You Must Remember This..

[stalwartone]

OOC-This is another collaborative effort between Maid of Marvels and myself, and is meant to be just between us. Please enjoy, and PM either of us with comments and critiques. Again, please enjoy, and thanks for reading.

Stalwartone.

IC- Character - Curtis Barrows, early fifties, Advertising and Events Promoter.

Curtis growled to himself, unconsciously in tune to the Passat's engine as he crested the top of the hill. One wrong turn, just one wrong turn, and he was lost in what had been cheerfully labelled "America's Heartland". Heartland, indeed. Well, it was certainly convoluted enough to look like the inner workings of a organ. With another growl, he pressed the accelerator down further, inching the speedometer past the clearly marked "65mph" mark, and kept looking for a road sign that didn't start with the word "County".
The passenger seat had an untidy mess that shifted as he powered down the road, mostly discarded food wrappers and the remains of four maps. The mess was unlike him, but it suited his mood. It was supposed to be an easy journey, but somewhere in one of highway junctions, he's strayed from the path, and been funnelled down a series of roads that gradually deteriorated from multi-lane, to two lane, to two lane gravel. Five more minutes, and he could expect to be stuck in the midst of someone's cows, he decided. The maps were worthless to him, he'd found. He'd scored one from one of the rest stations along the way, then been forced to buy the others at the places where he'd stopped for what could only loosely be considered "directions". What good was a twelve dollar map if it didn't cover country and county roads?
The road suddenly turned, and he buried his frustrations in the task of down shifting and pressing through the turn. Another of the rustic Midwestern towns appeared ahead, nestled into the rolling hills and stubbled fields that had recently held grain crops. Maybe, just maybe, someone would be able to point him in the right direction.
He had taken the call only two days ago, and agreed to the job. "It's a simple one, Curtis, no problem. It's a B&B that's changing owners, and the new owners want to start promoting it. Two weeks on the job, a month paid, and only three days of it are spent there. You've got a room reserved, and everything. Just head out there, look the area over, work out a campaign, and dazzle the owners with your brilliance. You know how to sell these gigs." Sure.
The directions hadn't mentioned that he was going to be getting away from civilization. The one brochure they had sent him had suggested it was "on the scenic Mississippi", which, if the maps did say anything, was only the markation for the eastern side of the state. Somehow, he'd gotten the impression that Iowa was flat, boring, and criss crossed by a total of four paved roads, that miraculously could transport you anywhere that mattered in the state. Now, he knew better.
The town became pretty much what he expected. Originally agricultural, with housing at one end, an aging grain elevator at the other, and something claiming to be a business district in the middle. Curtis ignored "Emma's Tasty Home Cooking" and "Winkle's Home Pantry", as well as something called "The Red Stallion Watering Hole", and steered the VW under the red and yellow plastic shell of an ancient car wash. He needed to stretch, he needed to clean out the mess in the passenger seat, and he needed to remove the road dust from the car. Appearance, appearance, appearance. How could anyone take him seriously if he showed up in a dirty car?
After feeding four quarters into the machine, he entered the cycle of rinse/soap/soak/rinse/wax, then found a cloth in the trunk, and lathed the remaining water and dust from the surface. As he finished, he spotted the town's name on the equally old water tower, and started. That name had been in the directions, although it had been attached to "Turn left, drive three miles to,". Still, that had been near the end of the instructions. Almost frantically, he ripped through the contents of the trash can, found the formerly neat paper, and got his bearings. A quick use of the RC cola machine, and he was off once more. Pressing the Passat's engine to a near howl, he left the town, nearly upsetting a yellow refrigerator truck marked "Schwann's Home Delivery" as he powered past it. Ten minutes later, he found the sign, and eased the blue car into the lane. Three turns, and he was suddenly in what had once been an orchard, then into the parking lot.
The River Vista Bed And Breakfast had some things going for it, he had to admit as he pulled himself out of the car. The trees on three sides of the building gave a nice feeling of separation from the world, the house and grounds were well maintained, and the smells riding the breeze spoke of a real meal being prepared, something he'd skipped over on the trip. He didn't see the river, but that was likely on the over side. The bluffs here could rise for hundreds of feet over the water, sad reminders of the last of the glacier run offs as the world had warmed, eons ago. With a quiet sigh to himself, he pulled the two bags from the back of the car, and climbed the three steps onto the porch, then entered through the big front door.
Inside, it had been made over in someone's idea of what a riverboat era hotel might have looked like. There was room for improvement, but it was still comfortable. If you looked one way, the decor was a little too Laura Ingalls Wilder, and if you looked the other, it was a little too Cockney Bordello. But it was clean, and there was an actual front desk, with what looked like an actual internet connected computer behind it. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, after all.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Constance Malone

Connie sat pouring over the books, trying to make them right. She'd been coerced by her son Peter and his wife to come stay with them after Bob passed away last year -- but she'd held out. Until now.

Oh, yes, they were sincere in their concern. A fifty two year old woman couldn't possibly live on her own. And it was cheaper to bring her here to Nowheresville, Iowa than to foot the bill for their idea of The Shady Rest Home for Helpless Old Widows. Connie shuddered at the thought.

The real truth was, however, that they were trying to make a go of their bed and breakfast and failing miserably at it. That much was clear when she'd come for a visit only to find out just how badly they were doing when she'd peeked into the books.

True, she shouldn't have, but she was bored. Terminably bored. So one rainy afternoon she'd sat down at the computer to do a little surfing. She couldn't help it if the Inn's financial documents were already pulled up. Nor could she help looking them over. Nor could she help seeing the glaring errors and foolish expenditures. And the losses! At the rate they were going, it might take them until the next millenium to come out of the red.

So Connie made them a proposition. She would stay -- for a while -- just to help them get back on their feet. After all, she had been an accountant long before she'd married Bob and settled down to be a wife and raise a family.

She had a bit of a nest egg. Investments from over the years and insurance premiums that she'd cashed after Bob passed. Connie had no intention of touching the brunt of it, but the insurance was "found money". Even if she didn't like the way it had been "found".

Peter had declined at first, but she had seen the gleam in his wife's eye. She must have convinced him because before the night was over they were both in agreement. Of course they would pay her back. Of course. Connie had merely nodded. With interest. Connie had nodded again. It was a deal.

And so here she sat. As she said, it kept her busy and out of the "home". And Peter had said that he'd hired someone to help promote the River Vista Bed And Breakfast after she suggested they could use a bit of help to bring the tourists in.

 

[stalwartone]

Curtis

Checking into the B&B was almost a hum-drum routine. Sally's passing had caused him to throw himself into his work, which in turn had offered an unexpected bonus. He was willing to travel, and the company had taken him up on that option. With travel had come distance from the home. Not that he hated his home, but he hated the ghosts that haunted it. Or maybe he just hated himself for not being able to face those ghosts.

Sally's death had been hard on the family. While he had hardly considered their relationship some sort of divine concept, it had been a marriage that had suited them well, and they had never considered being away from each other. The night that he had been called to identify not just the twisted remains of their Toyota minivan, but the pallid contents of it, had been a spiritual knife in his stomach.

He had barely made peace with her loss when a dour faced man wearing military chaplain's insignia had knocked on his door. It was a meeting that he had spent several years fearing, but not in the current sense. He had feared that the people answering the door would be his parents, not himself. But this meeting was to tell him that there had been a "training accident". He later learned that it was really a maintenance issue, and an improperly serviced cargo helicopter had fallen from the sky, ending the lives of six people. Among them had been a young payload specialist, Amanda Sarah Barrows, who had entered the service after a long argument with her father.

Two funerals in a year had taken their toll, and Curtis had started questioning not just his faith, but his sanity. The world had changed too quickly for him.

It had started with the bedroom. The bed itself had been sacred to him. More than just where they had slept, or made love, it had been a safe haven from the world, a private place for them. They had had a standing agreement that there was no anger in the bed. No matter what problems they might be facing, no matter how mad they might be over something, the bed was a neutral territory. It was a place of comfort, where they could know that each other was there, or where they could comfort themselves in the bad times. How could he look at the bed now, knowing that they had proven their marriage vows there, the good, the bad, the flush, the flat, and the sickness and health.

