When the unearthly being made her acquaintance, Claudia Linstrom was beginning her first year of ob/gyn practice at Montbleu Women’s Center.

She had just finished four years of residency at Montbleu General under the tutelage of Dr. Raymond Pileggi, who was now, unfortunately, showing signs of dementia. Since being a child, she remembered wanting to be a “doctor for girls,” and now she felt assured that the field she had chosen was perfect for her. Occasionally, she had even fantasized about having a special mission to perform.

Soon after starting at the center, she rented a more spacious apartment just outside of town, the downstairs of an old Victorian, the back of which faced woods that extended for miles. She was relaxing after work on the small patio out back and sighing with pleasure at how everything had fallen into place, when her cell phone rang.

“Would you take Richard in for a while, Claudia, please?” asked her mother, who lived in Levittown. “Honey, I so hate to ask, but I need a break. I’m living on Xanax; my nerves are shot. He needs someone more forceful to make him take his meds.”

Her mother had taken care of Claudia’s brother alone for years. If her father were still alive, he would have insisted on Richard moving to a halfway house so they could have time to themselves. “We have a right to our own lives,” he would have insisted. But Claudia’s mother always felt guilty — for what, Claudia didn’t know. Was it her fault that her son was schizophrenic?

Claudia sighed. Any chance of living a normal life was now shot if she had Richard living with her. It was hard enough already to find romance or even time for a date with the hours and stress of her job. The last relationship she’d had was after college with a fellow med student, and that had consisted of fumbling quickies in hospital supply closets. Only once had they spent an entire weekend together. The man was now married and lived in Pittsburgh. Since then, friends had fixed her up, but nothing ever developed. Claudia would, she feared, spend her years alone, her job giving whatever meaning there was to her life. Once in a while, she sobbed herself to sleep.

“Well, drive him up, Mom,” she told her mother. “I don’t have time to come get him.”

