooner she got off the pier the better chance she had of help or at least less possibilities of attack. She wondered if mentioning she was pregnant would give her a break but she suspected from the look of glee on the faces of the men as they got closer that anything she said would be taken as a reason to harass her. They were close enough that they were spreading out, making half circle even as they continued to walk. She looked up the hill and could see someone walking up the hill away from the river. He was too far to hear, so far she wasn’t sure if it was even a he, and she wasn’t sure she could call to a person and have that person hurt helping her. There was enough of the bullies that one person wouldn’t stand much chance.

With a prayer to keep her baby safe, Lisa squared her shoulders and walked briskly into the line of men. As she saw their faces clearly, she realized they were mostly young maybe late teens or early twenties. Obviously, on the prowl for their idea of fun, she felt like a mouse in a den of cats, and wondered if they would play with her or attack her.

She set her face and squinted her eyes, taking on a stony stubborn look that usually made men leave her alone. Of course that was men that were looking to bed her or buy her a drink, not a gang that was egging each other on. She was almost to the line, her plan to try to walk through, hoping they would let her, knowing they wouldn’t, when she heard a loud scream. It was so primal, so piercing that it startled not only her but the boys surrounding her. If she hadn’t known better she would have thought it an Indian on the warpath, it was so primitive.

The men, well boys really, turned to look behind them and stopped in their tracks. She couldn’t see past them as they were taller than she, but she could see the looks on their faces. Amusement, horror, fear, doubt, all passed across their faces. Suddenly they scattered, and she wasn’t sure if that was good or not. Had she been rescued or ended up in the fire?

A man suddenly grabbed her and spun her around, then pressed his mouth over hers. She panicked and began to push him away, when her brain finally registered that she knew this man, knew his kiss. It was Rory, how he had found her she had no idea, she only knew that he was there. He was wasn’t he? She wasn’t imagining it was she? It wouldn’t be the first time that she thought she had seen him only to find that it wasn’t him at all. She pushed her arms up so that she could force distance between them and broke his hold enough that she could look into his face. It really was him. It was Rory and he had rescued her, he was kissing her, saying he was sorry over and over. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard. Her arms so tight around his neck that she was sure she was choking him, but she didn’t care. It felt so good to be in his arms, so right.

Eventually the need for air had them stepping apart. Together they both spoke, ”What are you doing here?” They laughed a moment, then he picked up his bag and took her hand, heading toward the hill. He asked where she was staying and when she told him, he nodded. He had been heading there himself. They were quiet on the walk up the hill, both of them aware of each other, aware that much needed to be said, aware that they faced a lot of problems ahead. Lisa was even more exhausted, the adrenalin of facing her attackers, the emotions of being saved, the knowledge that she had found him all taking their toll.

When they got to the porch of the boarding house, Rory said they needed to talk. Lisa knew that they did but suddenly she was afraid of the results. Using her exhaustion to cover her fear, she told him that she was too tired to talk that night. He started to argue but he could see the exhaustion in the deep lines of her face, the sag to her shoulders. So he kissed her softly and watched her go up the stairs alone. Then he went to find Mrs. Consum and ask for a room. He explained that he was concerned about Lisa and would it be possible for some food to be sent up. While most boarding rooms took in men and women, Mrs. Consum, like most proprietors, didn’t allow visitors in the rooms. Rory wanted to check on Lisa, but he wasn’t sure if she wanted to see him. So he went into the diningroom and ate with the other boarders. Grateful when he saw Mrs. Consum taking up a tray to Lisa.

Lisa was startled when there was a knock at the door, she didn’t want to see Rory right now, she had to figure out a way to tell him, and she was too tired to think. But when she opened the door it was Mrs. Consum with a tray. When Lisa smelled the food, she realized she was hungry, so thanking the good lady, she took the tray and ate the nourishing soup. Then she got undressed and slid under the blankets, too tired to get into her nightgown.

When she woke the next morning, she wondered if she had dreamed that she found Rory or if it had been real. She got dressed and went downstairs, and at the breakfast table she found him talking and eating as if he had no cares at all. At first she was peeved, she had gone through so much and he, he was just sitting there. But when he looked up and saw her, he jumped to his feet, rushing around the table, pulling out a chair for her. What ever peevishness she felt disappeared under his attention. When he pushed in her chair, he leaned over and whispered that they would talk after they ate.