Then had come the entire upstairs. Two bedrooms and a hobby room had become entirely too full of memories for him, and he took refuge on the ground floor, usually sleeping on the couch, the television left on at all hours of the day and night. Too many times he had found himself standing in one of the upstairs doorways, reliving events that had happened there. The clothing that he was likely to need had been moved down into the coat closet and a trunk, and he ignored the stairs that lead away to the history.

His next problems had been with noises of the house. He had been able to tell where someone was, and what they were doing in the house by the creaks and shifts in the floors, by the hiss of the water pipes, and the appliances throughout it. Now the house was silent, other than the noises he'd make, or the effects of the environment upon it. He found himself unable to spend any length of time within it, and forced himself to escape that time.

So he took the jobs that called for travel. He drove, he flew, he rode trains and ships. He lived from a suitcase. He ate at restaurants, and used laundry services. At one point, he had even used an accounting service to handle his bill paying for maintenance of the house, since he was so rarely there, and couldn't guarantee when he'd be available to handle these mundane issues. Likewise, a neighbor woman was engaged to handle housekeeping, although she regularly commented that she hardly had any real work there.

Over the years, he had slowly been spending more and more time at the house. Not so much because he wanted to, but because his company had changed over, and shifted from an advertising company, and had become an "image promotional" company, using freelance work rather than a stable of personnel. It meant less regular work, but higher percentages on the work that he was doing, as well as less time coordinating with others on what he could and couldn't do.

Of course, it also meant that the success or failure was his alone. He'd had to work at establishing trust early on, using first impressions and attention to detail to get the best results.

But the one rule he had set for himself was that there weren't a series of jobs. Each job, especially these that were being brought in by small family-run operations, were usually a crisis time event for them, and he had to do everything he could to give them the best possible outcome. So he could ignore the issue of being away from "normal" civilization, and concentrate on making this place a thriving business. Or else confirm their worst fears, and help them cut their losses before they were totally mired in financial failure.

The young lady that arrived at the desk appeared to have been working in the kitchen, her clothing hidden behind what was probably meant to be a frilly colonial style apron. Not an unusual set up in these places, where too many people only covering a single position meant unnecessary paychecks, although her hands spoke of an unfamiliarity with such work. She lit up when he introduced himself, and ran him through the paperwork quickly. He reminded her that he wanted to spend the first day or two just observing, and didn't want to be singled out to any other guests.
As she lead him to his room, she gave a quick tour of the place, and recited a bit of history about the inn and the area around it. A bit rehearsed and staged, but not overly so. He made a mental note to get in touch with a historical society for accuracy, as well as checking on other tourist attractions in the area. Likely, he'd only recommend a few changes to the introduction.

The room was in keeping with the exterior of the house, heavy on the quaint and romantic, light on the modern world. No television or computer access, but a comfortable bed and a coupleof chairs, and the bathroom had a claw-footed tub that looked like it could hold a massive amount of hot water.

A reminder of meal times, and the lady of the house was gone, leaving him with bags. After sorting out his clothing, he pulled out the papers he had been given on the inn, and began refreshing himself on the information. He wanted to be able to keep it all in his head while he was looking the place over.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Constance Malone

Setting her glasses on the desk, Connie rubbed the bridge of her nose and shut down the program. The way things looked, and if this guy Peter hired was any good, this place should be out of the red by 2010 or so. Yeah, yeah. So they had a dream. History was littered with the corpses of people who died for lesser things.

Speaking of dreams... She was dying for a cup of coffee. Pushing the chair back, Connie headed for the kitchen to make a pot. It was next to impossible to explain to those poor, godforsaken people who didn't "indulge" why it was a mortal sin to leave a pot sitting for longer than it took to drink two cups -- and since she was the only coffee drinker on the premises at the moment, the fine art of brewing the delectable elixir had fallen into her own more than capable hands.

Entering the not so bustling kitchen, she was greeted by her daughter-in-law. "Hello, Mother Malone. Come to make coffee, have you? You know the caffeine... "

Connie gave her a look that, if looks could kill, would have levelled three city blocks. What's-her-name never lost a chance to push her healthy ways on unsuspecting innocents such as herself every chance she got. She was like a reformed whore or a born again nonsmoker. Or a pit bull. And what was with this "Mother Malone" crap? It sounded like a radio program from the olden days.

Connie. Constance. Mom. Even Mrs. Malone wouldn't be bad. Maybe it was What's-her-name's way of getting even because she always seemed to forget her given name. Or at least liked to pretend she did. Who the hell ever heard of naming their kid Perlicia? Sounded like some sort of disease. It was, wasn't it? Perlicious anemia. Yeah. It was a disease all right.

"Yes, dear" she said, biting her tongue and smiling her sunniest faux smile. "Coffee it is. Then off for a stroll in the garden."

What's-her-name had already turned back to preparing some god-awful concoction for tonight's "special". Her Marshmallow Surprise Meatloaf had been a huge NONhit the night before. Connie shuddered.

Peter had already tried to get her cooking, too, but she wasn't having any part of it -- at least not until one of the paying guests died of ptomaine or something worse. All kidding aside, they needed to hire a chef. And if they couldn't afford one, they could probably get some homeless person for room and board.

Well, all Connie could say was that the woman had better be better than the most experienced prostitute in bed or her son was a bigger fool than she had thought. She never could figure out what it was he saw in her. For her money, she'd just as soon throttle her and bury her somewhere down by the river.

Raising her hands as if she intended to do the dirty deed, a beep from the coffeemaker alerted her that she was this close to heaven. "Little do you know, but your life was just saved by the coffee!"

"What did you say, Mother Malone? I wasn't... "

"Yes, dear. I know. Too poor to pay attention, is it? Coffee's made and I'm off for some fresh air." Not waiting or expecting a response, Connie poured a cup and headed for the back door with a chuckle.

Besides, she couldn't wait to light up. Now that would start a whole 'nother kind of rant, wouldn't it? You'd think those two would let her be "at her age". After all, it wasn't like she was smoking pot or anything. Connie rolled her eyes. If they only knew.

 

[stalwartone]

Curtis Barrows

Apparently, the universe was conspiring against him. After putting his clothing away, Curtis had sorted through the paperwork he'd brought with him, but found that his mind couldn't quite arrange the information. Numbers and facts refused to settle into orderly files in his head, and the papers needed to be read and reread to even pull the slightest bit of data into his mind. The journey, complete with distance, bad directions, and road food had taken it's toll, and he realized that he needed to give in to some of the bodily demands.

He decided to attempt to address two issues at once. A trip into the bathroom resulted in the hiss and gurgle of hot water filling the tub, and he used the time the task needed to divest himself of his clothing and lay claim to a notebook and pen. Finally easing himself into the tub of achingly hot water, he let his muscles relax, and began jotting down notes of his impressions of the facility. Three columns quickly began filling with his shorthand comments, and the margins also became crowded with notes to himself, reminders of tasks and questions that he would need to follow up on later.

The shorthand scribbling was his own creation. Years before, he'd been in the service, and his superiors were sticklers for security. "Even a single scrap of paper that lists the name of a single officer can be of critical importance to "The Enemy"!" had been the message in numerous posters, and Curtis had developed a system that only he could understand to keep his day to day information in order. Let someone on the other side find his notebook. He doubted that cryptographers would be able make heads or tails of his scratchings.

The hot water began to have it's effect, and he found himself unable to keep writing. Letting the notebook fall, he settled back, luxuriating in the soak.

Some people sing in choirs, some people sing in the kitchen, some in the shower. Curtis sang in the bath. Strange, but it was his way. He didn't claim to have a great voice, but he did sing, and probably would until someone banged on the door, or he fell asleep in the water. Sally had chided him about it, his mother had rebuked him for it, and those other in his life that had been subjected to the experience had offered various views about his ability. Still, it was something that he did. With an ease that almost bordered upon drunken revelry, he fell into that old song from that John Wayne movie, a chestnut about an Irish/Australian rogue in the Victorian era. Ignoring the possibility of other residents, or the rough edge to his voice, or the open window in the bedroom, he rolled into "The Wild Colonial Boy".