She prepared what she had hoped would be her guest room to be instead her brother’s bedroom. A weight descended upon her. She loved Richard, but trouble was trouble.

~~~

That trouble began a week after his arrival.

“I am taking my meds!” he insisted.

For the most part, she believed him, since she herself administered the pills every day and not only watched him insert them into his mouth, but insisted on seeing him swallow. Afterwards, she checked the inside of his mouth. She had set him up with Dr. Nevin, a psychiatrist near Montbleu, and made sure that all of his records were successfully transferred.

But now every evening, she came home to someone she wished she didn’t have to. Agitation instead of the peace of her own apartment, empty as she had envisioned it save for a kitten or puppy happy to see her. Now, she’d have to cook a meal and listen to Richard’s wild imaginings or, if he wasn’t home, wonder if the police were going to arrive. Occasionally, Richard liked to wander off, dressed in bizarre outfits. But today, thank God, he was there to greet her.

“My favorite sis of all time!” he shouted.

She was so tired, all she wanted was a glass of Riesling, a handful of almonds and her sofa. That day, a patient Claudia had really liked had died on the operating table. She’d been forty-eight years old with twin boys just gone off to college.

“I’ll get your snacks for you,” said Richard excitedly.

She kicked off her shoes and settled onto the couch. “We need a pet around here,” she said.

“Yes, yes, we do,” agreed Richard, as he handed her the wine. For himself, he’d poured a glass of ginger ale. He wasn’t supposed to drink on his medications.

“What did you do today?” Claudia asked, though what she really desired was to lose herself in some TV crime drama.

“I had that visitor again!” Richard said.

“What? Who?” As far as she knew, Richard didn’t know any people around there yet. She was in the process of registering him in one of the psychiatric clinic’s structured day programs but had not yet heard back about the schedule.

“That man from woods! He’s a very, very strange man but quite nice, in spite of how he looks.”

She sat up straight, heart thumping unpleasantly. “What do you mean? I don’t know anyone who lives in the woods.”

“Well, he does,” said Richard emphatically. “And he says he wants to speak to you. I believe he has something important to tell you!”

“Richard, I don’t want you talking to strangers, especially not someone back there in the woods! If you just wait a couple of days, you’ll be in a program where you’ll make new friends.” She was so upset, she had somehow gulped down half the glass of wine.

“Well,” said her brother, “I can hardly be rude when he comes into the house, can I? What do you want me to do, beat him up?”

She stood up. “He comes into the house? What do you mean? I told you not to let anyone in!”

Richard looked affronted. “Are you kidding? He just pops up anywhere he likes! I go into my bedroom, and he’s standing there! I go take a whiz, and there he is, standing in the tub! What am I supposed to do?”

She tried to calm down, be reasonable, humor her brother. “You said he is very strange in spite of how he looks, Richard. What does he look like?”

Richard broke out in a grin, clearly happy she had stopped freaking out. “Oh, you know, not normal.”

“Not normal how?” Her voice was taking on an hysterical edge.

He shrugged. “Well, not like regular people.”

She wanted to shake him. “Describe him, Richard!”

Richard cleared his throat and let several expressions cross his face. He was good looking by anyone’s standards, medium height and wiry with a firm jaw line, long-lashed gray eyes, a thick shock of black hair and expressive hands. Talking and waving those hands about, he looked like someone’s cartoon idea of an Italian. “Real tall,” he said. “Light blond hair, almost white. His skin is chalky, he might need supplements. His eyes are big and blue and nice, but his face is kind of weird.”

“How so, Richard?” He shrugged. “I don’t know, the chin is too long or something. His cheek bones are really jutty. But I don’t mind. It’s what’s inside that counts; you know Mom always says that.”

“And his insides are good? How do you know that?”

Richard smiled smugly. “I just know, silly. You know it, too, don’t you? Everybody knows that if they think about it.”

“Yeah, people who fall for con artists,” she snapped.

Richard’s face twisted. “Don’t you talk down to me. I’m older than you and don’t you forget it!”

She sighed and hurried to the kitchen to shakily pour herself another glass of wine.

~~~

Catherine’s husband, Douglas Hewitt, had been famous in scientific circles for being a boy genius. He was still a genius at forty-five, though now no one made a fuss about it. In fact, his current work was a secret from the general scientific pool. For the past six years, he’d been working exclusively for Rhys Milestone, the British billionaire. The personal goal of Douglas’s employer was to be the first layman in space using his own ship. He claimed that he wanted to take tourists to space, even to setting up “space hotels,” but from an occasional comment from Douglas, Catherine knew there was way more than just this.  

Now and then Douglas contributed a brilliant article to some prestigious scientific periodical on a subject unrelated to this project and had garnered some attention with one in New Journal of Physics. Beyond that, he had little interaction with the outside world.  

Neither, for that matter, did Catherine. Since her husband’s work was so sensitive, she felt restricted in her socializing. She had to be careful not to let any information slip, so out of concern about this, she spent most of her time alone, and there was a lot of it since Douglas worked obsessively.

However, there was one living being that she did talk to about it, since he was highly unlikely to spread the information, being that he was a cat and basically mute. 

Only one time had she heard him speak. Shortly after acquiring him, she could not locate him anywhere in the house and only after several hours did she hear a tiny meow issuing from a closet. Apparently, he could meow when desperate, but never again had he been desperate. 

They named him Brodsky after Stanley J. Brodsky, one of Douglas’ favorite physicists.  Brodsky, a gray and black striped, domestic short hair, had appeared outside their back door, pacing the deck, one late summer day nine months earlier.  

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, let’s take him in,” said Douglas, as he crunched his English muffin. “You know you’re craving a cat since Murphy died.”

And she had been, oh so very much. Yet, she’d just not felt up to visiting the animal shelters, nor to answering ads in the papers for kitten placement. But now here was this very healthy looking, grown cat obviously desiring to come into their lives.