Lisa nodded, and when she finished her toast and tea, grateful that she could stomach that much in the mornings, but aware that Rory was looking at her puzzled, knowing that last fall she had eaten almost as much as he did, she went out on the front porch.
The house was an old victorian, obviously built several decades ago, now too costly to keep in the family unless it earned its own taxes. The red brick walls were surrounded by a wide wrap around porch, that actually circled the entire bottom floor. At different places tables and chairs had been set, some affording protection from the sun, others to allow the viewing of the sunrise or sunset. The furniture was made of wrought iron, with the curlicues in the legs and backs of the furniture, distinctive to its maker. Heavy enough that it wouldn’t blow away in a storm and painted so that it wouldn’t rust in the rain. Cushions designed in sailcloth created to be kept in the outdoors no matter the weather were fitted to each chair or bench. The red checked material reminiscent of a picnic tablecloth that gave the porch a sense of gaity, that was opposite of Lisa’s emotional state.

The chair she chose was on the side, away from the street, in the shade it was a little chilly, but Lisa didn’t really notice, although her hands rubbed her arms as she sat there. Staring off into space wondering how to say what was needed, she didn’t notice Rory at first. He was standing at the corner of the building, just looking at her as if she was a vision of beauty, although Lisa had seen herself in the mirror and she knew she looked wan and tired. Despite her early retiring to bed, she had slept fitfully, her brain overloaded to sleep soundly. It was ironic, Lisa thought, that she had spent all this time looking for him and now that he was here, she wished he wasn’t. She had no idea how a person went about informing a man, someone who had left her with no intention of returning, that he was going to be a father in about six months.

Rory was obviously struggling with his own demons, as he came over to her and pulled a chair up in front of her, leaning forward and taking her hands in his. With a lot of hesitation, obviously nervous, obviously trying to find the words, he told her how he had found her, how he had come back up river and was heading back to the farm to see her. He told her that he cared for her and wanted to be with her but he had no prospects, no real idea of a future. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay on the farm, but he wasn’t sure what else to do either. He wanted to apologize for what he had done.

Lisa listened quietly. Listening for some clue as to what he was actually saying. Was he coming home with her to the farm? It didn’t sound like he wanted to do that really. Was he asking her to go with him? It didn’t sound like that really either. Was he apologizing for having lived with her, slept with her or for having left her? She wasn’t sure. When he was finished and had fallen silent, she sat there some more. She wasn’t sure what to say or do, to tell him or not, to accept what he said and then go back to the farm without him.

She knew he was getting restless at her silence, but she didn’t know what to say. If she mentioned the baby, he might feel the need to come back with her eventhough he didn’t want to be there. If she went somewhere else with him, what about caring for the baby. She loved him but was that enough? Perhaps if it had been just her, she would have gone with him, to whereever, left her responsibilities at the farm and just gone. She was worried that he would get to the farm and leave her again, she didn’t think her heart could stand that pain one more time. Yet, if he came and was miserable, that was no answer either. She supposed they could marry, to give the baby a name, then he could go with her blessing, but that wasn’t Lisa’s style. She could give the baby a name, she could raise the baby, she didn’t really need Rory for that. She had only planned to tell him of the baby’s existence, she hadn’t expected him to come back for her. What was the best thing to do?

When Rory finally burst out with, “Say something, Lisa, anything.” Lisa had looked at him sadly.

“You say you have no future but you want me to share it with you. You say you could go back to school but you have no goals. I don’t know what you want from me, I don’t know what you want for yourself. I would consider going with you but you don’t know where you are going. You are welcome to come home with me, but I get the impression that you don’t really want to do that. I think that until you know what you want, you should go figure it out.” Lisa spoke softly, her voice breaking as she finished with the only thing she could really say, “Go, Rory, and find out who you are and what you want in this life. Then, if you still want me, let me know, you know where I will be.”

Her heart felt like it was breaking in two as she watched the pain cross his face. He started to argue but fell silent. What could he say? She was right and they both knew it. She would keep the baby to herself, and if he decided later he wanted her, then she would tell him then. If he decided he didn’t want her, well then, he didn’t need to know. With nothing left to be said, Lisa stood up and left him sitting on the porch. She didn’t look back, she couldn’t, if she did she would break down. She went upstairs, and pack her things, she had planned to leave that day anyway, but instead of going down river, she would go up. Back to the farm, back to her life and raise her child.