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Connie sat on a bench and pulled her pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, lighting one and inhaling deeply as she watched the slender tendrils of smoke curl up and drift away on the gentle breeze that wafted through the back garden. Most of the time since she'd arrived here, she longed to be back in her own home in the middle of civilization and not stuck in this small backwater town that no one in the world had ever heard of. Okay -- so it wasn't that small. But even so, she did long for the comforting city noises rather than the chirping of crickets and other godawful creatures that seemed quite at home here in this wilderness called Iowa.

Strains of someone singing broke into her reverie. Connie chuckled and took another drag on her cigarette as she perked her ears to catch the words to the tune. Although it was coming from a distance, it sounded vaguely familiar.

"Surrender now Jack Doolan, you see there's three to one
Surrender now Jack Doolan, you daring highwayman!"
He drew a pistol from his belt and twirled it like a toy.
"I'll fight but I won't surrender," said the wild colonial boy.

"My God! I haven't heard that song since... " Now sitting perfectly still, though her heart felt as though it would surely beat its way out of her chest, Connie continued to strain for the sound of the voice.

He fired at Trooper Kelly and brought him to the ground,
And in return from Davis received a mortal wound.
All shattered through the jaws he lay, still firing at Fitzroy.
And that's the way they captured him, the wild colonial boy.

"Impossible! He was... "

The words to the song, the sound of the voice brought the memories back like a resounding echo of a time long ago but never quite forgotten. "It's impossible!" Connie repeated to herself, but she was already on her feet and running for the Inn. She had to check the registry to see for herself. It just couldn't be! But who else would be singing "Wild Colonial Boy"? It was his voice! She knew it as well as she knew her own name. But he was...

"Oh, my sweet Lord. What if it is?"

 

[stalwartone]

Curtis

The tub certainly took care of one problem. The miles of road, the hours driving, the variances in road crowding, all had conspired to drive a tension anvil into his head from above. The hot soak had washed it away, leaving a sense of tranquility. His attempted exercise in vocal harmonizing had finally ended, and he allowed the water to lull him into a nap. Luckily the old style tub was designed for such events, and he drifted away for a time, his head resting against the rolled edge, his body kept in position by the high narrow form of the tub.

He was pulled back to reality by the laws of thermodynamics. The water coming from the tap might have been nearly boiling hot, but time was heat's enemy, and the water cooled rapidly without his toes working the handle style taps. The human body could only stand sitting in cold water for so long, and then it called for help. Curtis came awake slowly at first, then recognized his problem. His urge to stay and soak was countermanded by his body's revulsion of the tepid water. A tug of the stopper, a brief effort to extricate himself from the tub, and he was padding back into the bedroom, a towel draped over him, and his notebook in hand. A fresh series of notes were now in it, including a reminder to check if all the tubs in the place were of that style. Few people, especially women in a romantic mood, could resist such a tub. And that could be a major draw, especially if the water heater had the capacity.

A glance at the clock reminded him that dinner was soon to come. This could tell him more about the facility's chances for longevity than anything. If the meals weren't anything to speak of, it would be a deal killer. Couples didn't want to stay long in a reclusive area if they were going to have to make a choice between a mediocre meal on the site, and travelling the, what, almost ten miles to the nearest town.

He dressed quickly, digging for the professional casual look. He hadn't really been offered a hint of dinner's dress code, but the worst that could happen was that he would be asked to come back when properly attired. If the notes he had been given were correct, there wasn't any chance of that happening.

His one fear was that he would look out of place as a single human at a bed and breakfast. If there had been more time, he might have considered hiring someone to come with him simply for appearance. There hadn't been time, and there wasn't a real need for such window dressing. Besides, there might be someone interested in sharing a table.

He did add one small bit to his outfit. A thick journal had the slip cover of a popular book placed around it, and a flat pen went into his pocket. People might frown upon someone taking notes, but few people would notice someone reading during a long dinner.

Now, for dinner.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Connie hurtled herself from the bench and through the kitchen door, almost knocking her startled daughter-in-law off her feet as she continued her mad dash toward the guest rooms -- the ones in the general direction the singing had come from. Halfway up the stairs, she drew herself to a halt.

What in the world has gotten into you, Constance Malone?? Have you finally gone off the proverbial rocker. Oh, yes... prepare yourself for a very long stay at "The Home". It was impossible, and she knew it. Curtis had been killed in Da Nang almost forty years before. Dead men don't just suddenly reappear out of nowhere and show up in some remote bed and breakfast in Iowa. Anyone could have been singing that song. It wasn't like it was unheard of. But the voice. It was his. Wasn't it?

A figment. Just a figment, she chastised herself, more than a little embarrassed and relieved that she hadn't gone barrelling into some poor man's room like some sort of mad woman. It was all the strain of the past year building up -- Bob's death, then the bull with her son and what's-her-name thinking she couldn't subsist on her own.

Feeling quite sheepish, Connie did an about-face and began to walk slowly back down the steps. Counselling. Yes, that's what she needed. Counselling. Before she totally and completely snapped.

"Good evening!"

She almost missed the last step when she heard the greeting, narrowly escaping a nasty fall which would surely have broken something vital. In fact, she would have if he hadn't grabbed her arm to catch her fall.

"Easy there. I didn't mean to startle you!"

It was him! She would know that voice anywhere. It was impossible!! Wasn't it? Afraid to look, Connie fought back the rising dark. Sweet heavens! Don't let me faint now! They'll be sure I've finally just gone mad -- maybe I have.

 

[stalwartone]

Curtis

Heading down to the dining room, Curtis concentrated on absorbing the ambience. He tried to picture the place as a visitor would, someone visiting with romantic ambitions. The place had definite possibilities, but there were some issues that had to be considered in their proper context. Certain parts of the decor were probably of some personal basis, but they might need to be adjusted for professional reasons. At the very least, some signs indicating the significance of the decor.

Following the stairs down, one hand sliding along on the bannister, he found his thoughts drifting back to the early days of the marriage. Sally had agreed to his proposal as almost a charitable move. He'd been a questionable decision, a man haunted by demons of smoke and memory. He was a good worker and provider, but the home life was a definite issue. She'd been the one to suggest therapy for his nightmares and drinking, and the one to threaten leaving him when he refused to seriously consider it. She had returned, once he finally accepted the problems and found a path to recovery, but she had made it clear that her presence in his life required him working at maintaining a relationship. She wouldn't be a trophy wife, nor would she be there to apologize for his actions. If he wanted her in his life, then he'd better be prepared to acknowledge his own shortcomings and his responsibilities.

Not that she'd been the most stable of people. She'd had a good potential career in front of her, and adding a marriage to her life would do devastating damage to that career. She had decided to salve her wounded ego with his paycheck, and more than a few of their arguments had dealt with extravagant purchases. And if being a wife was a blow to her dreams, becoming a mother hadn't made her life easier. Amanda may have allowed her entry into the world of school mothers, but she also considered the after effects of childbirth to be a series of less than noble scars.

Still, the marriage had been good, and there had been romantic moments, times away from the world when they had renewed the strengths of their relationship. They'd balanced each other, in their own ways.

Rounding the landing, he almost ran into a person heading down the steps ahead of him, but at a much slower pace. He would have thought that he'd have heard her, but he had to admit that he had been drifting. Still, a friendly greeting never hurt.

Apparently she was in her own world, because his call caused her to trip and stumble on the last step, falling away. He skipped the last couple of steps, and reached for her, making the catch the would save her a nasty fall.

"Easy there. I didn't mean to startle you!"

He tried to sound nonchalant, yet still apologetic. He had, after all, caused her to trip, and that couldn't be good. No one liked to be surprised.

Still, there was something, well, familiar here. Chalk it up to the memories, or to the ambience. He could almost swear to a sense of deja vu. Something about the way she held herself, or the tilt of her head. He was sure he knew her. As she turned, he made eye contact, and his heart threatened to grind to a halt altogether. If nothing else, he would know those eyes.

"Connie?"

 

[Maid of Marvels]

She stared at him as if she'd seen a ghost. What in the name of all that was holy?? It couldn't be. But it was.

"Curtis? Curtis Barrows?" Pulling her arm free of his hand, she drew it back and slapped him with every bit of strength she could muster.