“He must belong to someone,” said Catherine.

“Well, there’s no collar and finders keepers,” Douglas said cavalierly, as he rose to head out to work. 

Rhys Milestone had built a large laboratory on a formerly wooded area behind their house which included an airplane hangar, helicopter pad, landing strip and underground facilities.  Behind it, the woods extended for miles, which Milestone had managed to purchase just, as he explained, to “keep things private.”  He did not own the ground their house sat on; at least that was theirs.

She took Brodsky to the vet where he was neutered, given shots, a clean bill of health, and an age assessment of around one year. There were no signs up at the local supermarket or post office advertising for a lost cat. 

From that day on, she and Brodsky had enjoyed each other. He was affectionate and often in her lap purring. They took naps together; she cuddled and kissed him.  

“He’s adorable,” she told Douglas. “I am so glad he dropped into our lives.”

At the time, Douglas wasn’t fully listening. He wore the expression he usually did when on the verge of realizing something that had been eluding him. “Possibly sound waves, not light!” he exclaimed before jumping from the sofa to run out to the lab. She knew he would be out there all night then; it would be a work marathon even more manic than usual.

With affectionate resignation, she flicked on the TV and set to watching a British miniseries from Netflix. Douglas would have been bored with all the Nineteenth Century delicacy and posturing, so perhaps it was just as well that he was working. Brodsky purred on her lap, and she felt deeply contented. But suddenly, he jumped off and made for the back door.

“Didn’t you just go?” she asked. “Why not just use the litter box? I don’t feel like getting up.”  

But he insisted, so she let him out the back door, then watched as he made a beeline for the lab. Oddly, the lab door instantly opened, and the cat disappeared inside. “That was weird,” she mumbled to herself as she headed back to the couch. 

Later she would question Douglas about it, and he explained: “I happened to be by the door getting something from a shelf and saw Brodsky out there clambering. I thought, why not let him in?  He can’t do any harm.”

“Well, what did he do then?” she asked.

“He walked around, checking the place out,” said Douglas.

“Did he go into the….the hangar?”

Douglas gave her a pointed look. “Of course not.”

“Okay,” she said, “but you know how cats are. They can sneak in when you can’t even figure out how.”

“He did not go into the hangar,” stated Douglas emphatically.  

Catherine’s concern over Brodsky possibly getting into the hanger was because she knew what Douglas was doing in there. 

Louis Pickett had finally, after years of carefully saving his money, attained the status of home owner. The house was a small Cape Cod in a neighborhood changing demographics; Jewish and Italian ladies dying or leaving for nursing homes and middle-class blacks, Hispanics and single WASP women moving in. Louis’ house sat on a corner on a large lot backing up to woods.

His first action after settling in was to erect bird houses on high poles. Possibly he could prevent the squirrels from reaching them, though he doubted this after watching an Animal Planet show on highly intelligent creatures. Female squirrels were in the top ten. As he’d feared, they were into the bird houses within a day.

While Louis anticipated spending his weekend building a better squirrel-proof bird house, the phone rang. Annoyed, he picked it up and barked hello.

“Helloooooo, Louis,” trilled a chipper voice he instantly recognized as that of Melissa Banks, a fellow teacher at the high school where he taught math. He shuddered. Something about her filled him with dread. Usually, if he saw her coming, he would duck out of sight.

“Um, hi,” he muttered.

“Just wanted to remind you that you’re assigned to bring a dessert to the party!”

Damn! He’d forgotten. The faculty Halloween party at the Croushores’ he’d somehow gotten himself involved in. Jack Croushore, the burly wood-shop teacher, and his speech-therapist wife Aileen loved to entertain and show off their sprawling home, which Jack was always adding onto. There would be the usual tour, where everyone was expected to ooh and aah, then forced conversation with the haggle of single teachers who, Louis knew for a fact, had not yet figured out if he was gay or a weirdo, because he never asked any of them out. He wasn’t gay, and if he was a weirdo, so be it.