As far as she knew he was still on the side of the house, when she thanked Mrs. Consum and walked down to the river, to catch a boat home. Once in her cabin, she felt her heart grow cold. She wouldn’t cry, there was no point. She wouldn’t hope that someday he would come to her, there was no point. Her focus was the baby. Knowing how seasick she would become, she gathered up the blanket from the bed and went up to the deck to sit. Her eyes welled up as the boat left the slip, but she refused to let them fall even as the warehouses slid past.

Back home once again, she told her father she had found him, but nothing more. And she set about doing what was necessary to survive, concentrating on supporting her baby. They fixed up one of the bedrooms as a nursery, painting it yellow and green. She learned how to knit and when she got so big she could barely walk, she spent most of her time sitting on her porch knitting booties and caps for the baby. When it came time for the baby, her father took her to Minneapolis to the hospital there. Lisa would have preferred to have the baby at home, but her father wanted the best care possible in case something went wrong. Nothing went wrong, and when it was over, Lisa and her father took home a baby boy that she named James Dewitt Campbell.

Little Jamie was sitting on the porch step watching Lisa shuck corn for their dinner. As often happened when she looked in his face, she saw the eyes of his father. That ice cold blue shocking surrounded as it was by her black hair. They had spent the day running escort for the tractors and both of them were tired and hot. Jamie rode shotgun, keeping an eye on the tractors while Lisa led each to the elevator. Sometimes he would sit in the back of the truck, practicing his alphabet or counting out loud. At four he was king of his world, an expert on farm life, willing to expound on his knowledge to anyone that would listen. His current topic was why he shouldn’t go to school next year, but stay and help her on the farm. Lisa had heard the speech before, but wasn’t too worried about it. When he realized his friend Mikey was also going to school next year, he would be fussing at her to make the time go quickly. Lisa had met Mikey’s mother at the drugstore and the two had hit it off. Whenever Lisa was in town, she would take the boys to play in the park for a little while. Mikey’s dad was a farmworker on one of the farms north of town but the family lived in town because Mikey’s mother worked part time at the library.

As Lisa finished the last ear of corn, she heard a pickup truck coming down the road. At first she thought it was her father who had gone into town to have a beer with his workers. When she realized it wasn’t her father’s truck, she expected the vehicle to keep going down the road, but to her surprise, the truck pulled into her driveway. This time of year most people were home, tired after the day’s work, so Lisa couldn’t imagine who would have come by. All she could see was that it was a man, one who didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get out of the car. Jamie had already headed in the direction curious as to whom the visitor could be. Lisa followed more slowly, wondering if perhaps the person was lost and needing directions. The setting sun reflected on the windshield and kept her from seeing who was in the car.

As she reached the side of the car, Jamie already talking a mile a minute to the person, she paused as the person got out of the car. She lifted her hand to put it on Jamie’s shoulder to calm the excited boy, but dropped it to her side when the person stepped out of the sun and she saw the shock of white among the dark hair. With a whisper she said, “Rory?” And then she was caught up in his arms.

Once again she found herself being swung around, his lips pressed tightly to hers, his arms feeling like a haven. When she could breathe once again, she pulled from his arms. Then led the way up to the porch. She was nervous all the sudden, although she couldn’t have said why, as she asked if he wanted something to drink, which he did, and if he was hungry, which he was. Jamie’s chatter filled the air as she finished fixing dinner, and the three of them sat down to eat. Rory looked around the room as if searching for something or perhaps remembering.

When dinner was over, they went back to the porch, and settled into the chairs as they had so many times that summer. Jamie set about chasing fireflies and Lisa asked what Rory had been up to the past five years. She was surprised to find that he had gone back to school, had learned to be a engineer, and was working in Des Moines at an airplane manufacturing plant. With the cold war at its height and things heating up in Vietnam, the military was wanting planes that could go faster on less fuel. Rory had learned to fly, and he loved that even more than he had the boats on the river. This past year he had found the job, bought a little house, and now he was in Minnesota to see her.