"You bastard!! You're dead!! You're old! I'm old!! What are you doing here? Why didn't you write? Why didn't you... You are dead damn you. DEAD!!"

Connie didn't know whether to run or stay to hear his explanation. It had better be a good one... It wasn't as simple as him going off to the corner war and showing up forty years later to say they were out of milk. Or that he had gotten lost. Or killed.

"Connie, I... "

His voice. His eyes! He has crow's feet. His hair is gray!! He's dead!! He's standing right in front of you, nit! But he can't be! But he is. Unable to bear the sight of him staring at her, she turned and continued down the stairs.

"Connie!"

"Go back to your grave!! I need a drink."

"But, you... don't drink."

"I do now." Not waiting to see if he followed -- or caring -- Connie rushed behind the reception desk and into the office, slamming the door behind her. She knew there was a long forgotten bottle of scotch stashed in here someplace and she aimed to put it to good use.

 

[stalwartone]

Curtis

If he had been doubting the identity of the lady that he had just caught, the slap to the face changed his mind for him. Connie had always been been possessed of a temper, but it was one that simmered below the surface, then would suddenly erupt without warning. He'd been on the receiving end of slaps similar to that one on prior occasions, mostly following moments of incredible stupidity on his part. The first time had been during the early part of their dating, at a dinner at his family's house. There had been some joking about fidelity and lengths of marriages of people that they knew, and Curtis had been warned about looking after his own, a comment meant to simply be a bit of sagely advice from one generation to the next.

Naturally, he had taken it wrong, and tried to make a joke of it. With a wide grin, he'd simply responded that if things fell apart with Connie, he'd always have Jackson, a reference to a song by Johnny Cash and his wife about a couple on the outs. He hadn't managed to let Connie in on his intent with the comment, and he'd paid for it when he turned around. Just as right now, the entire side of his face suddenly flared in pain, then went numb, then finally throbbed and smarted for the better part of an hour. Worse had been the livid handprint that had marked him for the rest of the day and beyond.

He'd had to spend the better part of the next month apologizing to her before she had relaxed and somewhat relented. He wasn't sure of what exactly had set that tantrum off, but he had spent a long time carefully skirting the issues of infidelity and careless marriages.

Her comment about him being dead confused him. He surely wasn't, or else how was he feeling that solid block of pain in his jaw? He'd last seen her prior to shipping out for Basic, and had conversed with her several times into his deployment in Vietnam. The groundwork had been laid for their eventual marriage when he returned, but he hadn't been able to do much more about it from halfway around the world.

He'd lost contact with her, when, after the mortar incident that had laid him up in the hospital for months. The letters stopped, the ones he sent out (actually tapes, since his hands hadn't been much for writing at that point) had been returned, and his mother had said something about her having disappeared. It had pretty much broken his heart and spirit, but the hospital chaplain had nodded sagely, and spoke sorrowfully of the stresses of home life on long distance relationships, then suggested that he concentrate on getting well, and moving on. He'd obviously simply written it off to a case of wrongly placed puppy love, and left it at that.

Vietnam had been evil. If Basic had been bad, and the trip in country had been worse, the jungles of Asia had been the worst of anything that a young man could imagine. The country boys in his unit, the rednecks and shitkickers that had grown up in the wilds had all agreed that the country was pretty much the nastiest thing they'd ever seen. The land changed with the weather, the water and insects were all out to devour the invaders, and the whole place stunk. The jungle reeked of rotting vegetation, the rivers choked the air with the stench of rotting fish, and whatever came from the local cooking pots was enough to trip the gag reflexes of most men.

To make it even worse, the life there changed people. Human life was cheap, and the ground under the vegetation was red, supposedly red from the blood that had been spilled there for so long. The villagers numbly went about their business, ignoring those moving around them. And those soldiers that had been there for any time started to show signs of losing interest in other people. His arrival at the firebase had been met with a grizzled lifer sergeant sitting by the pad, a cookfire smoking steadily under a steelpot helmet. When Curtis had asked innocently what he was cooking, the man had inserted a knife into the contents, and drawn out a human skull that he was in the process of cleaning by boiling. "Gook soup," was his only comment to the young soldier, and Curtis had known that his life was into a serious spiral.

His commanding officer was a racist of the first order, and had no use for anyone with other views. He proudly announced that he would gladly "gut, skin, and skull fuck" any of the non-caucasians in the unit, and openly threatened any locals that might come in contact with them. He loudly spoke against the Vietnamese, and would grin when he explained that when on leave, he "never paid more than two bits for giving some slant the pleasure of riding my cock!". Curtis had despised him, but military protocol wouldn't allow him to leave the unit or give in to his baser feelings about the lieutenant.

Curtis had made the mistake of trying to befriend several of the colored soldiers in the outfit, and it had ended up costing him. He'd been put on latrine detail repeatedly with some of his comrades, he'd been labelled a "mysoginist", a term that Curtis wasn't sure was still in circulation, and the lieutenant had taken to offering variations of the black power salute to him, which would inevitably turn into some variation of the nazi salute.

Still, he'd managed to swallow his anger, and do his job. His skill with electronics and radio had earned him the dubious responsibility of communications NCO, and that in turn pulled him away from some of the worse jobs in the unit. Carrying the field radio meant that he never had to take point on patrol, and the CO's need to always have commo near by had meant that he routinely had his own security when things seemed bad. He had been paired up for most of the tour with a good guy, and they had agreed to several of the age old soldier's pacts, including contacting each other's families in the event of a death. Curtis had carefully written what he considered his "letter from beyond" for his family and for Connie, and copies, along with his spare dog tags and the pictures of his loved ones had been entrusted to Reynolds' foot locker.

The CO had decided that his wants and needs took priority at all times, and took extreme pains to prove it to his subordinates. It was nothing to him to demand that Curtis run to the mess to get him a fresh cup of coffee while it was raining, then berate the hapless soldier for the brew not being exactly as he liked it. ("Hot, not tepid, strong, not diluted with rain water, three creams, one sugar, and filled to the rim!") Another demand would be for hot food during a fire fight, or for his own private latrine that was "upwind of the darky tent". More than a few of the company had been considering how best to back stab him and make it look like an enemy attack.

The end had come during the latter part of what the members of the firebase considered "the nightly siege". The night would become eerily quiet, then voices could be heard in the distance, calls in broken English, mostly rants and slurs against the Americans. Then they would quiet down, only to creep up to the perimeter, and loose a few rounds at random targets. This was usually good enough to cause all hell to break loose in the camp, as soldiers ran for their posts. Flares would be launched, virtually useless in the foliage, but they could illuminate anyone close to the wire. The guards at the outermost positions would then attempt to drive the creeping sappers back, sending burst after burst of light and medium arms fire into the darkness, tracers cutting glowing lines in their flight.

Of course, the entire trick had been to get the soldiers into established positions, and the mortars would open up, dropping hellfire onto places that had been carefully marked and measured by the faceless enemy. Explosive charges would drop with a faint whistle, then suddenly erupt upon impact.

One of these attacks managed to cut the commo line. A field antennae had been installed in one of those strangely ingenious assemblies that soldiers had managed to put together on their own, and it allowed secure transmissions through what had to be the only clear sections of the canopy. Unfortunately, it was connected to the radio by a strand of wire that had been strung carefully in a manner to protect it from dangers both above and below. But a stray mortar shell had fallen farther into the camp than normal, and the lieutenant found himself unable to report in to his superiors. Curtis had been detailed for the repair, something he wasn't sure was anything he really wanted to do. As security, one of the unit's "Kit Carson"'s was assigned to him, and Curtis and the Vietnamese ranger had run into the night, the American bent to the ground, running his fingers along the wire, searching for the break, his repair kit and AR-10 bouncing against his side as he moved.

Searching for a break was normally a simple job. You found where the line had split out, salvage what you could of the wiring, and either splice together the damaged ends, or link in a new section. But this task now had him doing it in the dark, under fire, and with explosives dropping out of the air around him. He'd found the break when the Kit Carson had suddenly howled and started cutting loose with his ancient French submachine gun. Curtis had dropped his kit on the ground, and pulled the AR-10 into ready position. It was a poor defense against an unseen enemy, but the good rifles had gone to good old boys in the outfit.