“What time does it start?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Eight o’clock,” said Melissa, “and don’t forget to come in costume!”

Damn! What a barbaric ritual. It reminded him of Black Death parties during the Middle Ages.

“Well, see you then,” he muttered and hung up before she could drag him into something more. He pictured her pear-shaped, flabby body and shuddered.

He shuddered, in fact, at most close social contact. Why couldn’t people just leave him alone, as long as he did his job, which he believed that he did reasonably well?

Now he needed a dessert of some kind and a costume. Grumbling, he managed to locate an old brownie mix in the cupboard and after getting this into the oven, remembered he had junk from his college days in a box in the basement. In it was a black yarn wig he’d once worn to a party, made by his friend Martin’s girlfriend. Suddenly, he felt a lump in his throat. Martin had died in a freak accident, diving into a lake. Louis had never been as close to anyone since. Could he bear to wear the thing? Well, it was either that or spend his Saturday fighting mall traffic, so he headed down the basement stairs.

Half of the basement had been finished by the former owners, the walls covered in a depressingly dark “wood” paneling, the floor tiled with 1980’s speckled linoleum. The furnace squatted in the center like Jabba the Hutt with regular basement beyond that — concrete block walls and gray cement floor. As Louis headed in that direction, he suffered one of those strange little chills his sister claimed meant that “something is going to happen.” Whatever the case, he made a mental note to do something about this end of the basement sometime. Maybe fix up the whole thing, whitewash the walls, lay down some modern tile. He found the box on metal shelving, pulled out the wig and figured he’d go as a Rastafarian. That would have to do.

“You must not forget the accent aigu!” instructed Bertrand.  “Je vois que vous le faites habituellement.”       

He was wearing his usual tormented expression. Had anyone ever told him about it?  And what was it that seemed to worry him so?

“Je suis désolée,” Julianne said.  “I will try to remember.”

She was paying for these French lessons with her parents’ Christmas present, which every year consisted of the same sized check, and for which, considering the rise in food and gasoline prices, she was grateful.  In August, along with two of her fellow teachers, she would be visiting Paris and wanted to refresh her French.  It had been twenty-five years since she’d used it.    A neighbor who often ate lunch at Café Dakar, an African restaurant near her office, had overheard a waiter speaking French and suggested to Julianne that she check into it.  If the man was interested, it could be someone with whom to practice.  Julianne had preferred having a native speaker help her, even if not from France, to the stilted and inadequate French teacher at the high school, so after two spicy and delicious meals at the restaurant, she’d made her offer.

“Oh, I am most interested!” Bernard Gbadyu had responded, enthusiasm gleaming in his face, which was distinctly African, rather than African-American. His skin was particularly dark, and his hair, like his speech, had an accent suggesting that it, too, was foreign. And the way he dressed, more fastidious than fashionable, gave the impression of a man who had seldom been anything but serious.

“How much do you charge?” she asked.

They set a price and he was so eager that she understood he must be worried about money.  On Thursdays he came over after she got home from school.  He seemed grateful when she offered him tea, and delighted when she set out baked goods, though his grave expression would immediately return, even as he bit into a cookie.

During one lesson, she said (in French, of course), “Tell me about your country.  What made you come to the United States?”

He seemed uncomfortable.  “My country is Cameroon.  I came to improve myself,” he said, then paused. “Well, there were other reasons.  It was better for me if I left.” 

“Your family?” Julianne asked.  “Do you have a large one?  Surely they must miss you.”

“I am sure that they do, certain of them,” was his enigmatic reply.  And he immediately pointed out that she did not truly understand the conditional tense and so they had better practice more of it. 

She missed a lesson due to final exams, then only a few days remained till the school year’s end.  Over lunch in the teacher’s lounge, Julianne brought up the subject of Cameroon to Karen, who would be going with her to Paris.