Lisa was happy for Rory, glad that he had finally found something in his life that mattered and she told him so. She asked where he was staying but when he said he didn’t know, she offered her couch. She called to Jamie and took him in for his bath and bedtime story, then when he was settled, she came back into the livingroom. Rory was there, looking at the pictures on the wall that showed Jamie’s growth over the years. She wasn’t surprised, when he asked, “Is he mine?”

“No, he is mine. But you are the biological father” She didn’t bother to hide it, Jamie looked too much like Rory.

“Biological father?” he said hesitatingly. “Does this mean there is someone else he considers his father?”

“He has a mother and an grandfather, that is enough. He believes his father works on a boat on the Mississippi River”

“I see, why didn’t you ever tell me. I had a right to know,” Rory asked painfully. She was surprised when he turned and looked at her to see the pain in his eyes.

She explained that she had set out to tell him that long ago time in St. Louis. But when he hadn’t wanted to come back to the farm, hadn’t seemed to know what he wanted, she had decided that a baby would not be welcomed. She had thought about telling him again, later when Jamie had been born, only she didn’t know where he was, didn’t have a way of telling him, and she couldn’t go searching for him again.

Rory had nodded, lost in thought. Then with tears in his eyes at all the missed time, he told her that he had come back for her. Just as she had said he could do when he found his place in life. He wanted her, to marry her, and he wanted Jamie as part of his life. He wanted them to come live in the house he had bought with her in mind. “It took me five years but I found where I belong, I have always planned to come back for you.”

Lisa’s eyes became teary also as she went into his arms and whispered, “We have been waiting for you.”

Unliving Life

Gabrielle was twenty six years old when she finally found out the truth about her origins.

Her family – left behind in the reaches of Washington State – was the last to know about her spontaneous application to the Denver branch FBI office. Her drivers’ license read Gabrielle Dubois Whitmore, and the Whitmore’s of Seattle came from a long line of money and political power. The family tree took up an entire wall in her parents’ home, and while most of the vast sums of money they lived off of had come from viable sources (logging, railroad, industry and commerce), there were whispered stories about estranged limbs of the family tree that had indulged in more profitable venturing despite the occasional run in with the law.

Gabrielle had viewed it all as ancient history, and upon turning eighteen had signed a receipt for her estate trust fund and threw a going away party. Splurging on a new wardrobe and a shiny little Jaguar XK8 Convertible, she spent over three weeks driving up and down the west coast before finally delving into the ‘western states’. Less than two months after graduating from high school (a week after her 18th birthday) found Gabrielle Whitmore settling into the dry, sunny climes of Leyden, Colorado – a beautifully removed and small-town feeling borough on the western side of Denver, built around Leyden Lake. Her three thousand square foot home was anything but rustic, yet Gabrielle was happy, all things considered.

A few months later saw her enrolled at a college she attended sporadically, sometimes only taking one or two classes a semester and sometimes as many as six or seven. In between course loads and homework she spent her time among the glitzy and glamorous and the weird and the individual minds that crowded the ever-popular bar and club scenes. Gabrielle loved the raging drag queens and the girls who paraded through a succession of clubs in platform knee high boots and leaving feathers whirling in their wakes; she adored the men who competed to wear the tightest, most revealing, shiny or supple or gleaming clothing; her senses immersed every night in a new series of scents until she considered herself a jaded connoisseur of the superficial, spending hours with a house full of friends, all of them disappearing in a whirlwind of slamming car doors and screaming tires and singing radios, leaving her house looking interrupted and wildly littered with clothes and accessories and hair pieces and reeking of a dozen perfumes and colognes.

Then of course, there were the men that flitted in and out of her life like proverbial butterflies. Most of her relationships were casual and superficial to the extreme – a distant and cold family life had long ago taught her calm, rational existence without the illogical interference of emotions. Most often the men finally stepped down or away, claiming their inability to deal with her frigidity, her trust-fund baby attitude, or her uncaring personality. The one who had left her, claiming she was a sociopath on an ego-centrical trip who wielded her money like some kind of a weapon between them left her rolling on her bedroom floor, immersed in unending laughter as he took off in his shag-carpet lined van, the smell of patchouli erasing as quickly as his face was from her mind.