A figure had appeared in the gloom, coming from a direction that didn't jibe with the known guard points. Plus, his weapon had a banana clip, which none of the friendlies had. Both Curtis and the Kit tapped out rounds, and the guy shook and fell, then Curtis tried to return to the job, but now carrying the rifle in one hand. He'd only gone a short distance when a familiar whine filled the air. He'd been diving for anything that looked like cover when the world erupted. The last things he remembered from that final moment had been the flare of pain in his arms and the sudden violent destruction of the Kit Carson.

When he recovered, he was in the Army hospital, his arms wrapped and stitched from wrist to shoulder, and a chunk of his skin left somewhere back in the jungle. Reynolds had been shipped home missing more body parts, so he didn't even have a friend that he knew in the locale.

Curtis shook his head, pulling himself back to reality. He'd thought Connie had long since disappeared, possibly to a loving family life, possibly worse. In any case, with her exiting his life back then, he'd written her off.

Although it had taken him a long time to get there. He'd loved her, more than anyone else. Hell, even now, even knowing that she had decided to slug him rather than say hello, he felt the old pangs. He stumbled after her, losing sight of her running form, but tracking her by the sound of her uneven steps. A door slammed, and he found himself stranded in the entryway. She'd gone into an office, and regardless of his position, it was wrong to go behind the counter.

"Connie! Dammit, come back here!" He pounded the desk for a moment, then realized how this must sound.

"Please?"

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"Mother? Mother Malone?"

Connie sighed. What's-her-name must have heard the ruckus she'd made and come to get the latest gossip and to take notes in hope of sending her off to the "home". What must she be already thinking with Curtis standing there by the desk out there, besides?

Setting the bottle back in the bottom of the filing cabinet where she'd gotten it from, she unlocked the door and stuck her head out without letting her daughter-in-law pass. "Can't you see I'm having a temper tantrum here? If you prefer, I will go to my own room or take the car and go for a drive. But the temper tantrum is my own and I don't care to share it with you. Go take care of your guests before they leave in droves."

Looking past her toward Curtis who was trying to look nonchalant as he stood leafing through the guest book on the desk, Connie glared at him and said, "Well, Curtis? Here, upstairs or do we go for a drive? We have some things I think need discussing."

Her turnabout had to have taken him by surprise, though one couldn't tell aside from the slight twitch at the corner of his eye. "Perhaps the dining room, Connie. At least there you will have to behave yourself."

"Indeed!" Pushing past the open-mouthed What's-her-name, Connie led the way to a corner table. "You'll catch a fly if you don't shut that trap of yours," she added over her shoulder without looking or waiting for a response.

Connie didn't know what she was going to say -- what they were going to say. She was angry and hurt and more than a little flabbergasted to find herself face-to-face with a man she had thought long dead. But Curtis was right. Public was better. They would both have to be civil this way.

 

[stalwartone]

Curtis

Curtis smiled to himself as they moved to the dining room. Public, indeed. And Connie behaving herself? The lady was an elemental, as hot spirited as any fire, and as capricious as any summer breeze, capable of switching force and direction without warning. That spirit had been what had caught him, and had kept her in his thoughts. For some time after his return, even with Sally, he'd secretly hoped that her sudden disappearance from his life had simply been another temper tantrum, or a realized desire to travel. She'd always wanted to see the world, and he could easily have seen her suddenly taking up her bags and boarding a steamer to visit the far ends of the globe.

Sally. The name struck him. If Connie was fire and air, Sally was the exact opposite. Cool water running over a deep rooted rock, that was Sally. Everything methodical and carefully planned, and not a hair out of place in the process. Summer vacation for the family planned in September, Christmas dinner menus laid out in February.

But Connie.. He started, feeling strangely guilty. Why did he feel like he was committing some infidelity? He and Connie hadn't seen each other in decades, yet here she was with him, even if she did seem to believe him to be deceased. Of course, he'd sworn a vow to Sally, and had been faithful to that vow, even in their darkest hours, and even following her death. Her ring sat on a crystal plate on his dresser, always there to remind him in those times when he ventured upstairs at home.

But Connie.. She'd been, .. well, for lack of a better term, the one. She'd been there for him in his youth, and she'd loved him as much as he'd loved her back then. He hadn't given in to dreams of marriage before her, but had found such thoughts so easy in her presence. And such a marriage it might have been. They had laughed about the ceremony, changing their plans every time. A church ceremony, in tuxes and gowns, with a huge dinner afterwards. An outdoor ceremony, with a few friends and family, in simple light outfits suitable for the weather. A quiet civil ceremony, in an office, a witness apiece. Eloping, finding a chapel in Nevada, and exchanging vows in their travel clothes. Or overseas, in exotic clothes, before some holyman of an equally exotic faith.

She'd put up with the worst parts of him, although it was in her own way, and on her own terms. She'd been the one drawn to the wilder sides of life, and while he'd frowned upon some of her choices of experiences, he'd recognized that he held little command over her, and could only be there for her in the same way she was for him.

And what experiences had she gone through in their separation? No worse than he had, obviously. Time had marked her, softening and changing her face and form, but that was hardly unique to her. He himself was hardly the young man that she'd known. If anything, the years had brought out the inner elegance that had been hidden by a veneer of youthful exuberance. Despite the temper tantrum, the outburst on the stairs, and the slight odor of scotch that had followed her from the office, she was a lady now, the young woman that he had known a stepping stone for this being.

But now, here they were, facing each other. He had a thousand questions for her, but also recognize that something else needed to be broached. Still, after having been slapped and subject to that piercing glare, he felt it wrong to simply say, "hey, why did you disappear on me?". No, something else was needed.

Taking a deep breath, he took in the room for a moment, then offered the only thing that came to mind.

"So, how have you been?"

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"So how have I been? Not dead like you," Connie quipped, immediately chagrinned that she'd spat that out. She meant to behave. Really she did. Biting her tongue had never been one of her better traits.

"I'm sorry. Hell. No I am not!" Connie leaned across the table to add that last bit and then sat up straight again as if she was just having friendly conversation and dinner with an old friend. She smiled at Curtis then jerked her head to the right and glared scathingly at her son and daughter-in-law who were peeking out through a crack in the door that led to the kitchen. Of course What's-her-name would have filled Peter in on what had happened in the office -- adding her own lurid summation in lieu of the facts, ma'am. Bringing her hand up to shield her mouth from Curtis' view, she stuck her tongue out and smirked when the door abruptly swung closed.

"Good," she said aloud without even realizing. "Nosey Parkers."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. You know, Curtis. You look pretty damned good for a corpse. How do you do it?"

"Plastic surgery. You're looking... not so bad yourself, Connie. Why do you keep insisting that I'm dead. I'm obviously not. I'm sitting right here with you now, aren't I?"

"Don't order the Marshmallow Meatloaf Surprise. It's sure to put you six feet under -- or at least give you a case of Iowa's own brand of Montezuma's Revenge. And just what are you doing here anyway?"

"I've been engaged by the proprietor... "

Connie made a sound that was completely unintelligible but decidedly negative. "Don't tell me... " she blurted. "You are the Savior that's going to help my son make a go of this place? Hallellujah! It is the Second Coming after all and I didn't even hear Gabriel blowing his horn."

"Constance... "

She looked up from the menu that she'd buried her nose in. Connie hadn't wanted to look in his eyes. She hadn't wanted to really listen to his voice. She hadn't wanted to... remember. But when he used that tone of voice -- said her name the way he always had -- she couldn't resist.

"Bob is dead, too."

Why was everything she said making her sound like a crazy woman? Food. Go back to food. Food is good. Food is safe. "The risotto is my own recipe. That's relatively safe... even if I didn't cook it. God, I'm dying for a cigarette!"

"I quit. Two packs of Lucky's a day will kill you."

"Obviously. Now tell me again how you managed to pull off your own death, will you? You left for boot, got shipped out and... Not a word. Not even an obituary. Dammit, Curtis! If you didn't want to be with me anymore, all you had to do was tell me. I can't say that I would have understood, but it would have been... easier."