“Was there trouble there?” she asked.  “You’re a history teacher, so you must know.”

Karen tried to oblige.  “African history is not high priority in our curriculum.  Maybe it should be.  However, I do remember hearing blood was running there, in the early Eighties, I think — that bodies were floating down the rivers.  This was after their president, Ahidjo, was forced out.  He’d been in office since their independence.  Everything is quiet now, I believe, though possibly the current president, just like the old one, is basically a dictator.  Why do you ask?  Did Bertrand have some kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know,” said Julianne.  “I just thought it was odd that he wouldn’t talk about his homeland.  Obviously, there’s a story he’s not telling.”

Julianne had been married once, to a Lutheran minister she met shortly after college.  He’d attended seminary in the area of the city where she’d worked at the time, when she’d tried her hand at advertising, before settling into teaching.  It had been disillusioning to discover that her husband was gay.  After that, she’d felt unable to trust her own judgment concerning men, and though she’d had the occasional lover, she’d not met anyone who came close to tempting her into a serious commitment.

“Do you regret it?” her niece once asked her, and she had given the girl an honest answer.

“Yes and no.  I sometimes feel that by staying single, I’ve chosen to miss a part of maturation.  Having children would be a further step I’ve avoided.  But then, as when a blind person is left to develop other senses to a greater degree than usual, maybe staying single is similar? Although I can’t really say what ‘senses’ I would be developing.”

“Maybe you observe others,” suggested her niece.  “Like a writer would?”

“Maybe,” Julianne had agreed.

But did she observe others better than most people?  A hidden part of her believed that she did.  She was a teacher, after all, and teachers had to be observant.

]]> http://www.wildviolet.net/2010/09/24/the-french-teacher/feed/ 0 http://www.wildviolet.net/2010/04/13/root-canal/ http://www.wildviolet.net/2010/04/13/root-canal/#comments Tue, 13 Apr 2010 22:32:23 +0000 http://www.wildviolet.net/wordpress/?p=339

Could he have possibly heard that right?  Zack held his eyes shut, though he felt he was thoroughly awake.  Well, not totally, but he had definitely not gone into la-la land like he usually did under nitrous oxide.  It could be due to his heightened anxiety or the fact that he felt like a  corpse somebody dug up, then dragged for ten miles behind a garbage truck.  That’s what a savage frat party’ll do to you.

It was one sweet orgy with a bazillion people there.  He was so annihilated he’d passed out in a Dumpster.  Or someone put him in it; who knew?  His  bros were still wasted this morning, so there was nobody he could ask.  Maybe he was still shit-faced, and that’s why he  thought he heard Dr. Cramer say to his assistant, “I often worry about my scales showing if my collar slips too low or my pant leg rides up.”

“He’s asleep, right?” said Marcy, the assistant.

“Oh, definitely,” Dr. Cramer chuckled.  “Zack here goes out like a light even with a low blast of gas.  Got him numbed up good anyway, so there should be no pain and he can doze away.  I usually have to shake him awake.”

Marcy sounded nervous.  “Are you sure?  I mean, we wouldn’t want him to hear…”

Zack’s stomach lurched. He’d already barfed more than once since the Dumpster.  Should he just open his eyes and cut this weird shit in the bud?  Did Cramer suffer from some bad skin affliction?  Psoriasis, eczema? Really, it was too gross to think about.

“And you know how I enjoy walking around naked,” continued the dentist.  “That does present some risks.”

Oh, god, were they going to talk about sex?  Were the two of them, both married as far as Zack knew, having some sordid affair?  Wasn’t Cramer in his late forties, maybe even fifty? And Marcy there was about the same and not too attractive.  Imagining those two naked was not exactly appetizing.  

He went to open his eyes but for some reason couldn’t.  What was going on? It was like the time that girl down at the shore hypnotized him.  Normally, this would have set him into a panic.  He felt numbed, not just in his jaw but somehow overall, like in one of those terrible dreams where something is chasing you, but your feet are stuck in mud.  