She was not unattractive, but her casual attitude towards all things (including sex and ‘commitment’) seemed to push as many people away as it drew. Blonde hair, blue eyes, leggy, athletic, and of average height, the only remarkable feature she found in herself was the full cupids bow of her mouth and the curiously almond shape of her eyes, thick and long-lashed as she peered with distant confusion at the world and even herself. She seemed to be a modern woman in all sense of the word.

So, when she had finally graduated with her MSM-CJ (Masters of Science Management – Criminal Justice), Gabrielle wasted no time at all in jumping to the Denver FBI office and applying for any and all openings, even if it meant tenure or an internship. Science, politics, and justice all in one spot – how could she pass it up? Just the thought of being a ‘special agent’ made her head spin and her pulse pound, and the hours between submitting her application and receiving the call were spent in hibernation at home – Gabrielle indulging herself in chick flicks, living in sweats for three days, and eating endless amounts of Haagen-Dazs, chocolate, salty snacks, and pop. Her friends went frantic when she dropped off the radar, but she never picked up the phone until the caller ID revealed a government listing.

“Miss Whitmore?” queried a polite, detached sounding voice. Biting back on a squeal, Gabrielle hastily nodded her head and then almost laughed aloud at herself.

“Yes, this is Gabrielle,” she said breathily. The phone was quiet for a moment, and she heard the easily identified sound of keyboard keys being typed in rapid succession.

”Yeah, this is Special Agent Kirkley. Look, we ran you through for the background check, and everything came up roses – but we seemed to have encountered an error 29 on your application, and until the situation gets resolved, your file will be walled here at the Prerequisites office.”

Gabrielle let the silence sweep around her, both ends of the phone silent for several swollen moments.

“An – an error? Well, what on earth is it – I’ll come down and fix it right away!” she finally bit out.

“Technically, an error 29 has to do with a discrepancy between your legal name and any records on paper or in the computer system. We most commonly encounter this with people who have had legal name changes and forgot to list their old names, or adoptees. Are you married or divorced and just forgot to include your old name?” Kirkley said, sounding almost machine-like as he explained something Gabrielle was sure he had to go over quite regularly with nervous chits like herself.

“No … no. This has been my name since I was born – I gave you guys a copy of my birth certificate!” she exclaimed in confused exasperation. There was another set of swollen, silent moments.

“Ah… Then, it would appear you are an adoptee, and will need to obtain your pre-adoption birth records and submit those before we can proceed.”

“Th-thank you.” Gabrielle said numbly, replacing the phone into its cradle with chilled fingers. She shuddered and rubbed her hands up an down her arms, trying to fight off an attack of shivers.

She would have to call her parents…

Since arriving in Colorado, her briskly distant parents had been mildly shocked and almost angry, and Gabrielle had never been able to figure it out. Instead she had simply taken the cowards way out and avoided talking to them unless it was absolutely necessary, mailing off the ‘polite’ cards at birthdays and holidays, and tapping out two or so emails a year to her parents shared box. A fairly indulged only child, she had known they were trying to be respectful about her distancing herself from them in the hope that she would someday ‘come to her senses’ and rush home to immerse herself in her parents whirlwind life of parties, charity events, world travel, and yachting. So far, however, they had had absolutely no luck.

Numbly, Gabrielle sat in her drape-darkened living room, her big screen TV mutely flicking as Sandra Bullock silently danced through the scenes of the DVD. The neighborhood was quiet, the house humming softly as the central air ran; the coffee table in front of her littered with pizza boxes, crumpled chip bags, empty aluminum cans, and a sticky bowl of dried out ice cream remnants. The food she had been comforting herself with settled into her belly like lead, and she fought back nausea as she picked up the phone and punched one of her speed dial buttons.

“Whitmore Residence, how may I help you?” The tinny, stentorian voice issued from the phone’s ear piece, and Gabrielle hastily wiped her sticky palms against the thighs of her sweat pants, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder.

“Hello, Anders, this is Gabrielle – may I speak to my parents, please?” she said, surprised at how normal her voice sounded despite the cement block her throat had turned into.

“Of course, Miss. Please wait one moment while I let them know you are on the line,” answered the dignified butler, and a moment later, soft, classical muzak filled the phone. Gabrielle felt herself beginning to hyperventilate, and spread her legs, dropping her head beneath her knees and grinding her palms against her sore, aching eyes.