Connie felt a lump forming in her throat that was always the precursor of a crying jag, but she refused to buckle. She'd cried too many tears -- so many that they stopped burning after a while. She just didn't understand why... and how could she even sit here with him now after...

Bob had been a good man. A good provider. A good husband and father. An attentive lover, though Curtis had been... Connie sighed. They were so different. It was almost sacriledge to compare the two. Apples and oranges. Or was that apples and rotten eggs?

"Maybe I'll just have fruit salad."

 

[stalwartone]

Curtis

He felt rather like he was in a boxing ring in a chronic mismatch, a stumblebum with dreams of glory against a proven professional. Every potential opening seemed to be an opportunity to simply get another roundhouse landed upon him. Her twists and jumps in conversation were enough to keep him too busy trying to follow her to find a way to punch through to what was really bothering her. He tried some verbal sparring, some cute patter, even some simple cutting remarks. The only moment that seemed to bring out the old Constance was when he used her name, adding the edge that was usually enough to pull her thoughts into a single line. It was only for a moment, but she was there, the same lovely woman that he had loved so long ago, the same woman that had promised herself to him, and had been everything that he had ever wanted. The vulnerable woman was in there, but the armor she had built for herself snapped back into place, and she broke eye contact, retreating back into her rambling.

"Bob is dead, too." The comment was another of those shots from somewhere beyond his line of site. Who the hell was Bob? A horrible thought caught him, and he involuntarily dropped his eyes to her hands. Damn, of course. So, she was a widow. A brief flash of jealousy ran through him. Someone else with her..

No, it was wrong to feel that. If he had to hate the thought of someone else with her, how could he feel about himself, for having been with Sally? There wasn't room for anger here, not in that sense. And, apparently the owners that had hired him were.. well, at least one of them, to judge from the size of the operation.. was hers.

He tried to consider the thought of her as a mother. It would have been a long upbringing, no doubt, but a safe one. He could picture her raising a child, but he could also picture her teaching the child of the world in that no nonsense manner of hers. She probably made a point of hashing and rehashing the facts of life with her child, most likely during the most embarrassing moments possible. Prom, or at a birthday party. He smiled to himself, imagining that conversation.

Another breach in her demeanor happened, as she suddenly cut loose with a flurry of angry comments at him. he tried to parry, but the last burst of the diatribe caught him hard.

"If you didn't want to be with me anymore, all you had to do was tell me. I can't say that I would have understood, but it would have been... easier.

She shook for a moment, and he saw the flush in her cheeks that always signalled a rush of tears. As she tried to hide it, he leaned forward, pushed her menu aside so as to force her to make eye contact. His hand dropped to her free hand and covered it. When he spoke, he had unconsciously brought back the old edge, that bit of fire that had gotten him in trouble before. A glint of the old madness welled up, and he could almost smell the canvas and medicinal scents of the hospital. For a moment, he found himself amazed to look down at his hand, and not find the arm wrapped in gauze and the oils used to alleviate the burn damage.

" I didn't want to be with you? What the hell are you talking about? Where in the HELL did you get to? Beyond married and all? I wrote like crazy, but nothing came through from the you in the World." The old inflection was there, the concept of something greater and more glorious than the hell that he and his people had been slogging through. A final bit of rage surfaced, giving voice before he managed to bite it down. "And who the hell is.. was.. Bob?"

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Somewhere through the glaring pain that felt not unlike whiskey being poured into an open wound, Connie heard the hurt and resentment in Curtis' voice as he told her that he had written, never to get a reply. But she hadn't gotten any letters from him. Not one. And every inquiry she'd made had turned up a dead end. So of course she had presumed...

"Bob is... was my husband," she said, holding up her left hand to show her wedding band as if it were some sort of shield from the hurt that shone blatantly in his eyes. "We... I... have a son." Connie tilted her head toward the kitchen door which had reopened a crack to allow Peter and his wife to watch some more of the show while making a mental wager as to which of them would take it upon themself to approach the table for their order.

"Nosey Parkers," she grumbled under her breath before taking the chance of looking at Curtis' face, looking into his eyes. "I never got them. Not even one."

"Parker? I thought your surname was... Oh... "

The realization that someone else's mistake had seperated them for an entire lifetime suddenly washed over Connie like an epiphany. It made her both sad and mad all at once and she looked around the dining room desperate to find a place to escape. A place where she could rail her hurt and anger yet again at the unfairness of this thing called life. Vent her wrath at the not-so-benevolent man upstairs who got the credit for everything good while having the balls to balance those few good things out with horrors and atrocities for his own seeming amusement.

So lost was she in thought that she hadn't heard anyone approach, and the sound of Peter's voice asking if they had decided on their dinner choices startled her back into the now. Damn! She would have bet anything that it would have been What's-her-name. Connie sighed. Why should her streak of bad life start to change now?

"We've decided... " Curtis began.

"On Burger King," Connie finished, pushing her chair back abruptly and standing up. "Shall we?"

"B-but... "

"Stop flapping, Peter. You'll catch a fly." That seemed to be the catchword of the day. Her luck, though, one would land in her own mouth for wishing it on others. "Don't wait up."

Not waiting to see if Curtis would follow, Connie held her head high as she left the room, hoping that she displayed at least a modicum of dignity given the ludicrousness of the entire situation -- of her entire life.

 

[stalwartone]

Connie took off like a dervish, a compressed storm flying away in a straight line, her movements fueled by a purpose. Curtis considered for only a moment, then smiled ruefully to the poor man standing there, apparently watching his mother fly away. Something in his eyes suggested that he had seen this before, although maybe not in this context. Hell, he'd have to be deaf to have not recognized that he was looking at a former lover of his mother. It had to be painful, and it would likely put a huge strain on their later work.

Curtis went after her, his heart churning. He'd broached something that she'd kept buried, and he realized that he was in for just as horrible a time here shortly. If he was going to listen to her speak about her husband, then he would have to speak about his wife, something she likely would have real issues with.

Dammit, was the universe just showing a sense of humor? He hadn't been looking for romance, let alone the return of the the love of his life, but there she was. And, for all that he'd kept his marriage vows sacred, Connie had been the one . She'd been everything to him, and he had firmly considered ignoring his call to duty in order to be with her.

He caught her in the parking lot. Well, maybe he simply caught up to her. It was sort of hard to tell with her stance and demeanor. He did the only thing he could, and pulled the keychain from his pocket. A roll of his thumb, and the Passat chirped in response, it's lights briefly flickering in an effort to be noticed.

"I'm sure," he said as he moved to open her door, "that you realize that there isn't a Burger King inside of fifty miles."

He settled behind the wheel, and started the car, listening to the throaty growl of the engine, the distinctive roar that was unique to the German car designers. The gears meshed, the car pulled out, and soon they were on the road. Silence reigned for a long moment, stretched to a mile, then Curtis couldn't take it any more. Let her damn him for being alive, let her damn him for being a widower, but she wasn't going to damn him for wanting to talk to her.

"I'm sorry." The words were hollow, flat, empty things that shouldn't be there. He needed something else to break through to her.

"Look, I don't know why the letters got mixed up. Likely military intelligence, but it could be a thousand other things."

Tell her. The voice in his head railed at him. Tell her that you never stopped loving her. Tell her that you care. Tell her that you still want her.

He rounded a curve, his eyes searching the road ahead. His inner voice screamed, calling him out as the coward that he felt himself to be.

"Tell me about Bob."

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"Bob." Connie repeated the name and took a deep breath. She wasn't used to talking about Bob. Everyone she knew knew him, so there had never been a reason to elaborate or explain or describe him or their life together. Before now. Before... For some odd reason she felt awkward about his wanting to know and really wasn't sure she wanted to discuss Bob with Curtis, but that would make her seem ashamed and ashamed she was not. It did mean, however, that she might reveal some things she preferred not to mention at all. To anyone. Not even to herself.

Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Bob Malone had always been second best in her mind... and in her heart. You see, Connie had never stopped loving Curtis Barrows. Not when she thought he had deserted her. Not when she had thought he was dead. Not through thirty years of marriage and all it entailed. Somehow it almost felt like it would be sharing pillow talk, discussing previous lovers with a current one.