“He’s cute,” remarked Marcy.  “Long eyelashes.”

Oh? Zack thought.   This was getting weird.

Dr. Cramer opened Zack’s mouth wider, and he felt him inserting something huge.  Now he couldn’t talk if he tried.

“So, you were saying,” said Marcy.  “The scales.”

“Oh, yeah,” said the dentist.  “What are we expected to do if someone sees them?  They never have an official answer for this at home.”

“They have an answer for it,” said Marcy.  “It’s just that it’s difficult to implement — at least for me, maybe not for some of the others.”

“Oh, that,” said Cramer.  “I don’t know that I could do that more than twice.”

Zack heard, as if from far away, Marcy gasp.  “You mean you’ve done it more than once?”

“I hate to admit it,” said Cramer without losing a beat.  Zack could sense him reaching for something that Marcy must be placing in his hand.  Then he felt the pressure of the drill and couldn’t hear anything for a moment.

When the noise let up, Cramer continued.  “It was an old man with a big mouth, the neighborhood gossip.  He let himself into our house, no knocking, just opened the door and walked in, and there I stood in the buff.  Pat was in the kitchen, and we were heading for the hot tub, you know, in that little side room we have.  It’s private and I should probably have waited to strip down in there, but hey, you don’t expect some neighbor to just walk in your front door unannounced.”

Zack felt digging in his tooth but no pain.   He was anxious to know what happened next.  Marcy asked for him.

“The old human got an eyeful, that’s for sure.  You should have seen the look on his face!  First shock, then terror.  I didn’t think twice, just went for him and that was that.  We had him for supper.  Tough old bird; I don’t usually enjoy human meat, but what else can you do with the body?”

“Were the bones any good?” asked Marcy.

“Too brittle; they splinter between your fangs.  Young is so much better.  But then you know that.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s been a long time.  Once you get involved with a particular arena of study and see the sentient species as individuals, it’s harder to view them as food.”

“Except when they’re a certain stage of plumpness,” snickered Cramer.

Marcy laughed.  “You mean that young female in California?”

“I am not naming any names,” said Cramer.  The drill whined.

]]> http://www.wildviolet.net/2010/04/13/root-canal/feed/ 0 http://www.wildviolet.net/2010/04/13/one-blink-for-yes/ http://www.wildviolet.net/2010/04/13/one-blink-for-yes/#comments Tue, 13 Apr 2010 22:25:10 +0000 http://www.wildviolet.net/wordpress/?p=302

Two thousand, six hundred and forty-eight days.  That’s how long I’ve been here, lambskin under my ass, tubes in my trachea and stomach.  Numb everywhere except part of my face.  The only things I move are my eyes.  I must have the most muscular eyes on earth.

The door to my room opens onto one end of the nurses’ station.  I live in Canwell House, a division of Truman General that spans several city blocks.  Canwell is a nursing home for hopeless cases, of which I, Charlie Jack, am one.

Nurse Rosa Matuda walks in, checks my stomach tube, then hooks in my third feeding of the day.  “And what’re you up to, Charlie Jack?” she says.

Rosa calls me by my first and last names, unless she’s in a serious or despondent mood, and then it’s just Charlie.  She is Filipino and Spanish and one delicious looking woman, not that I can act on it.  Nothing can get a rise out of me now, both meanings of the word.  But I appreciate the roundness of her breasts and the golden velvet of her skin.  She smells delicious, a heady combination of some floral perfume and a faint touch of sweat.  Sometimes she comes in to talk before her shift ends at three.  Though Rosa often complains and gossips rather nastily, she gives off a certain tranquility that’s in direct contrast to her flashing dark eyes and the jerky way she flips her hair from her face.
   