My parents are distant, but they were good to me – they are upstanding, a little crazy, and definitely very materialistic – but I am living off money from a trust fund left to me by people whose names I don’t even know. This is all just some weird kind of mix-up, and if I spend enough time talking to Mom and Dad about it they’ll set me straight so I can just have the peace of mind of knowing the truth. Gabrielle’s thoughts continued in crazy spirals and circles as she waited, an audible sigh of relief escaping her as the music cut off and she heard her mother’s gay, warbling laugh as she picked up one of the extensions. An instant later, another click resounded on the line and her father’s brisk voice reverberated down the line.

“Hello?”

“Hello Mother, Father – it’s me, Gabby,” Gabrielle said softly, clenching her fingers tight around the phone as she waited with bated breath. She hadn’t even noticed the reversion to her childish ways – she hadn’t wanted to be called Gabby since she was thirteen, and she had been calling her parents by their first names since about sixteen. “Uh – look, I placed an application with the local FBI office here, and they say there’s some kind of mix-up in my name… They…” She took a deep breath, heaving so hard with her belly it hurt. “They say I’m adopted.” She said in a rush, her fingers numb around the phone as she waited for their response.

The silence was damning – neither of them leaped in to berate her on the ‘bad taste’ of being a government employee, nor did they get all huffy at her insistence on working like a normal human being. Most condemning of all, they did not laugh or pooh-pooh the oh-so-obvious ‘mistake’ the background check had encountered.

“Marian-“ began her father, but an instant later her mother brusquely interrupted his sentence.

“There isn’t any mistake, Gabrielle, dear – they’re completely correct. We adopted you when you were three days old.”

PART 2

The minivan moved westward at a steady seventy miles per hour clip, on I-76, the occupants having just finished their early lunch in Julesberg and with any luck they would be in Denver, in the early evening at the latest. They were both University lecturers, he was in Political History, she was in the Math department.

“Where is our reservation again precisely Don,” asked the woman driving the Chrylser, ever westward.

“It is precisely on Cherry Creek off Colorado Boulevard, apparently an up market shopping district, which should hold your attention while we are there, and I meet this young lady.”

This was a sore point with both of them, and Anna asked what was really bothering her, “so tell me and this time in detail just what this is all about. And why I had to give up a day of ‘MY’ vacation to deal with it.”

Don sighed saying, “I got a call, as you well know from a girl……….”

“That bit I know, I meant the other as in how did this all come about and why didn’t you mention it before?”

“This may sound harsh, but I had not thought about it for years, and when we first met back in 81, I was worried you might think the less of me if you knew I had a child somewhere.”

“Yea, that’s a laugh, and how do you know you are the father, tell me that?” This was a sore point with them both, Don had received a call from the young lady who claimed to be his daughter, and he had said he was driving west on a summer vacation to explore the lesser known vineyards in Idaho and Oregon anyway, and would be happy to stop and meet her to answer any questions he might be able to. Anna was somewhat less enthusiastic.

“The honest truth, I don’t know, all I know is that when the birth mother had this kid, she listed me as the father, and with the way computers work these days she was able to track me down.”

“So what you are saying is, we are doing this little ego trip of yours, because some hose bag, bonked you in the late seventies and blamed you for her pregnancy, I am surprised she even had it in the first place.”

“Her, not it,” Don replied, equally testy, they had been going back and forth with this ever since they left New Hampshire and they were both getting somewhat edgy.

“The truth is the mother, Aggie, was odd, sort of a late bloomer flower child, and I suspect the idea of destroying a life would have run counter to her principles, I know she was the oldest full time undergraduate in any of my tutorials.”

“Why were you and her so attached anyway, didn’t that violate the university morality code or something, I am surprised they didn’t withhold your doctorate?”

“I wasn’t actually her tutorial leader when we were, you know intimate. Actually I think the only reason she clung to me was she was older than most of the other students, and I had transportation so I could drive her to her various appointments.”

“Yea and didn’t you say she was a habitual shoplifter as well?”

“Yes she was, and quite good at it to, I never knew that till we were almost on the outs anyway.”

“So why did she break it off with you,” said Anna coldly and then she said angrily, “Christ I wish you had told me more before this came up, it feels like you don’t trust me, or you have little regard for my ability to handle it.”