For crying out loud, Constance. He isn't asking for penis size or whether you did it from the chandelier or on the kitchen table. He only wants to know what you've done in the time... the time while he was... dead. She argued back and forth with herself, refusing to look at Curtis, preferring to concentrate on the scenery outside the car as they sped along the interstate. It was safer to say nothing. Of course it was. It would mean that Curtis would feel a need to reciprocate. Offer details. She wasn't foolish enough to think he'd not had a life after... But she didn't want to hear it. And what if... what if he did the math? What if??

Despite her own personal concerns, Connie found herself talking. She began slowly but in the end it all tumbled out head-over-heels-kersmack right into Curtis' lap. Well, he did ask. Didn't he?

She told him how she and Bob had met, though she left out the exact "when" of it -- he'd have to figure all that out without her help. She told him that Bob was a good man, a good provider. A plumber. The Grand Poobah of the local Moose Lodge and the head of his teamsters local. She skirted around details, only saying that she had only had the one child... Peter, and no others. She didn't offer an explanation and hoped he wouldn't ask. She talked about their house in the suburbs and the things she did while she played stay-at-home-mom. She told him that he'd been gone for just over a year now and how she came to be in Iowa.

But never... not even once... did she say that she loved him. Though she did say that she missed him. Not horribly, but missed him nonetheless. He had been, in the grand scheme of things, a good friend and a pleasant companion. It was on her that it had never really been more -- at least on her side of it. For that, she would answer when the time came, but hopefully not too soon.

Curtis had remained quiet the entire time she spoke. It was unnerving, but really what could he have said? And when Connie had finally said all that she had to say -- or at least all she intended to say -- she turned to him, asking the question she hadn't wanted the answer to from the start. She asked it almost as a penance for her own shortcomings, but she asked it all the same. "And you, Curtis? Do you have someone?"

 

[stalwartone]

Curtis

The silence after his question was fairly overwhelming. He knew he'd hit upon a sore subject, and he felt bad about it, but it was out, and he couldn't take it back. Besides, some part of him needed to know.

She finally began talking. Bob had apparently been a stand-up guy, one of those Rock of Gibralter types, the man that was always there, and had always planned for everything. Probably had carefully written his life path out early, had gone to school exactly for his intended career, had pictured his wife and kids in advance, and carefully chosen Connie based upon those qualities he had imagined.

Likewise, he had probably planned for every imaginable disaster. He'd probably been one of those that lived in the midwest and bought hurricane insurance, just in case. He'd been a good person, just not an imaginative person, from the sounds of it.

Her descriptions of her life during that time had seemed out of character for her. He knew that she had the skills to be a housewife, but her attitude had never seemed in sync with the concept. They'd joked in their younger days about having to have enough money to hire outside help, since either one of them would likely go crazy being forced to stay home during the day.

Of course, there was the possibility that there was more than she was telling him. Not just in general details, since he knew she wasn't going to give him the Frontline view, but rather in certain specifics. There might have been something more, some dark secret that she didn't want to reveal. Maybe she had been to Bob what Sally had been to him.

Well, it wasn't like he could hate the guy. Not only did he sound like a guy that would spend a night retrieving some child's favorite plastic toy from toilet pipes, he was beyond the cares of the emotional state of his wife's former lover.

"And you, Curtis? Do you have someone?"

The dreaded question. For a moment, he flexed his fingers, feeling the place where his ring had been.

"No, not any more." He allowed a moment, then began.

Sally. A quick description of her, both physical and attitude. An open account of his dark days to explain how they had gotten together. He was beyond being embarrassed by his own short comings, especially when he had been a slave to the bottle. He might not have been a devotee to the religious overtones of the healing process, but he'd managed to find and use the elements needed to put him on the path to recovery.

He spoke of their life together. Of the routines they'd fallen into, of the school pageants, the trips to the emergency rooms, the arguments over Amanda's choices in boyfriends and clothing, the fears about money and the future. And he spoke of Sally putting up with his demons. And him putting up with her black times.

He spoke of her death. Of the horrible task of identifying her remains. Of signing for her belongings and for the crushed mini-van. Of how it had caused him to subscribe to every publication put out by consumer organizations, by insurance companies, and by Ralph Nader, looking for safer vehicles and driving techniques. He virtually skipped over the funeral, since it had been a horrible event for him.

He also spoke of Amanda's death. The shock of it, the nightmares that had followed it, worse than those that had visited him earlier in the year. Of his regrets for her decision, as well as his anger at not having worked harder to keep her out of the military. Maybe if he'd put more away for her future, maybe if he'd made arrangements for her to find a more affordable school, maybe if he'd allowed her to follow up on her idea for a live-in boyfriend.

Finally, he stopped talking, aware of the sudden lightness in his chest. He'd aired the darkness, maybe not for the best, but at least he'd been honest and open. They'd finally found another bit of civilization, and he turned the car into the parking lot of a roadside restaurant.

Once he parked, he turned and looked at her, his face about as calm as he could manage.

"You know.." he began, trying to find the right words. "...I've missed you."

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Connie listened to Curtis without comment, her forehead pressed against the window as he spoke. She felt the tears running down her face, though she was loath to let him see even one. Sadness, regrets for what was and what might have been, and tangled wonderings -- wisps of "why now" and "how come after all these years".

Normally, Connie didn't believe in coincidences, though she was not really high up on the ladder when it came to destiny and fate and the will of the gods either. Her philosophy seemed to hinge more on "be careful what you ask for" and "okay, I'm bored now... let's see how we can ruin Connie's life and have a bit of fun with it at the same time".

Despite the appearance that she might not even be listening to a word that Curtis spoke, she heard every word. Even words he didn't speak aloud. Even still, she remained silent. Unsure of what to say, afraid that she would say something that would hurt him with her need to assuage her own pain, Connie was vaguely aware of the car slowing and then coming to a full stop.

"You know... " he said quietly. "I've missed you."

Those words, more than any of his others, wrenched her heart as though he had gripped it and twisted it. Connie's hand flew to her mouth as she turned to face him for the first time since they had gotten into the car.

Curtis was fumbling with the keys, embarrassed, or so it seemed, by his blurted confession. What could she say to that. How could she tell him that not a day passed without her thoughts going to him. That every time she looked at Peter's face... Connie sighed. She would never tell him the truth of it. Never. It would destroy her son. He loved Bob very much, as did Bob love him in return.

"Curtis," she finally said, needing to see his face, to look into his eyes. "I... " She couldn't do it. She couldn't say that she had never stopped loving him, wanting him. It would send every moment of her life without him crashing into the abyss, negating any goodness that had been Bob's way of healing, or at least trying to heal, the part of her that she could never share with him no matter what. It would prove her guilt, her greed, her selfish need to forget by using an innocent man who spent his life at an Herculean task that could never come to fruition.

"I... " she tried again as she forced a smile to her teary face. There had been no chance to wipe them away, for they flowed down her cheeks like a deluge. "I'm maybe not so hungry after all," Connie finally managed. "But let's go inside anyway."

She wasn't ready to go back to the River Vista, nor was she willing to let Curtis from her sight. She would have to tell him how she felt. Some how. Some way.

 

[stalwartone]

"I'm maybe not so hungry after all. But let's go inside anyway." She certainly didn't sound confident about her decision, but Curtis was hoping that she might change her mind once they got inside.

The restaurant was fairly typical of the fare found in medium sized towns with some sort of highway access. Low level lighting, wood tones on the lower half of the room and flooring, false stonework on the walls, and waitresses that were most likely spending weekdays working in school cafeterias. The largest light source in the building came from a grouping of heat lamps at a buffet line, and the menus were all designed to suggest either the buffet of dry meat and overcooked vegetables, or the two page selection of steaks.

They were shown to a table, thankfully in a far corner, under a pair of reproductions of once trendy travel posters. Curtis ran a quick list of known area restaurant supply vendors in his head, balanced it against the likely age of the restaurant, and figured that there was a good chance he knew the salesman that had arranged a hefty deposit in his retirement account.

Well, it could have been worse, he decided. They could have been seated by the buffet, or the kitchen entrance, or even the restroom walkway.