Rosa’s head swivels to check the hallway for eavesdroppers.   She says, “I so want him, Charlie, I can’t stand it.  I don’t get why he won’t give me a chance.  Everybody knows the bitch is cheating.  He knows it, yet he won’t do anything.  She still comes home at night like nothing’s going on.  I’ve been on the phone with him and he had to hang up because she was pulling up outside.  And you know what he was doing?  Cooking dinner for her! That selfish, horrible slut who’s so stupid she doesn’t know what she has!  He deserves someone who’ll love him forever, and that person is me, Charlie; that’s me.”
   
I blink hard once to say yes, that I hear what she’s saying.
   
She checks the door again, then lowers herself into the chair by my bed.

“One time he was at my place.  I cooked him dinner while she was working late — Beef Asado, like mom used to make, and though I’d been working on the meal for hours, do you know he ran right out without even tasting it when she called on his cell?  He has no pride, that man.  A specialist like that, well known in his field, and yet he’s like that woman’s lackey.”

Abruptly she stands up, face flushed.  Speak of the devil, it’s him, my doctor, Myron Vespers.  Rosa turns to human mush.
   
“Myron,” she says softly.  She moves out of my vision range, but I hear in that one word her despair mixed with hope.
   
Myron ignores her and takes over the chair.  “How’s it going, Charlie?”  He always asks this, as if I could actually report anything.  I supposes I could tell him something, if he took the time to hold up an alphabet board and point to letters while I painstakingly blink in response, but generally Myron is insanely busy.  No time for paralyzed word games.
   
He stands to fiddle with the equipment, then sits back down.  I sense some kind of nonverbal communication out of my range, and soon Rosa says, “See you tomorrow, Charlie.  I gotta tie up loose ends and get home.”  I imagine her giving the doctor a long, hungry look, then I hear the squeak of her sneakers as she leaves.
   
Myron sighs. I know what this means — that the doctor is going to reveal something personal.  Generally, I enjoy this — indeed I’m grateful for the stimulation, though lately the level of painful disclosures has gotten higher all around.
   
Myron, like Rosa, checks for prying ears, then leans closer.  “The hardest part is knowing that other people know,” he says.  “If no one else knew, I could stand it better.  It’s humiliating for someone in my position, someone who’s expected to hold the respect of the interns.  As long as it doesn’t trickle down to them — but nurses talk; everyone talks.”

He pauses. “I’ve known Chloe since eighth grade, Charlie.  We were buddies, though there was a brief interlude our senior year when there was more, but we headed off to different colleges.  She transferred to mine junior year, not because of me, mind you, but for him.”

He leans back out of view, but I know he’s clenching his jaw.  “Greg Clayburn, control freak and pompous ass.  Handsome, though, in that way women like.  Chloe was hard under his spell.  I know her so well, her every expression and tone of voice, and I could tell she was extremely stressed.  He’s an expert in psychological abuse.  His major was psychology, but you know, Charlie, sometimes the sickest people go into that.  He had my beautiful Chloe so under his thumb, she was almost anorexic.  Finally, the bastard dumped her for some girl from Penn.  She recovered, like someone let out of a dungeon, then took a second look at me and next thing, we were married. For thirteen years we were happy, before that bastard moved back here from wherever he’d been spreading hell — I think it was Ames, Iowa — and took this position at Truman.  Then it started up again.  I love her, Charlie.  No matter what she does, that doesn’t change.”

Rosa pops back in the door, using the pretense of a question about another resident’s meds.  I muse about the word resident — as if any of the residents have a choice about where they live.  Prisoner would be a better word.

Does Rosa really believe that Dr. Vespers doesn’t perceive her blatant desperation?  But to my surprise, he stands up, forgets to say good-bye, and wanders off to help her.
   
That’s the thing, see.  A paralyzed man is like a dog.  Someone you talk to when no one else is around, but when you take off, you don’t say goodbye.

]]> http://www.wildviolet.net/2010/04/13/one-blink-for-yes/feed/ 0