“Look, I can’t change what happened, and how the fuck did I know this person would contact me?”

“I think you’re just on some big ego trip, seeing your bastard child.”

“Bitch” was all he answered and for a lot of miles the atmosphere in the van grew steadily colder, and they said literally nothing to each other just staring straight ahead neither wanting to be the first to speak.

Somewhere around Fort Morgan their van was cut off suddenly by a driver who realized almost too late that it was his exit, Anna was able to control the vehicle and continued on, but it seemed to break the ice somewhat, “almost as good as Mario Andretti,” said Don as his heart went from his mouth back to his chest.

“Who is he when he is home,” asked Anna somewhat more relaxed now.

They both laughed at that and their conversation by unspoken agreement went to other more mundane matters, like what Anna would do while they were in Denver and such

When they got to the outskirts of Denver Anna felt sufficiently relaxed to ask another question, “you never did say when you found out about it, the girl that is, or for that matter how.”

Don sighed recalling that moment with painful clarity. “I had gone back to the university there, as a visiting lecturer for one term, about a year and a half later, actually that was just before we met.”

“HUMPH, no wonder you were so down when we met.”

“Yea, that was the reason, she approached me near the end of my term there, and I offered to take her for a drink. She said she didn’t do alcohol anymore, but would be happy to have supper at a vegetarian restaurant she knew.”

“Uh huh,” said Anna without rancour.

“We went to supper and somewhere between the brown rice and carrot juice, she casually mentioned, oh by the way I had a kid.”

“What did you say to that, were you shocked?”

“No not really, I mean she was as I said flaky as hell, and I was not surprised she had a child, she hated any form of birth control, she said it affected her cosmic balance or something like that.”

Anna laughed out loud for the first time since they had started discussing this whole subject, “sounds like she was about ten years behind the rest of the world.”

”Yup you got that right. You see it never occurred to me that she was telling me this for a reason. Then as my carrot juice glass was half way to my mouth, I recall that in precise detail,” Anna nodded, “it suddenly occurred to me why she was telling me this.”

Don said nothing for a moment then, “so then she said aren’t you happy? Yea, I said, ahh congratulations I guess. Then she said, no silly it was ours, yours and mine.”

Anna knit her eyebrows not sure whether, to believe this or not, but said nothing.

“I was to be sure, shocked and asked well what do we do now? She looked at me like I was from Mars or something, which come to think of it was more appropriate to her, and said nothing it is all taken care off, it was adopted out.”

“IT,, she said it referring to her child?” asked Anna incredulously.

“YUP, apparently when she had it she asked that they not tell her anything, just take it away, and that was that. “

Anna glanced over at him, and said, “so you are saying that until you got that phone call you had no idea what sex she was?”

Don sighed deeply and said softly, “that is exactly what I am saying, which is why I said little or nothing, I did not have any point of reference, and to be honest I didn’t even know for sure, I still don’t really, that it was mine.”

“What are the odds do you think?” Anna asked.

“To be honest when we were, going out, so to speak, she was loyal to me I am fairly sure of that, and she wasn’t asking for any cash or anything so logically she had nothing to gain by telling me.” Anna nodded. “She said something that I thought at the time was almost poetic, she said, ‘I have no idea what it is, I was only the vessel that brought it to this earthly shore and I cast it free, to wander the cosmos.”

Anna laughed aloud at that, “your kidding right, she actually said that?”

“Well yea, but it sounded poetic at the time, then she got up to take a piss, stiffed me for the bill, and I never saw or heard from her again.”

”I think odds are she is yours, since we have three daughters, you don’t seem to have too many of those male chromosomes.”

At that point they were approaching the hotel and the requirements of checking in took priority.


Three hours later Don was sitting in the restaurant awaiting the much discussed meeting while Anna made herself scarce. He was sipping a Martini and Rossi aperitif, and was studying the menu for some sort of light meal, when he heard someone mention his name, which he had left with the dining room hostess.

Looking up from his menu he saw a fairly attractive woman approaching his table, looking nervously at him, his jaw almost dropped to his chest, because while she was not a carbon copy, her strong resemblance to his three daughters, by Anna, was unmistakeable, she was his daughter.

wrong place