He spent a moment perusing the menu, trying to find something that didn't have all three of the words "famous", "perfection", and "gravy" in the descriptions. After flipping past the first page of variations of virtually raw cattle offerings (none of them weighing less than 32 ounces pre-cooked weight), he finally found a selection of some pork and chicken options. (Located just before the page of pasta and seafood.) While he normally trusted beef more than other options, he'd found that places attempting to pass themselves off as steak houses usually did more damage to the food than good. In the mid-west, at least, restaurants had a better understanding of the dangers of undercooking pork and chicken, as well as having something of an art at keeping from overcooking them in the process.

Folding his menu, he considered checking the winelist, then found himself staring at Connie again, fighting the screams of emotions that wanted to be let out. He tried to find something to say that wouldn't sound like an attempt at rehashing their past, or demanding more information about their missing years.

"I don't know about you, but I've never found a reason to trust the seafood in anyplace that doesn't have a saltwater coastline."

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Connie chuckled despite herself. Fish was something she missed living in the middle of nowhere. "Remember... " she started and stopped abruptly, forbidding the long buried memory to come to fruition.

"Of course I do," Curtis replied without a hitch. "She was called the Harmony IV as I recall. You got... "

"The biggest fish," she interjected.

"That, too, but not what I was going to say. You got... sick."

"Thanks for the memory, Mr. Hope. We never did use those free passes."

Why did she have to snap at everything he said? Because, she answered herself. Because you thought he was dead all these years and now, suddenly... Connie didn't want to think about it. She had worked so hard at making herself numb that she just couldn't bear to let that shield come down again. And yet...

"It's not like I can just let it all sail away like a kite with a broken string, Curtis. I'm trying. I just don't... "

"You were like a gypsy... " he said quietly. "Those loose see-through sort of skirts and the blouses. A wild child. Always singing. Always laughing. Gods, Connie... "

"And you... " she said. "You were like... dead." There she went again. She needed to stop this. It was a snafu, he'd said. A simple mistake. Oh, yes. A simple mistake that ruined everything. Everything.

Tears once again flowed down her cheeks and all she could think to say was, "Have you decided what you're going to eat?"

 

[stalwartone]

Curtis

"Have you decided what you're going to eat?"

Fighting to keep from laughing out loud, Curtis grabbed at his napkin, and leaned across as best he could to offer to dab at her eyes. "Have you?" He fought the urge to take her hand, or to go back to the memories of that trip.

The trip. Beautiful, lovely, a time totally meant to be dedicated to hedonistic pursuits. An agreement to what they hoped their lives would be like in the future. A rental boat, essentially a houseboat with some distance capability. A charming tourist town designed to shelter visitors from the outside world for a time.

A fantasy. Days of exploring a world that they hadn't known well. Walks around the town. Fishing in the carefully crafted safe zones for those unfamiliar with the water. Nights of.. no, don't go there now. He was already having enough problems with his feelings of some imagined infidelity. Remembering those nights would only make it worse.

He pressed the memory back down. All of it. The drive out. The fumbling unfamiliarity with the boat. The sunsets. The smell of the food cooking early in the morning, the buzz of the wine late at night. Visions of Connie walking about in those free outfits that so fit her, both physically and tempermentally.

Biting at his lip, he finally gave up trying to work the napkin, and settled back to his seat.

"I know, I know. You said you weren't hungry. But you also always have an appetite after an argument. Even if you don't want to admit it." He realized that he had started to slip back into close relationship mode, falling back into that easy role of partner and helpmate.

"Look, I don't know why things worked out this way. I went off to war, got pretty seriously injured, and never heard from you again. I got the feeling that either you had found someone else, or had decided that you didn't want to be caring for a potential invalid. I got home, tried to find you, and hit stone walls. Finally, I decided to try to move on. I've spent some time wrestling with demons, some in my head, some in a bottle. I married, started a life, and buried my wife and my daughter. And, until today, I had thought you had found yourself in one of your dreams that you used to tell me. Exploring the Mediterranean. Crossing Australia by camel. Trying to find a way to track the rainbow's end. Walking the sands in Mexico. Horseback on the Scottish Moors. Bartering in the markets in India. Those sorts of things."

Leaning back, he opened his hands. "Look, I don't know what happened, but I didn't do this. I think this was one massive accident. Now, can we talk it out, or would you rather slap me again?"

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"Maybe after we eat. I'm starving." Grabbing the menu from his hands, Connie began perusing it as though it were the latest book to hit the NY Times Best Seller List. "I'm ready. What are you having?" she commented after a few minutes, having scanned everything from appetizers to desserts.

She glared at Curtis when he smiled knowingly at her, resisting the urge to smile back. "Where is that waitress?"

"Hey there! Ready to order?"

Connie's suspicions that the woman had been hovering and eavesdropping now confirmed, she gave her a withering look and began ordering. "What is your Soup du Jour?"

"Navy Bean and Manhattan Clam Chowder."

"Homemade or canned?"

"Homemade."

"I'll know if it's not. I'll take Manhattan. And a Greek salad. Black olives and plenty of feta. Side dishes?"

"Corn, carrots, string beans, lima beans, spinach, broccoli... "

"Spinach. Canned, frozen or fresh?"

"I'm not sure. I know it's not canned though." The waitress' smile was beginning to fade under Connie's third degree in the guise of ordering a meal.

"Fine. I'll have broccoli. Potatoes?"

"Mashed, baked and fried."

"Baked. Sour cream and chives. I'll have a N.Y. Strip. Rare. That doesn't mean medium or well. Got it?"

"Got it. Rare. Would you like something to drink?"

"Diet Coke," Connie retorted, daring the woman to comment. "And we'll be having dessert later, too."

Curtis shrugged and ordered his meal almost apologetically, hoping that none of those horrible things that happen to food meant for rude diners would happen to Connie's. She must have been thinking the same thing because suddenly Connie looked up at the waitress and grinned and winked, nodding pointedly toward him. "He's a restaurant critic for the Des Moines Register."

The waitress' eyes widened and she turned to Curtis for confirmation. It was quite obvious that Connie's beatific smile hadn't convinced her."

 

[stalwartone]

Curtis

Curtis fought back the initial outrage, and it's immediate shadow companion, outright laughter.

Typical Connie, he thought. Piss off the world, then run a bluff the size of the moon at them all. Luckily, some of his research into the bed and breakfast trade had included advertising prospects in the major state newspapers. At to that his knowledge of Connie's mood shifts, even if it was rusty from a few decades of disuse, and he felt ready to try playing at her level.

Smiling benignly at the distraught waitress, he quickly scooped up a plate, and held it before his face, blocking his features briefly in the manner of the Register's regular local food critic. Returning the plate to the table, he waved her off.

"Normally I like to keep a slightly lower profile. But my companion is perhaps a bit awestruck by my presence." He waited for the waitress to step away, then shot Connie a look.

"I see you're still handling your own personal brand of diplomacy. Nice to see that some things have definitely not changed." He fought down another image of their youth, Connie "explaining" to some of their friends why their plans for staying in the home town were the clearest signs of idiocy she'd ever come across. No one had ever been able to slow her line of thought, let alone been capable of slipping their own concept into her diatribes. She'd had her plans, far away from their upbringing.

Jimmy Stewart's character in It's A Wonderful Life had been a piker in his plans to travel the world in comparison to Connie. She'd talked of visiting temples in Thailand, climbing the Andes, whale watching in Greenland, sipping coffee in the street cafe's of Paris, riding horses on the Mongolian Steppes, whatever the latest picture spread in National Geographic covered was where her next dream was taking her. It had been a part of what had appealed to him about her, the free spirit that didn't understand the concept of national borders or political difficulties. She'd worked at smatterings of several languages, drawn pictures of numerous fashions that she knew she would be wearing, discussed the finer points of various types of etiquette, and destroyed a world map with push pins denoting her intended travel destinations.

He'd briefly worried about how he'd be able to stay with her, both financially and with her energy levels. She'd pointed to various agencies that would happily assist with their travel plans, as well as finding potential employment that demanded world travel in their job descriptions.

"So, if I may ask, how many of your travel plans did you fulfill?"